“They wanted us to find this.”
He pauses. Looks at me. “What?”
“Think about it. They disable the perimeter security. They leave the main door unlocked. They clean out the computers and files but leave the research wing accessible.” I gesture at the green light. “Either they were interrupted before they could secure everything, or …”
“Or someone wanted this found.” He considers it. “Julianna Stratton.”
“The Rook.” The chess piece from the Nexus hierarchy. CEO of Stratton Financial. The woman whose signature was on the contract that brought us here. “What if she’s not running from us? What if she’s running from Phoenix, and she left us a trail?”
“That’s a big assumption.”
“It’s a hypothesis. Based on evidence.” I nod at the door. “Either way, the answer is in there.”
Diego studies the door for a long moment. Then he reaches for the handle.
“Stay behind me. If anything moves, you run.”
“I’m not going?—”
“Cassie.” His voice is quiet. Serious. “If something goes wrong in there, you are the mission. Not me. Not whatever we find. You. Because you’re the one who can testify. You’re the one who can bring this to light. If I go down, you take whatever we’ve found and you run. Understood?”
The weight of it presses against my chest. He’s not being dramatic. He’s not playing hero. He’s doing the math—the cold, tactical calculation that says my survival matters more than his.
I hate it. But I understand it.
“Understood.”
He pushes the door open.
The research wing is colder.
The temperature drops at least ten degrees the moment we cross the threshold, the air taking on that processed, sterile quality of industrial climate control. The smell is stronger here—chemicals and something else, something organic that makes my stomach turn.
Diego moves ahead, flashlight beam sweeping left and right. The corridor is lined with doors, each marked with alphanumeric codes. RW-101. RW-102. RW-103.
“Labs,” he murmurs. “Individual research stations.”
We check them as we go. Most are empty—workbenches cleaned, equipment removed, the bones of a scientific operation stripped of its flesh. But in RW-107, we find something.
A whiteboard, still covered in equations and diagrams I don’t understand. Someone erased part of it hastily—smeared lines and ghostly outlines of letters—but the bottom section remains intact.
PHASE THREE TIMELINE:
* Biological Processor Stability: CONFIRMED
* Neural Tissue Growth Rate: 400%
* Data Transmission Velocity: EXCEEDS SILICON
* Distribution Network: PENDING NEVADA
“Phase Three,” Diego says. “That’s what Whisper mentioned. The AI’s endgame.”
“Neural tissue growth.” I stare at the words. “Data transmission velocity. Diego, look at this. They’re comparing it to silicon.”
“Like a chip.”
“Exactly like a chip. But growing.”
