Focus, Maeve. The work is what matters.
Xavier had taught me to always be logical and put my feelings aside while working. He mentioned it before the first job interview I had landed, and later on, when I landed my dream job.
“It’s the key to seeing things for what they are,” he pointed out. And perhaps he wasn’t wrong at all. I blinked once, twice, thrice, trying to ignore the burn behind my eyes. I’d deal with that later. For now, I needed to focus on my brother.
My fingers flew across the keyboard, chasing another thread of information. The lingering headache pulsed behind my eyes, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I’d rather face the aftereffects of Brock’s compounds than this fresh betrayal.
“Subject classification protocols,” I muttered louder, forcibly redirecting my thoughts. “Beta authorization sequence.”
Across the room, metal clicked against metal as Specter cleaned and reassembled a handgun. He’d positioned himself by the door, several weapons laid out in order before him. His movements were efficient, mechanical—the man was a weapon being maintained alongside the others.
He caught my eye momentarily before returning to his task. His expression revealed nothing, but his presence was a complicated comfort—a guardian I never asked for, but apparently needed.
I attacked the keyboard with renewed intensity. Files from the stolen hard drives filled my screen—redacted documents, facility blueprints, personnel records. Somewhere in this digital labyrinth was the truth about Xavier, about Ronan, about Specter, and all of Oblivion’s puppets.
“Your system looks like a conspiracy theorist’s bedroom wall.”
Specter’s voice startled me. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, examining my scattered notes.
“It works for me,” I replied, not looking up. “Pattern recognition is easier when I can physically arrange the information before starting to write.”
He stepped closer, his shadow falling across my workspace. “You’ve connected Oblivion to multiple black sites across South America.”
“Yes, but it’s only preliminary suppositions.” I tapped a page with three locations circled in red. “Their fingerprints are all over these facilities. Digital trails lead back to shell companies with the same patterns. That was information I had put together before coming to Brazil. But you know all this, because you helped me put it together.”
The rain intensified outside, a rapid-fire assault against the building. The tiny basement windows rattled in their frames, and the dripping from the ceiling accelerated.
“What’s your publication strategy?” he asked suddenly.
The question hit like cold water. I’d been so focused on survival that I hadn’t fully confronted what comes after finding Xavier. But the journalist in me—the part that had been documenting everything—had been planning all along.
“I have a network of trusted contacts at three international papers.” My fingers drummed against the table. “Dead man’s switch protocols in place. If I don’t check in regularly, encrypted packets go to all three simultaneously.”
“And you’ve scrubbed the data of anything that could compromise your sources?”
“First rule of investigative journalism.” I gestured to a separate folder on my screen. “I’ve been sanitizing information since before we met. Redacting certain details, creating information buffers between sources.”
Specter nodded, the barest hint of approval in his expression.
“You’ve been thorough.”
“Every contact verified, every channel secured.” A touch of pride entered my voice despite my exhaustion.
“And you understand what this means for you afterward?” His tone sharpened. “No normal life. Not for years, maybe ever.”
My hands stilled on the keyboard. The question landed with a weight I couldn’t deflect. For a moment, the basement fell silent except for the rain and that persistent drip into the metal pot. I’d thought about it, here and there. I knew how things worked, only I so desperately hoped Ronan would be by my side once it did happen.
“I know what happens to people who expose organizations like Oblivion.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. “New identity. New location. Constant vigilance.”
“And you’re prepared for that?”
I met his eyes directly. “I crossed that line the moment I started looking for Xavier.” My voice hardened. “Some truths demand sacrifices.”
Something flickered behind Specter’s eyes—recognition, perhaps, or respect.
“What about Reaper?” he asked more quietly.
The question twisted like a blade between my ribs. My relationship with Ronan—whatever it was—felt too raw to examine, too complicated to define.
