Like they’re resonating.
I nearly topple out of my chair with excitement.
That’s when someone clears their throat behind me.
I jump—an ugly, embarrassing lurch that sends a cascade of sample vials rattling.
There’s Darwin, standing in the doorway with that same bland expression pasted across his face.
“You’re working late,” he says.
I don’t take off my gloves. I don’t look away from the screen.
“No,” I say. “I’m workingcorrectly.”
He shifts, uneasily. For a second, I think I see something behind his eyes—fear? Guilt? That same nervous flare Carson gets when he’s trying not to let panic leak out?—
But it’s gone as soon as I notice it.
“Professor Ciampa said to log everything to the central database,” Darwin says. “Official channels. You know how important protocol is.”
“He also said I shouldn’t worry about resonant pulsing in crystalline structures,” I reply without looking at him. “And that was ridiculous.”
His jaw tightens.
“Jillion,” he says soft, almost rehearsed.
“Jill,” I correct, eyes not leaving the screen.
He sighs. Like it’s aburdento have to speak honestly.
“Watch your tone,” he says. “This facility is under constant scrutiny. Any deviation from base protocol flags the system. It’s better to…”
He trails off.
Betterto what?
“…go through proper channels,” he finishes lamely.
I stare at him.
He doesn’t have the nerve to look back at me.
That, right there, tells me more than I want to know.
Something is off.
And it’s not just Ciampa.
Since I took that compad, Carson’s had the thousand-yard stare. He eats like he’s afraid food will slip out from under his jaw if he swallows too fast. He barely speaks unless spoken to. And even then, his answers are clipped, like he’s constantly juggling panic and reason in the same breath.
I corner him once near the supplies depot. He’s stacking ration packs with that peculiar nervous energy that makes me want to put a helmet on him and give him a stern lecture about posture.
I clear my throat.
He jumps so hard, he almost drops the stack.
“Carson,” I say.
