I log into the liability database, using the Harrington security clearance code. Here, every name is a secret waiting to be erased. I find Landon’s file, tagged with a bright yellow stripe. Running a patch that reroutes the warning, I make it look like the case has been flagged for routine review. I backdate the entry by three weeks. The audit trail is seamless.
Two hours until the next scheduled sweep.
Breathing deep, in through the nose, out slow, I close my eyes. My hands are steady, but my heart is not.
I’ve cleared the warnings I can access. Gotta hope there aren’t more somewhere else.
I remember Landon’s voice, the way he said “I want you” with no expectation of survival. I think about the way he tasted, the way he fell apart, the way he let me see him—whole, ugly, honest.
The only thing left is my report. I compose a summary for the Director. I keep it bland: “Subject demonstrates above-average pattern recognition, but no evidence of malice. Recommend continued passive observation. No direct action at this time.”
I send the report, then watch the status bar as the system syncs. When it finishes, the threat level on Landon’s file drops from high to negligible. The warning icon disappears. The clock resets.
For now.
If they find out what I’ve done, I’ll be the one slated for dispatch.
But they won’t.
Probably.
I lean back, stretching my arms over my head. The first rays of sun are breaking over the city, painting the office in a pale, hostile light. I close my eyes, let the warmth sink into my skin.
A small sound—a breath, a shift of weight—pulls me back.
I turn, and Landon is standing in the doorway, hair wet from the shower, wearing nothing but one of my shirts and a look that says he knows more than he’s letting on.
He sees the wall of screens, the dashboard of his own life open in front of me, and blinks once, slow. “Are you working on my obituary?”
I let myself smile. “Just the opposite.”
He crosses his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “That’s a relief, I guess.”
I gesture to the desk chair opposite mine. “Sit.”
He does, folding himself into the seat with a practiced awkwardness. The light from the monitors catches the curve of his jaw, the bruise at his neck.
I close out of the system, fingers moving fast. “You were never here,” I say. “Not last night, not ever.”
He studies me. “You’re erasing me?”
“No,” I say. “I’m protecting you. There’s a difference.”
He looks at the screens, then back at me. “Is this going to work?”
I shrug. “First time for everything.”
He laughs, then lets the sound fade. He’s not afraid, not anymore.
“Are we safe?” he asks.
I look at the clock, the new deadline ticking down in the corner.
“For now,” I say.Two hours until the system sweeps, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He sighs, “Great. I’m going to make coffee. You want some?”
“Mhmm, black. I’ll be right there.” I murmur as my phone dings and an alert buzzes.
