He drives his heel backward into my shin. The pain shoots straight up my leg, white-hot, but I don’t loosen my hold.
Instead, I rotate and slam him forward, cracking his shoulder into the control panel.
The forcefield flickers.
Behind it, Mara doesn’t move.
She’s watching.
Every breath. Every beat.
She doesn’t flinch.
That anchors me more than anything.
Serat throws his weight backward—tries to reverse the hold—but I duck and slam a stun charge into the back of his neck. It doesn’t knock him out. It’s not meant to.
Just enough toslow him down.
He sags, staggering, trying to recover.
I toss the baton aside.
“You’re going to regret this,” he growls.
“I already do,” I answer.
Then I shove him aside.
The override panelis locked behind a triple-layer biometric key—handprint, ocular, and command sigil. Designed for high-clearance officers and black-badge enforcers.
Which is to say: not me.
But I don’t need clearance.
I need leverage.
I slam my fist into the side housing—twice, then a third time. The panel groans, but the seal doesn’t pop.
So I draw my sidearm again and fire into the casing. Sparks spit in every direction. The console flickers, groaning like an injured thing. I grip the edge andrip.
Metal screams.
The inner seal shatters.
The forcefield drops.
I move through the opening before it’s finished dissipating, stepping through the ion haze.
And there she is.
On her knees.
Not broken.
Not bleeding.
Just—drained.
