Anton stares, disbelieving. “No… no, you don’t get to—”
The ceiling groans. A slab of concrete shears loose. It crashes down, dust exploding outward. Anton turns too late, the debris slamming into him, pinning him. His gun skitters across the floor.
Harper scrambles out from under the console, coughing through the smoke, her fingers bleeding, but her eyes sharp, alive.
Anton wheezes, blood bubbling on his lips.
I approach slowly, because dying men have teeth.
His wild, fevered eyes lift to mine, terrified and triumphant all at once.
“She’s still above you,” he whispers.
The words curl and flit down my spine, all slimy. Harper stiffens behind me as Anton coughs again, a wet, rattling sound.
“Inessa,” he croaks. “You think she’s gone. But she’s been… above you all along.”
His eyes slide out of focus.
The chamber shakes violently as the secondary systems start failing, smoke rising like the ghost of everything he tried to reclaim.
“Damian!” Harper reaches for me as another tremor hits.
I grab her arm and pull her toward the side exit, partially warped, but still functional. Behind us, the empire Anton tried to salvage collapses in on itself as the servers spark, concrete fractures widen, smoke thickens.
Harper stumbles but keeps hold of my hand like it’s the only solid thing left.
We burst into the adjoining tunnel, coughing, half blind, illuminated only by the flickering red emergency strips. Her fingers are an iron grip around mine.
A vow made in the dark.
We’ve survived betrayal, exile, explosions, and the ghosts of every mistake that could’ve broken us. Only Inessa, the woman who’s been puppeteering strings above us both, remains.
Beside me, Harper squeezes my hand once, fierce as an oath.
“Let’s finish this,” she whispers.
Chapter 22 - Harper
Hot air, smoke, and the metallic sting of burned wiring pushes past my face as Damian hauls me through the half-collapsed archway. My legs shake, but they move, following the dim beam of his flashlight as it slices through dust thick enough to taste.
We’re alive.
Barely, but we are alive.
And the world above us still wants us dead.
I rub grit from my eyes, and the motion sends pain down my arm. Everything aches, from my skin, ribs, to the muscles that hold my fear in place. The drives at my belt knock against my hip with each step, their weight anchoring me harder than gravity.
“We need to stop,” Damian says, voice hoarse, breath uneven. He turns, checking me like he expects a missing limb to suddenly appear. “You inhaled too much smoke.”
“I’m fine,” I manage, a lie wrapped in bravado.
He steadies me when the ground beneath us slopes upward, his hand braced at my spine, heat seeping through my torn shirt. His touch is too careful, like he’s cataloging every wince.
We climb toward the narrower, colder upper tunnels, full of a kind of cold that makes bones feel like glass. Water drips from overhead pipes in a rhythm like a clock we’re running out of time for.
Above my breath, above our footsteps, my conscience whispers in my head. I hear it louder than anything else.
