Kayla stands just inside the door, taking it in. Guilt flickers across her face before she smooths it away.
“I feel bad,” she says quietly. “You’re all crammed in here while he and I?—”
Snow snorts. “Easy fix. We rotate. You share.”
Nightshade hits him without looking.
Not hard – just enough to send Snow stumbling a step sideways with a sharp oath.
Yeah, that’s not happening.
“Focus,” I say flatly.
That shuts it down.
Kayla exhales through her nose, relief threaded through it. She steps forward and perches on the edge of the nearest bed, posture loose but attentive. Nightshade takes position just behind her shoulder – not looming, not hovering. Present. The kind of proximity that reads instinctive rather than territorial, though the difference is mostly academic.
I take the scanner from the desk.
It doesn’t scream.
That’s the first thing I notice – and the thing I like least.
It hums softly in my hand, a low, almost polite vibration. Cooperative. Non-networked, Tex promised. Dumb by design. No outbound capability, no curiosity beyond what it’s built to read.
Which means if it’s quiet, whatever it’s looking at is behaving.
Or absent.
I wait until Kayla looks at me before I bring it closer.
“What are we looking for?” she asks.
“Anything that answers questions we haven’t asked yet,” I say. “Or confirms the ones we have.”
She nods once. No hesitation. That alone is data.
I start at the obvious place – the back of her neck.
Nothing. No spike. No rhythm. Clean.
Snow lets out a slow breath. I realise I do too.
I sweep lower, slow and methodical.
Still nothing.
“Original tracker’s gone,” I say. “Removed. Cleanly.”
Nightshade’s jaw tightens.
The scanner hums again as I pass beneath Kayla’s arm.
This time it chirps.
Short. Sharp. Unmistakable.
Kayla stiffens. Nightshade swears.
