And then—something clicks.
Literally.
One of the simulations runs clean.
Another follows.
And suddenly, there’s a flurry in the lab. People shouting. Screens lighting up. Sasha grabs my arm, her eyes wide.
"Did we just..."
"We figured it out," I breathe. The words feel foreign on my tongue.
For a second, I just stand there—trembling and stunned—like I don’t know what to do now that we’ve actually won something.
There’s cheering. Clapping. Someone shouts, "It’s time for human testing!"
I turn to Sasha, giddy, exhausted, and on the verge of tears. "It’s time for a party."
I glance at the screen, at the simulations still glowing green. The data backs us up. I feel it in my bones—we’re at the edge of somethingmonumental.
“Do you think Asher would allow that?”
I shrug. "The party won't just be for celebrating," I say, quieter now. "It'll be our first field run. Monitored. Safe. Controlled chaos."
The doors open, and Asher strides in like a thundercloud wrapped in a tailored suit. His eyes scan the lab, taking in the chaos, and the tired faces. Then they land on me—and narrow.
"Mav said you would be here," he says, voice low and rough. He sets two large bags of food on the nearest table. "My people look half-dead. Feed them before they start injecting caffeine intravenously."
“You’re my hero,” Sasha stage-whispers as half the lab swarms the food.
Asher ignores her, his attention locked on me. "You haven’t slept in two days. You’re coming home."
His eyes are dark, sunken—not just tired, but haunted. He wears exhaustion like a second skin, and whatever’s behind it isn’t sleepless nights over spreadsheets.
“You look worse than me,” I step into his shadow. “What happened?”
He hesitates, jaw tightening. The room suddenly feels smaller, the hum of the lab distant.
"There was a hit on one of our safe houses," he mutters. "A team went dark. I spent the last twenty-four hours digging bodies out of rubble."
My stomach drops. A sharp pang of guilt threads through me—while I’ve been buried in data, he’s been buried in blood.
"You need rest too," I whisper.
His hand brushes my arm, a barely-there touch. "I don’t get to rest until this is over."
My breath catches under the weight of his gaze. There’s too much sitting between us, stretched tight and humming. I want to pull him closer. I want to yell at him for carrying everything alone—
I stop myself.
Instead, I reach up and brush my fingers against his cheek. “We think we’ve fixed it. The data’s clean. It’s ready for trials.”
His eyes sharpen instantly, like something just snapped into focus. “Human trials?”
I nod, heart thudding. “At a party. Controlled. Monitored. Real people, real reactions. If we want to see how it behaves socially, we need chaos.”
He leans into my touch—barely—but I feel the tension lock through his shoulders. “No. Absolutely not.”
