"Behavioral analysis can be spoofed."
"By someone who knows what normal looks like from the inside. Which is why the tertiary layer exists." He taps a section of the schematic, and his hand passes close enough to mine that I feel the warmth radiating off his skin. "Custom protocol. I wrote it from scratch when Kane started running field operations that required real-time intelligence support. It monitors the handshake between internal systems and outbound communications and verifies integrity at the packet level."
"That's the layer I came through."
His fingers stop on the keyboard for a beat, then resume. "Yeah. That's the layer you came through."
"Your custom protocol has a vulnerability in the timing verification during high-load operations. When the system's processing multiple outbound streams simultaneously, the integrity check deprioritizes to maintain throughput. The window's small, fractions of a second, but fractions of a second is all I needed."
Tommy's quiet for long enough that I glance sideways. His expression isn't defensive. He's looking at the schematic with the intensity of a man who's just been shown a flaw in something he built with his own hands, and the flaw is real, and he already knows how to fix it, and the fact that someone else found it first is eating him alive. The intensity changes his face, sharpens it, and his jaw and cheekbones do something that has no business registering on my threat assessment but does anyway.
"Show me."
I lean forward. My chair rolls closer to his. The workspace is already tight, two stations crammed into a space designed for one because Kane wanted us working within arm's reach, and my elbow brushes his forearm as I reach for his keyboard. The contact is brief, but his skin is warm from hours at the keys, and my fingers are cold because they always are, and the temperature differential sends a jolt through my wrist that has nothing to do with thermoregulation.
He doesn't pull away. Neither do I.
I type the exploit pathway, each keystroke laying out the exact route I used to deliver the warning. Tommy watches my hands on his keyboard, and the proprietary quality of that observation, the attention he pays to the movement of my fingers on his hardware, creates a tension in the air between our chairs that smells like ozone and tastes like a bad idea.
"There." I pull back. "The reprioritization during high-load creates a window where the integrity check drops to passive monitoring. I routed my message through that gap by triggering a synthetic load spike on three of your outbound channels simultaneously."
"You created a distraction."
"I created a precisely calibrated load distribution that exploited a design trade-off between security and performance. A distraction is throwing a rock through a window. This was threading a needle while the needle was moving."
"I can fix it."
"I know. But that's not the point." I pull the Committee's weapon analysis onto my own screen and rotate it so he can see. "The point is that whoever designed this weapon found the same vulnerability, or one functionally identical to it. The delivery mechanism targets the same intersection between internal and external systems, exploiting the same kind of design trade-off."
The implication lands. I watch him process it, watch the color of his understanding shift as the pieces connect.
"They studied my system."
"They studied your system the way I studied it. Structurally. Over time. With patience and technical fluency. They found the same seams I found."
Tommy pushes his glasses up with his thumb, takes them off entirely, and cleans them on the hem of his shirt with a deliberation that suggests the gesture has nothing to do with dirty lenses. Without the glasses, his face is exposed in a way that the barrier usually prevents. His eyes are brown and unguarded, and they carry the quiet devastation of a man realizing he's not as good as he thought he was. I've worn that expression. I recognize it the way you recognize your own handwriting.
"We need to go to the server room." His voice is even, controlled, and the humor's gone. The absence changes the shape of the air between us. "I need to run a physical audit of the communication relays. If the weapon's targeting the interface between internal and external systems, I need to know if there's hardware-level compromise I haven't detected."
I grab the diagnostic tablet and follow him through the corridor without argument, which is notable because I argue about everything. The walk is short, two turns and a security door that opens to his biometric scan, and neither of us speaks. The silence isn't hostile. It's the focused quiet of two people who've just agreed on something important and don't need to fill the space with noise.
The server room is cold, the deep structural chill of a climate-controlled environment designed to keep machines alive at the expense of human comfort. The air tastes like metal and ozone, and the hum is louder here, lower in frequency, vibrating in my molars.
Tommy works the hardware with a competence I didn't expect. He moves through the server racks with physical confidence, hands finding connections by feel, his body navigating the narrow aisles between equipment with the ease of someone who's spent years in this room. He's the man who built what the screens display, who crawled under desks and ran cables through solid rock and soldered connections in the dark because the infrastructure of this place didn't exist until he made it.
I watch his hands on the relay housings, precise and fast and certain. Then I stop watching his hands because my gaze has tracked up his forearms to his shoulders, which are broader than his usual posture advertises, and the muscles in his back shift under his shirt when he reaches for a high connection. I'm standing in a cold room surrounded by servers watching a manI've known for days with an intensity of attention that I normally reserve for code I'm about to exploit.
The parallel isn't lost on me. I'm looking for vulnerabilities. His happen to be physical.
"Hold this." He hands me a diagnostic cable. Our fingers overlap on the housing, and his are warm despite the cold, and mine are freezing, and he wraps his hand around mine for a fraction of a second longer than the transfer requires. The contact sends information through my nervous system that bypasses every analytical framework I have.
"Your hands are freezing."
"My hands are always freezing. It's a feature, not a bug."
"That's my line."
"It's everyone's line. You're not special."
