And for the first time in days—hell, maybe years—I feel the same way.
No more hiding.
No more running.
Just this moment.
And what comes next.
I inhale slow. Deep.
Then speak.
“Then I’ll make damn sure I’m remembered.”
The words fall like stones. Solid. Irrefutable.
Voltar doesn’t smile.
He just nods once.
Clipped. Clean.
No arguments this time.
No lectures.
No fear.
Just the two of us. Scorched. Bruised. Unbroken.
The smellof burned upholstery still clings to my skin.
No matter how many times I wash my hands, I swear I can feel ash under my fingernails. It’s not just from the explosion. It’s deeper. In my lungs. In my blood.
It’s the scent of something ending.
I sit on the floor of what used to be my living room, holding that singed photo album like it’s a live wire. Voltar hasn’t moved much since we came in—he’s methodical, scanning every surface like the scorch marks are clues in some crime thriller. Maybe they are.
He’s not talking, and neither am I. Not until my comm beeps.
It’s short. Two pulses. Then silence.
Voltar turns before I even register it. “Encrypted?”
I nod. “Lazarus.”
I tap my compad and patch him through. His voice comes in rough and low, like a cigarette burn across synthwire.
“We’ve located Otto’s asset vault.”
Voltar straightens. “Where?”
“Old district. Edge of Sector Twelve. He owns a cluster of shell corporations propped up as luxury rentals. Looks like one of them hides the real stuff—hardcopy contracts, biometric deals, off-ledger bribes. Blackmail candy.”
I blink. “Wait—you’re saying Otto keeps actualpaperwork?”
Voltar huffs a laugh. “Some of the Nine don’t trust digital. Too hackable.”
