At 03:17,the power cuts completely.
The safehouse drops into emergency lighting, red and dim and mean. Somewhere outside, a transformer explodes with a sound like God slamming a door.
I’m in the armory with Tur, sorting through shock batons and fusion blocks, when the lights die.
He freezes.
Not like a man startled.
Like a predator clocking a change in the air.
“They’re testing the grid,” he murmurs.
I check my compad. Dead.
“Showtime,” I say.
He catches my wrist.
Hard.
“Kim.”
I look up at him.
“Say it,” I tell him.
He swallows. “If this turns into a slaughterhouse, I am carrying you out whether you consent or not.”
I squeeze his fingers. “Fair.”
He exhales. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
He snorts despite himself.
Then alarms start screaming in the distance.
By dawn,the lines are drawn.
Nine forces hold the outer ring.
Reaper scouts shadow the inner alleys.
Alliance warships hang overhead like judgment.
I stand in the war room again, this time in a borrowed tactical vest that smells like oil and someone else’s fear.
Mara steps up beside me. “Whatever happens… you did good.”
I shake my head. “We’ll see.”
Tur takes his place at my other side, massive and terrifying and shaking with control.
“Ready?” he asks quietly.
“No,” I say. “But I’m here.”
