No encryption stronger than his ego.
My thumb hovers over the reply field.
He wantsmeto extract him.
Of course he does.
He always liked to make things difficult. And personal.
“Don’t make that face,” a sleepy voice murmurs from across the room.
I freeze. “What face?”
Tatek shifts in the chair, groggy but watching. His voice is low, rough with fatigue. “The one that means you’re about to do something stupid.”
I turn my wrist just enough to make the projection vanish into the skin again. He doesn’t ask what I was looking at, and I don’t offer.
“I wasn’t making a face,” I say quietly.
He gives a small grunt, not quite a laugh. “You always make a face.”
I rise from the bed and start toward the small basin tucked into the corner. “You talk in your sleep.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Said something about a knife and a transmission.”
“That tracks.”
I splash a bit of recycled water on my face, patting dry with the sleeve of my shirt. My eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed with glass. I don’t remember when I last slept longer than two hours.
Behind me, Tatek stands. His boots echo too loud against the floor. He’s not pushing me, not confronting—but I feel the shift. The weight of his attention.
“You good?” he asks.
It’s a simple question. Should be.
But I’m standing here, with a ghost on my wrist and a decision to make that might collapse everything, and I’m supposed to be what—honest?
“I’m awake,” I say, meeting his eyes in the reflection of the metal panel.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No. It’s what you’re gonna get.”
He doesn’t push. Just nods once, slow.
And I wonder—if I told him what just came through, would he stop me?
Would he help?
Would he see it as a trap?
Hell, maybe it is.
Maybe Jax is lying.
Maybe I just want to believe too badly to see straight.
