12
Ronan
Location: Mobile Command
Time: Evening
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Now I don’t like it.”
Aaron’s voice cuts through the channel, steady but edged. “You didn’t like it before.”
“This is different.”
I lean forward, bracing my hands on the console as the data scrolls—too fast, too clean. That alone is wrong. Real attacks are messy. This is… controlled.
Probe attempts.
Behavioral pings.
Ghost queries.
“They’re not trying to find her location,” I say, quieter now. “They’re trying to see if the list thinks.”
Lark’s voice comes in, softer—but there’s steel under it. “Define ‘thinks.’”
I hesitate, eyes tracking the pattern forming like a pulse beneath the surface.
“They’re not treating it like stolen data,” I say. “They’re treating it like a… decision engine.”
Silence.
“You mean—” she starts.
“Yes,” I cut in. “They’re testing it. Pushing it. Seeing if it reacts.”
I glance at Aaron’s feed, catching just a glimpse of him in the safehouse—still, watchful, too focused on Lark.
“They want to know if your system is alive,” I add. “If it adapts. If it predicts.”
Lark doesn’t speak.
But I hear her breathe.
Aaron does too. I can tell by the way his voice lowers.
“They’re not afraid of exposure,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “They’re afraid of competition.”
I pull up another layer—older data, buried deep.
Black budgets.
Ghost funding.
Programs that were never meant to be seen.
“Lark,” I say, more carefully now, “your list isn’t just a map of crimes.”
