“I’m busy,” I call back. “Go away.”
A pause.
Then Fyr’s voice again, softer. “Lonari. Don’t make this difficult.”
Jordan’s gaze flicks to the ceiling vent.
Then to the wall thermostat panel.
Then to me.
Her lips shape silently:He’s in the ducts too.
I feel the hairline crack of rage opening wider in my chest.
“Fyr,” I say, voice low, “if you touch that door?—”
The lights cut out entirely.
Black, like before, but this time it isn’t strategic.
This time it’s predatory.
Jordan moves like she’s made of wire and lightning. She darts to the thermostat panel, pops it open with a maintenance tool she somehow still has, and starts ripping through the wiring like she’s playing a violent instrument.
“What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Buying time,” she whispers back, and I feel a grim little jolt of recognition—she learned that from somewhere ugly too.
A soft hiss sounds above us.
Gas.
Not thick yet, but the smell hits immediately—sweet, cloying, chemical.
Jordan’s eyes water. “Yep. Gas.”
She doesn’t panic. She just works faster, fingers moving with furious precision.
I yank open my internal access panel, forcing the suite’s security interface to display on my wrist comp. The sensor feed is glitching—someone’s masking it. Of course they are.
“Jordan,” I snap, “bathroom. Now.”
“Not yet,” she says.
The door handle clicks.
Not opening—just testing.
Then a soft scraping sound comes from the ventilation grate as something metallic slides along it.
Jordan’s hands flash.
She bridges two wires, then slams the panel shut.
A beat of silence.
Then the suite’s environmental system roars as every vent in the room reverses.
