"That's the last protocol set implemented," Micah says, his voice graveled by fatigue. "I've cross-checked against Committee intercept methodologies. They won't be able to crack this without months of dedicated effort and resources they can't afford to expose."
"The verification run completed clean." I pull up the final test results on my screen. "No vulnerabilities in the contact isolation architecture. Each node operates independently with no lateral communication that could create compromise chains."
He turns from the display, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. Maybe relief. Or satisfaction at work well done. But underneath, I recognize the same bone-deep exhaustion dragging at my own thoughts.
"We did it," he says quietly.
"Yeah, we did." The words come out flatter than intended. Exhaustion strips away the ability to feel triumph. "The Committee loses their intelligence gathering capability. Reeve's operating blind now."
"Which buys us time for Kane's team to eliminate him before he locates Echo Base."
I nod, but the motion feels disconnected from conscious thought. My brain keeps trying to shut down, to force rest my body desperately needs but my mind won't allow. Too many variables still in play. Too many ways this could still go wrong.
Micah crosses to my workstation, studies my face with an intensity that cuts through the fog. "When did you last eat?"
"Willa brought sandwiches." I try to remember when. "Earlier."
"That was hours ago."
Time blurred somewhere around the second day, bleeding together into one continuous stretch of analysis and implementation and verification.
"I'm fine."
"You're trembling." He reaches out, steadies my uncooperative hands with his own. The touch pulls me back from the edge of collapse I've been ignoring. "Come on. We're done here. You need food and sleep."
"Reeve—"
"Is still days away from visual range even if he maintains his current search pace. Kane confirmed it while you were running the final verification protocols." His grip tightens slightly. "We've done everything we can. The rest is up to the operational team."
The rational part of my brain knows he's right. The part that's been running on fumes and fear argues we should keep working, keep checking, keep finding ways to make the network more secure.
But my hands won't steady and my vision keeps blurring and somewhere in the past few days I lost the ability to think clearly through the exhaustion.
Micah pulls me to my feet, catches me when I sway slightly. "Food first. Then sleep."
"I can't." The admission costs more than it should. "Every time I try to sleep I see the search grid tightening. I see Reeve finding Echo Base. I see everyone here dying because I missed something in the protocols."
"You didn't miss anything." His voice carries absolute certainty. "Tommy and I have been checking your work the same way you and Tommy checked mine, and you and I checked his. Everything's been triple-verified, Sarah. If there was a vulnerability, one of us would have caught it." He pauses. "You were the best NSA ever had. Your analysis division still hasn't recovered from losing you."
The compliment should feel good. Instead, it just amplifies the exhaustion. It reminds me how close I am to breaking completely.
He guides me out of the operations center, through corridors lit only by emergency lighting at this hour. The facility sleeps around us, the team resting before the operation against Reeve launches. We should be resting too. We should be conserving strength for whatever comes next.
But my quarters feel too empty. Too quiet. Too full of thoughts I've been avoiding by drowning them in work.
Micah must sense something because he doesn't leave me at my door. He follows me inside, moves to the bathroom and returns with a glass of water, then finds the protein bars Willa stocked in my desk drawer for the long shifts.
"Sit," he says, pointing to the bed.
I sit because standing takes more energy than I have left. I watch him move through my space with the efficiency of someone who's operated on exhaustion before.
The domesticity of it cracks something open. This man who spent years deep cover in Committee networks, who killed without hesitation to protect this team, is getting me water and food before dawn because he's worried about me.
He hands me the glass, sits beside me on the bed. "Drink."
I drink because arguing takes effort I don't have. The water is cold and clean but it grounds me in physical sensation, pulls me back from the spiral of fear and exhaustion.
"Better?" he asks after I've taken a few sips.
