No keypad.
No digital convenience.
My shoulders loosen a fraction without my permission.
He turns and studies me like he’s verifying I’m real, not a projection wearing my face.
“You look like hell,” he says.
“I feel like hell,” I reply.
“Good,” he mutters. “Means you’re alive.”
I take a step closer, and he raises a hand, stopping me without touching me.
“Token,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
Clint reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and matte—an old IHC work-study token, the kind they used to issue to kids who cleaned server bays and ran errands for administrators who wouldn’t look us in the eye. It’s scratched. Worn. Real.
My chest aches so sharply I almost swear.
“Jesus,” I whisper. “You still have that?”
“Yeah,” Clint says, voice flat like he’s pretending it doesn’t matter. “Show me yours.”
I swallow and dig into the inner seam of my bag, fingers shaking as they find the token I kept for reasons I never fully explained to myself—spite, nostalgia, proof that I existed. I pull it out and hold it up under the harsh utility light.
Clint compares them, flips them, checks the engraved microcode pattern along the rim.
Then he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.
“It’s you,” he says quietly.
I hate the way that sentence lands in my ribs. Like the universe has been trying to erase me and Clint just stampedVALIDon my forehead.
“It’s me,” I whisper back.
Clint steps aside and gestures down the passage. “Move. No loitering. This corridor’s clean but it ain’t safe.”
I follow him through a back passage disguised as medical cargo routing, slipping between stacked containers and overhead piping. My boots scuff on grated flooring. The air hums with ventilation fans. Somewhere above us, a cargo drone whirs past like a lazy insect.
Clint keeps glancing at me like he wants to ask a hundred questions but doesn’t have the time.
“You alone?” he asks finally.
“Yes,” I say. “By design.”
He grunts. “Smart.”
I hesitate, then add, “Lonari wanted to send a tail. I refused anything traceable.”
Clint’s eyes flick toward me, sharp. “Lonari.”
“Don’t,” I say immediately, because my brain doesn’t need to go there right now. “We can unpack my terrible taste in allies later.”
Clint snorts, then winces slightly—headache, that familiar tightness around his eyes. He rubs his temple once and keeps moving.
