Images flashed in rapid succession—an abandoned building, a voice through a distorted screen, coordinates, drones hunting us through rain-slicked streets.
My grip loosened a fraction, not from weakness but calculation. Three competing protocols battled for dominance in my head:
Eliminate the witness. Standard containment protocol.
Preserve operational integrity. Self-preservation required.
Find Maeve. Protect Maeve.
The third wasn’t programming. It was something else—something raw and human they had tried to burn out of me with electricity and chemicals.
“The informant.”
“Yes. My name is Specter, Secunda generation.” He remained perfectly still despite the bruising pressure of my fingers against his carotid artery. “You’re fighting the poison well. Your enhanced physiology is adapting.”
I released him and staggered back, legs threatening to buckle. My body was still at war with itself. The blue-black lines had receded from my forearms but left darkened paths beneath my skin. In the cracked mirror across the room, my reflection was a stranger’s—dilated pupils ringed with unnatural blue.
Then, my gaze snapped from shadow to shadow, scanning the dim space with sharp, restless urgency. I searched for her—the woman who, despite all odds, had become my savior in the chaos. Where was she?
My mind reacted fast, spiraling through scenarios, most of them grim.
Had she been discovered? Captured? Terminated?
Or worse—had she abandoned me?
No… no, that wasn’t like her. At least, not the version of her I had come to know. I assessed my surroundings, listening to every sound, observing each movement.
Conclusion: she wasn’t here.
And that realization sank like ice into my chest.
“Where’s Maeve?” I demanded.
The question sent a pain current through my temples like a live wire touching water. Memory fragments assembled: Maeve beside me as the poison spread, her fingers on my face, a phone call, her voice steady despite fear.
Specter straightened his clothing. “She went to Brock.”
The name triggered an automatic response—my spine straightened, muscles tensed, right hand twitched toward my hip where a weapon should be. “My handler.”
“Your controller,” Specter corrected.
Something cracked inside me with an almost audible sound—not physical, worse. A fissure in whatever foundation remained of my programming.
I stared at Specter, processing his words as though translating an extinct language. “She went to Brock.” My muscles locked into place, tendons rigid as steel cables. “And you let her go?”
The words cut through the stillness, sharp and accusing. His track record had been flawless. Every lead, every warning, every whispered truth he had shared had proven accurate. He had been her guide through this labyrinth of secrets and danger.
He, more than anyone, understood what lay ahead. He knew what waited on the other side of her path—what they would do to someone like her.
So why?
Why had he let her go?
The room tilted beneath me like a ship in a storm. I gripped the edge of the bathroom doorframe, steadying myself.
“I couldn’t stop her. They have her brother. Blackout. She went there for a rescue mission.”
“When?” I pushed toward my gear, body operating on automatic despite the poison’s lingering constraint.
