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“Can we get through?”

“Possibly.”

“That word is doing a lot of work today.”

“I know.”

A blast tore through the cargo housing. The shriek of stressed metal filled the air. Veyr leaned out, fired once. An attacker crumpled. Another dropped into a crouch.

Then he was moving again—a blur of motion I could barely track. He covered half the distance to the junction in two strides, using a barrier for cover, then another.

He made himself the center of the storm. Every weapon in the room tracked him.

“Veyr!”

He answered with three precise shots. One. Two. Three. A Veil operative grunted and dropped to one knee. Another threw himself into a roll behind a crate.

From the opposite side, Review Enforcement advanced in a tight formation. Their fire didn’t come near me—they were herding, not hunting. Creating a cage with their positioning. The same clinical containment they’d used at Darev’s clinic, just on a grander scale.

Veyr’s voice cut through the chaos. “Move!”

I ran—not toward him, but parallel, toward the medical-transfer junction.

He didn’t try to redirect me. He laid down covering fire, his shots forcing heads down, buying me seconds.

That silent acceptance meant more than any order.

My palms hit the cold panel. Locked. Of course.

Behind me, something heavy hit the floor.

I looked back.

Veyr had taken a shot.

He was still moving. Still fighting.

“Open it!” he shouted.

“I’m trying!”

The medical system asked for custody authorization.

I didn’t have one.

Then I remembered the fake transfer sequence from earlier.

I pulled the temporary chain code from memory. Entered it.

Denied.

Wrong network. Different facility.

I swore.

The panel flashed red.

Another shot.