Page 185 of What We Become

The bass thumps. Someone laughs in the hallway. The club moves around us, loud and oblivious.

“That’s annoyingly poetic,” I say quietly.

Milo gives me a humorless smile. “Thank you. I hate it.”

I move closer and sit beside him without touching. The room smells faintly like leather cleaner and something sweet underneath it, some club-specific perfume blend meant to make people feel expensive and depraved at the same time.

“Taking your node offline is the part that’s really eating at you.”

“It’s one of several exciting options.”

“Milo.”

His gaze drops to the floor. “Last time Fenrir locked me out, one relay didn’t come back. Stephen found the dead wire, and we missed the message that could’ve warned kitten. If they take me offline again, I lose the cameras, the trackers, the catches. Everything.”

“You rebuilt the dead relay.”

“Through two independent paths. I tested them until the system practically begged for mercy.”

“Then you know what failed last time.”

“That doesn’t mean I know what fails next.”

“Neither does whoever is probing you,” I point out. “That’s why they’re still knocking.”

His eyes lift to mine.

“And if Fenrir takes you offline, we go manual. Eyes on the doors and windows. Nobody alone. All six of us stay together until you bring the system back.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“No. I make it sound shared.”

His knee keeps bouncing. He doesn’t try to stop it.

“Then we’re cautious,” I say. “With the network and with Stephen.”

“He sat in front of us for months, Micah. Smiling. He knows us.”

“Then he’s a threat until he’s dead.” I hear how flat it comes out. I don’t take it back.

Milo laughs once, short and ugly. “Look at us. So functional. So hinged.”

“We’re aspirationally hinged.”

“That should go on the family crest.”

I let that sit for a second, then put my hand over his bouncing knee and hold it there until the motion stops under my palm.

“Come on,” I say, standing. “I’ll make you a drink. Something disgusting and blue.”

“I don’t want something disgusting and blue.”

“You always want something disgusting and blue.”

“Okay. Fine. I love disgusting and blue.”

We get up, and I open the door. The club noise hits us—music, laughter, the hum of people performing desire for each other in expensive clothes. Milo steps into it, and the performance slides back into place. Shoulders loose. Chin up. Smile cocked.