Across the room, the woman’s breath catches.
I meet her gaze and give the slightest shake of my head.
Not yet.
The lights dim again—another micro-drawdown as the system reroutes.
That’s two.
The third is always the one that matters.
Footsteps approach outside the chamber. One set. Not a team.
A technician.
I freeze.
The footsteps pause. A keypad chirps softly. The man mutters under his breath in a language I don’t recognize.
He doesn’t come in.
Instead, the lights flare slightly—brighter than before.
Compensation.
They’re forcing the system to behave.
That tells me everything.
This node wasn’t meant to run long.
It’s temporary.
And temporary systems hate pressure.
I exhale slowly and shift again—this time testing the ankle chain, letting it rest against the floor plate. My body is still hurting from the last beating I took after Ronan got Cal out.
I go back to the same seam.
Same vulnerability.
I angle my foot and apply pressure.
Not force.
Patience.
The chain vibrates—thenslidesa millimeter farther than it should.
My pulse spikes—but I keep my face slack, eyes unfocused.
I’ve created friction.
Friction becomes heat.
Heat draws attention.
And attention creates mistakes.
