And then I see it.
“I’ve got something,” I whisper. “A path that links back to Stanton Dynamics.”
Crewe’s eyes sharpen. His whole vibe shifts from steady to laser-focused. Like a storm just found its center.
“Then let’s start sweeping,” he says.
And just like that, I know I’m not alone in this. Which is good… because I have a feeling things are about to get a whole lot worse before they get better.
But for the first time all day, I’m not scared. Not really.
Because he said “we.”
And I believe him.
THREE
CREWE
Group chats are the worst.
Correction: my brothers in a group chat are the worst.
I call itHawthorne Idiots + Crewe—because I’m the one who actually answers when Mom texts. The chat blows up before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee.
NASH:u alive?
ME:Barely. A drone tried to eat me.
MACK:please say u punched it. like, physically.
SIN:tell us when you fell in love with the robot
BANKS:wait… was it at least a hot robot?
JACE:speaking of hot robots—what’s the lab girl’s name again?
COLT:shut up. Crewe, report.
I lean against the wall outside the hangar, sip my second cup—burnt, bitter, barely coffee—and type.
ME:Downed trainer. Night exfil. Rogue drone tried to hit our bird mid-rescue. Brought it back. Code looked familiar.
NASH:familiar like YouTube or familiar like call Mom?
ME:Looked like Ridgeway tech. Riley Willow’s platform. But altered.
MACK:parasite? like Banks’ ex?
BANKS:wow. okay. accurate.
SIN:what’s Willow’s damage?
JACE:is she competent, terrifying, or make-you-forget-your-own-name pretty?
COLT:is she safe?
I glance back through the hangar window. Riley’s pacing in the lab in sneakers, ponytail swinging, energy vibrating just under her skin. She's short, sharp, fast. Always thinking. Always moving. She runs hot, and I can’t seem to stop watching.
