“He doesn’t have time for you to start over!” The words ripped out of me, too loud, too raw.
Havoc spun on me, and for a second I saw the desperation in his face, the same terror I felt.
“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not going as fast as I can?”
“Then go faster!”
“I can’t crack quantum encryption by wishing, Clare! It doesn’t work like that!”
“Then he dies! He dies waiting for you to figure it out, and I...”
Emma’s memory cut through the rage: You can’t save everyone.
I froze.
What if I can’t save him? What if Havoc can’t crack it in time?
The parallel slammed into me like a freight train.
Emma, waiting for Monday. Xavier, waiting for codes.
Both dying while I watched, helpless.
But I wasn’t helpless this time. I was doing everything I could. I was here, fighting, refusing to give up.
Xavier seized again.
The third time was worse. Longer. More violent.
I grabbed the medication, administered it, supported his skull while his body tried to shake itself apart on the wood. The monitor screamed, pulse spiking to 180, blood pressure plummeting.
When it finally broke, he didn’t wake. Didn’t stir. Just lay there, respiration shallow and fast, heartbeat threadbare under my touch.
“Havoc. Please.”
“I’m trying.” His tone cracked. “I’m trying.”
Seventy-five minutes in, Havoc switched algorithms.
He didn’t explain. Just cursed, wiped the screen, started over with a different approach. His fingers flew across the keyboard, scanning code that looked like gibberish to me.
The new progress bar appeared. 23%. 41%. 59%.
I watched it crawl forward while I watched Xavier die by inches.
Xavier’s respiration was failing. The Cheyne-Stokes pattern had devolved into agonal gasps, irregular, desperate attempts to pull oxygen into lungs that didn’t want to work anymore.
His lips were turning blue.
“Come on.” One palm on his chest, feeling the weak rise and fall. “Come on, Xavier. Stay with me.”
The monitor’s steady beep suddenly went flat.
High-pitched. Continuous. The sound of a cardiac arrest.
“No!” I was moving before I thought, palms positioning on Xavier’s chest, fingers laced, arms locked straight.
Thirty compressions. Hard. Fast. Breaking ribs if I had to because broken ribs were better than dead.
