"I don't think I will."
Astra moves three degrees to my right, widening the firing angle. Good instinct. If I take the shot and miss, she has the follow-up from a different trajectory. Ethan tracks her movement with eyes that are too calm for a man with two guns pointed at his chest. That calm bothers me more than the portal does.
"I've spent a decade in your father's shadow," he says. Not to me. To both of us, to the room, to the crackling half-born thing behind him like he's delivering testimony. "Learning. Waiting. Malachar didn't just find an anomaly. He found a doorway. And what's on the other side could change everything."
"So you sold us out."
His smile sharpens. It's the same smile I've seen across negotiation tables and in the quiet moments before violence, the kind of smile that belongs to someone who's already played the board three moves past where you think the game is.
"I positioned myself. There's a difference."
"That's a distinction that won't matter much when you're dead."
"Maybe." He tilts his head, and the portal light catches the angles of his face, turning him into something chiaroscuro, half-illuminated and half-gone. "The Obsidian Protocol taught me to manipulate. Your father taught me to plan." His eyes find mine, and there's something in them I don't want to name. Respect, maybe. The worst kind. "You taught me to survive."
The words land like shrapnel. I feel each one embed, because he's not wrong. Six years of running operations beside me, learning how I move, how I calculate, how I decide who lives and who becomes acceptable loss. I built this. Not all of it. But enough.
"Touching," Astra says, her voice stripped flat. "Hands off the console."
The portal stutters. A spike of energy arcs from its edge and scorches the floor two meters to our left, and the smell of burned composite fills my sinuses. Elissa flinches but doesn't move from where she's standing, which is too close to Ethan, too close to the portal, too close to everything that's about to go wrong.
She's pale. Not the paleness of fear, though there's plenty of that. The paleness of someone who hasn't been sleeping, hasn't been eating, has been carrying something heavy enough to compress her spine. My youngest sister, with her unmarked human skin and her wide pale eyes, stands in that hellish strobing light and looks at me like I'm the threat.
"Elissa." I keep my voice controlled. "Move away from him."
"No."
One word. It hits harder than anything Ethan said.
"He's not the enemy." She steps forward, not toward me but between us, putting her body in the firing line with the deliberate precision of someone who's thought about this moment. Prepared for it. "He's been protecting me."
"Elissa..."
"No. Listen." Her voice cracks on the second word, and I watch her swallow it down, watch her rebuild herself in real time. The Torrence stubbornness, the one trait we all share regardless of which parent gave us what. "The night everything went wrong, he came to me. Told me who he was. What he'd done. He didn't have to do that, Dex. Nobody made him. He chose to."
I feel Astra shift beside me. Not lowering her weapon, but her breathing changes. She heard something in Elissa's voice that I'm too angry to parse.
The math starts running in my head without my permission. It always does. The firing solutions, the probability trees, the cascade of consequences branching out from each possible action like neural pathways firing in sequence. I could take the shot. Right now. Elissa is positioned at forty degrees off Ethan's center line. Through-and-through round at this caliber, at this range, with standard station-grade ammunition? Maybe fifty percent chance of collateral transfer. Survivable if it clips her, probably. Eighty percent survivable if it catches the outer edge of her shoulder, sixty if it tumbles and fragments, forty if she moves into the path at the wrong moment.
Fifty-fifty. I've taken worse odds than fifty-fifty. I've calculated losses with smaller margins and pulled the trigger and completed the mission and filed the report and slept fine. Fifty-fifty is practically generous in my line of work.
I run the numbers. The trajectory. The energy expenditureof the portal and whether its field would deflect or absorb ballistic rounds. Ethan's body mass and the likelihood of a single-shot stop. Elissa's positioning and how quickly she could drop if I shouted the command. The secondary shot from Astra, covering the gap if I miss. The tertiary contingency of the portal destabilizing and what that does to everyone in the room.
I map it all. Every variable, every outcome, every percentage.
And I stop.
Not because the math doesn't work. The math works fine. The math always works fine, because the math doesn't care who's standing in front of the barrel.
I stop because I'm standing in a room with my sister's body between me and a clean shot, and I'm calculating the acceptable probability of her death, and somewhere behind me Astra is watching me do it.
Fuck the math.
The thought lands in my chest like a fist. Not an epiphany. Not some bright cinematic moment of clarity. Just a door slamming shut inside me, and behind it every equation I've ever used to make the monstrous feel manageable.
Fuck the math, and fuck the man who taught himself to use it on the people he loves.
My finger eases off the trigger. One millimeter. Two. The safety clicks on with a sound like a bone breaking in reverse, something going back together instead of apart.
