“Then there was the final procedure,” I say slowly. “They told me it would complete the enhancement, unlock my full potential.” My jaw tightens. “I don’t remember much of it by design, just the going under, counting backward. They say you don’t dream while under anesthesia, but I dreamt like someone losing their mind. The things I saw…that darkness. It still haunts me.” I shake my head, refusing to think about it further. “And then…waking up. Afterward, I was different. Stronger, yeah. Faster. Maybe even smarter. But also…” I search for the words. “Disconnected. Like there’s a pane of glass between me and everything else. I don’t get tired the way I used to, don’t get that hungry. Sometimes, I catch myself going through the motions of being a person—eating food I don’t need, pretending to sleep—and I wonder how much of me is still the kid who grew up in this house and how much is just…the device they built.”
Which is probably why my feelings for you are so consuming,I think but I don’t dare say.
Mia is quiet for a long moment. Then, she shifts, turning to face me, her hand coming up to cup my jaw.
“Look at me.”
I do. Her eyes are dark and serious, pinning me in place, like she can see through all the walls, all the armor, straight to the broken thing underneath.
“You feel guilt,” she says. “About your mother, about Emma, about not being there to save them. A device doesn’t feel guilt.” Her thumb traces my cheekbone. “You feel joy when you fly,frustration when you can’t help someone, fear when you think about losing control. Devices don’t feel those things either.”
“What if that’s just conditioning? What if Julia programmed me to?”
“You feel something for me.” Her brows come together, looking so sweet and vulnerable. “Don’t you?”
The question cuts through every defense I have.
“Yes.” The word comes out hoarse. “God, yes. More than I should. More than I know how to handle.”
“Did Julia program that?”
“No.” I know this with absolute certainty. Whatever else they did to me, this feeling, this ache in my chest when I look at her, this need to be near her, to protect her, to show her who I really am…that’s all mine. “No, this is real.”
“Then you’re still you, Nate. Whatever they did to your body, however much they changed—the man who protected his sister, the soldier who wanted to save people, the person who looked at me on that rooftop and made me feel like I wasn’t alone for the first time in years—that’s still you. That’s not programming.”
She kisses me, soft and slow and achingly tender.
This woman will be the end of me, I just know it.
When she pulls back, her eyes are wet.
“I see you,” she whispers. “The real you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
We stay in the hayloft all afternoon, the sun slanting toward the horizon sometimes talking, sometimes sitting in total silence except for the creak of the barn and the wind whispering in the rafters. I tell her about the hunting trips with my father, the only times we ever connected. About the night when I was eleven that I got so angry and scared, I pushed my mother down and took the belt for it. About Emma sneaking into my room afterward, whispering,it’s not your fault. None of it is your fault.
Mia tells me more about her brother, about the accident that took him and her mother, the guilt she carries for surviving it when she was safe at home. The life she had to leave behind, the grief they had to run from. We trade scars like currency, each revelation making the next one easier.
By the time the sun shifts to deep gold, I feel lighter than I have in years, emptied out and filled back up with something cleaner.
But underneath the lightness, a familiar weight is growing.
My watch sits on my kitchen counter at the penthouse. For the first time in two years, no one knows exactly where I am. No one can reach me if something goes wrong.
“You’re thinking about it,” Mia says. She’s gotten good at reading me—too good. “The watch. Being off-grid.”
“Damn hard not to.” I look out through the gaps in the barn wall, at the deepest blue sky. “Right now, somewhere, something bad is happening. I know it. A fire. A robbery. A car crash. Something I could stop if I was there. Someone I could help.”
“You can’t be everywhere.”
“I know.” But knowing doesn’t help. “It’s just…” I lick my lips, trying to find the words, “this is the first time I’ve chosen myself over the job. First time I’ve said ‘no, I’m taking this for me.’ And part of me feels guilty as hell for it. A big part.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, she says, “When I was starting out in journalism, I had an editor who worked me intothe ground. Sixteen-hour days, weekends, holidays, you name it. If there was a story, I was on it. I burned out completely within a year. When I finally collapsed, she sat me down and said, ‘You can’t pour from an empty cup. You have to take care of yourself before you can take care of anyone else.’ Which, you know, was something, considering she was the one who was working me to the bloody bone. But she had a point. I needed to make time for myself, and if I didn’t advocate for it, no one else would.” She shifts closer, resting her head on my shoulder. “You’ve given them everything, Nate. Your body, your privacy, your life. Is it really so wrong to take one day for you?”
I think that over. I know part of me says yes, it is wrong. Duty doesn’t take days off. People are counting on me, and I can’t afford to be selfish. The city of New York can’t afford for me to be selfish.
But her head is warm against my shoulder, and the sky is beautiful, the air sweet. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something close to peace.
“No,” I say finally. “I guess it’s not.”
