“Wha–why?”
“It’s a kill switch,” I say. “He’s turned the entire hub into a grave.”
Her throat moves with a swallow, but she doesn’t panic or falter. She nods once, jaw tense, and falls into step beside me.
Her courage has just been a pleasant surprise throughout, a silver lining for a man like me where there is none.
Anton’s voice rises again, louder this time.
“You know what I love about truth, Damian?” The words vibrate through the space, carried by hidden speakers or improvised tech. “It burns so beautifully on its way out.”
He’s close. Too close.
We reach the threshold of a larger chamber. Inside, rows of server racks rise like metallic tombstones, some still lit,others flickering with dying blue screens. The hum is louder and angrier, uneven, like the machines themselves are panicking.
Harper inhales sharply beside me.
“This shouldn’t be online,” she whispers.
“Which means he wants us to see whatever’s left.”
A distant clang echoes; a door slammed, or something kicked open.
Anton steps into view at the far end of the chamber, just a silhouette at first, framed by the sickly glow of emergency lights.
His posture is uneven, his clothes dirty, his hair matted with sweat and dust. Look at the man who once commanded networks and nations. What has all this scheming and plotting made him? A cornered rat wearing the memory of a throne.
It’s too pathetic, really.
He lifts a small detonator between two fingers, wiggling it mockingly.
“Ignatov heir,” he croons. “And his prodigy wife. Fitting that you die here, under the weight of your own family’s lies.”
Harper’s breath becomes artificially natural, like she’s doing it voluntarily instead of on autopilot.
I step half a pace in front of her to block Anton’s sightline.This wretch doesn’t deserve to look at her.
“Put it down,” I say, voice low.
“Oh, Damian, I didn’t bring you here to negotiate. I brought you here to bury you,” he sighs as he taps the detonator against his palm. “And to bury everything the Ignatovs ever touched.”
Harper speaks up, voice sharp.
“You’ll destroy yourself along with it.”
Anton laughs jaggedly, a broken sound.
“Better a martyr than a pawn. Better ash than a puppet in her hands.”
Inessa Markova, when I get my hands on you…
The way he spits the word tells me everything I need to know.
Harper draws in a breath, about to respond, but the ground shudders beneath us before she can speak. A low rumble travels through the chamber like thunder rolling underground.
Anton’s eyes flick upward.
“Ah,” he murmurs, almost pleased. “Showtime.”
