Aaron
“There,”I say.
She pales. “So it is tracking me.”
“Not you,” I answer. “The object.”
Her shoulders sag like the fight has finally left her.
“What kind of object?” she whispers.
I hesitate.
Because there are things you can’t unknow once you say them.
“Passive relay,” I say. “Dormant until pinged. Low-power. Old tech by modern standards, but reliable.”
She closes her eyes. “My mother never mentioned that part.”
“She might not have known,” I say. “Or she might have known exactly.”
I don’t speculate further.
Speculation is where hope hides.
I power the relay down, isolate it, and seal it inside a Faraday pouch. The chirping stops.
The room exhales.
I turn back to her. “You did the right thing.”
Her eyes snap open. “By keeping the drive?”
“Yes.”
“That almost got me killed.”
“It almost got a lot of people saved,” I counter. “We don’t know how many yet.”
She studies my face like she’s looking for a crack.
“You really believe that.”
“I don’t do beliefs,” I say. “I do outcomes.”
She huffs a breath that’s half laugh, half sob. “Then what’s my outcome?”
I step closer, lowering my voice without softening it.
“You stay alive,” I say. “You tell us everything. And you don’t make decisions alone anymore.”
Her chin lifts. “Is that protection… or control?”
I meet her stare.
“It’s containment,” I say honestly. “Until we know who else is in your system.”
She absorbs that. Doesn’t flinch.
