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“Yes.”
“They need you conscious to access them.”
“I figured.” I chuckled nervously. “They need me alive to make you comply.”
His expression shifted, a grim confirmation in the slight tightening of his jaw. “Yes.”
The trap was so simple it was almost elegant. A trade…his life for my cooperation. But the math was rotten. His life wasn’t guaranteed. It was leased. Minutes, maybe. Just long enough for them to get what they wanted before they disposed of us both.
It didn’t matter.
Their offer was only two doors. Hand over everything and pray, or sit here and watch the light in him gutter out.
I stared at the medical routing panel.
No.
Those were their choices.
Not mine.
I had spent too much of my life accepting other people’s menus.
I looked at Veyr. “The west corridor?”
His gaze shifted. Old instinct. He opened his mouth. “The west—”
Then stopped. His breathing hitched. He looked at me instead.
“What do you see?”
The question landed harder than the gunfire. Not an order. Not direction. Trust.
I made myself breathe. Then I looked. Actually looked.
Medical-transfer zone. Quarantine. Containment protocol. Critical casualty routing. Chain-of-custody breach. Blood exposure. Restricted biological material.
I knew this. Not combat. Systems. Rules.
People built rules because they believed rules created control.
Sometimes they created doors.
“The quarantine outranks Review retrieval.”
Veyr’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Administrative transport protocols don’t supersede active quarantine,” I said, my voice tight. “What about Veil? Do they have the authority?”
“Not officially.” His mouth tightened.
“Good.”
I pulled up the emergency medical menu.
Critical casualty transfer. External stabilization. Medical authority routing.
The nearest approved medical receiving node appeared.
