“Oh no,” I breathe.
It’s my code. It’s my exact algorithm—the one I’ve spent the last year perfecting for wind resistance in mountain rescues. Except someone’s added… something. Something bad. My code is supposed to help save lives. But this version?
It attacks.
“That’s mine,” I whisper. Then point again. “But that is definitely not.”
Crewe steps closer to look, and now he’s way too close. I can feel him behind me, his presence like a shadow wrapping around my shoulders. He leans over, reading the screen. The way he smells—clean and sharp, like cold air and danger—does not help me focus.
“So it’s yours?” he asks.
“No,” I snap, then realize I sound defensive. “I mean… yes. Part of it. Someone took my code and added this. See? This line of logic tells the drone to treat a hoist cable like a threat. It’s not rescue anymore. It’s attack.”
His voice stays level. “How would someone get your code?”
“Either they got into my system, or they got into me,” I say, cheeks going hot. “I don’t share. I don’t even lend chargers. My code is basically my diary.”
“Then someone internal,” he says.
“Or I was hacked. But I’d know. I’m extremely paranoid.”
I pull up logs, hunting for access trails. He keeps watching, that steady quiet turning into something kind of comforting. Mostguys who show up in this lab want to explain something to me. Crewe just listens.
Then he says, simple as anything: “You’re damn good.”
I blink at him. Compliments bounce off me most days. His settles deep, somewhere warm. My face heats like I’m the one running diagnostics.
“Thanks,” I say, voice slightly higher than normal. “I try.”
The system pings again—log file found. I open it, and everything in me freezes.
“No. No, no, no.”
“What is it?” he asks, instantly focused.
“There was a push to the codebase. Last night. 12:43 AM. From my credentials.”
Crewe doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t jump to conclusions. Just says, “Were you on base at 12:43?”
I shake my head slowly. “No. I was at my friend’s house in Pine Valley. We were baking cookies and debating whether her ex is a narcissist. I—” I stop, realizing that sounds unprofessional. “Not here.”
“Anyone have access to your machine?”
“I lock it. I hide the key. But if someone really wanted in…”
“We’ll pull footage,” he says. Still calm. Still in my corner.
“Please do,” I mutter, trying not to look like I’m going to cry or explode. Possibly both.
“Who has access to your code?” he asks.
“Me. My PM. Two rotating devs. Major Chen. And probably Brenda in Finance, because she stares at my budget spreadsheet like it owes her an apology.”
“Finance doesn’t fly drones,” he says.
“They kill dreams,” I say. He chuckles. Actual chuckle. Tiny smile. Achievement unlocked.
As I dig deeper, I find a weird trail of access. A login that bounced through one of our contractor portals. Familiar. Suspicious.
