Sparks explode.
The node dies.
The weight lifts.
It’s not total, but it’s enough.
Varn roars, spinning, trying to shake her off. She holds fast, face twisted with fury and terror and something incandescent.
“You don’t get to win,” she spits. “Not after everything.”
He throws her.
I catch her.
Just barely.
She scrambles back to her feet, already pulling a toolset from her hip.
“Hit him again,” she snaps.
I don’t need telling twice.
I charge.
This time, when my fist hits his jawplate, it cracks.
He stumbles. His balance shifts.
Rhea dives for the armor’s exposed interface, wires trailing from her toolset, fingers flying with the grace of someone who’s hacked every system they were told to stay away from.
Varn lashes out—kicks me in the gut—but I absorb it, twist with the blow, grab his leg, and drive him into the ground.
The earth shudders.
I climb on top of him and I don’t stop swinging.
Fist after fist. Elbow. Knee. Every strike fueled by the names of the dead. The ones he silenced. The ones I couldn’t save.
“Valtron!” Rhea calls. “Now!”
She yanks the last relay free.
I grab Varn by the faceplate and rip the helmet clean off.
He’s bleeding. Gasping.
His eyes are wide.
“Please—” he chokes.
But mercy died the day Quinn did.
I slam his head into the dirt.
Once.
Twice.
