The morning quiet was a lie.
Elena watched Henri sleep on the old couch, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt too fragile. The swelling on his face had gone down slightly, but the bruises were blooming darker now. His knuckles were raw. His lips, dry and cracked.
He looked like a man who had fought not just for his life… but for her.
Her fingers trembled as she poured a glass of water. For hours, she hadn't moved from that tiny spot near the window—just watching, listening, waiting. Because she knew what this world was capable of. Peace never lasted. Not when it was born from the ruins of war.
Her phone buzzed. Again.
She flipped it over.
Blocked number. Four missed calls.
Whoever it was, they knew she was alive.
And worse… they knew he was too.
She typed a quick message to a contact from the resistance's shadow network—a person Ivy never knew existed.
Need a trace on number. High urgency. Send response encrypted.
Elena slipped the phone into her pocket and turned to Henri again.
He groaned faintly, stirring.
"Elena…?"
She was at his side in an instant.
"I'm here. You're safe."
"How long… was I out?"
"About six hours."
He sat up slowly, flinching.
"Feels like six years."
She smiled despite the fear clawing at her spine. "You've been through hell. But you're back. That's all that matters."
"No." He shook his head. "What matters is what I remember."
Her heart skipped.
"Tell me."
Henri looked at her, jaw clenched.
"There's a list. Target Number One... that's not just a codename. It's a real directive. An execution order. You're not just a threat to them. You're the threat."
Elena swallowed hard. "Why?"
"Because you hold something they can't replicate."
"What?"
"The truth. About everything."
She stiffened. "What truth?"
But before he could answer, there was a sharp bang at the back of the safehouse.
Henri was on his feet instantly, instincts flaring.
"Move."
They ran into the bathroom, where a hidden crawlspace led to the roof. Elena grabbed the duffel bag she'd packed—emergency cash, burner phones, stolen flash drives—and they disappeared through the narrow hatch just as the door downstairs exploded open.
From the rooftop, they watched men in black tactical gear storm the safehouse. No insignia. No hesitation. Clean, precise.
"Who the hell are they?" Elena hissed.
Henri's eyes narrowed.
"Not Virex. These guys are military. Private. Possibly hired."
"Mercs?"
He nodded grimly. "Which means someone paid to find us. And they paid a lot."
They moved across the roof, jumping gaps and ducking behind vents, every sound behind them screaming that they were being hunted.
Halfway across the fourth building, Henri grabbed her wrist and yanked her behind a ventilation shaft.
"Sniper."
The word alone froze Elena's blood.
"Where?"
"North tower. Sixth window down. See the glint?"
"Yeah. Just barely."
"We'll have to jump blind. Two rooftops down, lower elevation. It's risky."
"So's breathing right now."
He cracked a grin. "Still got jokes."
"Still got sarcasm."
Then they jumped.
They landed in a heap behind an abandoned billboard, hearts pounding.
Elena rolled to her feet, panting.
"Okay… now what?"
Henri's expression darkened. "We find him."
"Who?"
"The architect of the Target Program."
Elena went still.
"You mean… he's real?"
"Very. And I know where he's hiding."
They didn't stop running for three more blocks.
When they finally slowed, it was only because the terrain forced them to—twisted alleyways, rusted fences, and the scent of smoke in the air.
Henri pulled out a folded map. "They've upgraded surveillance. Satellite drones, facial recon. We need to change appearance again."
"Again?"
"You want to die in that hospital gown?"
"Fair point."
They slipped into a secondhand clothing store posing as a boarded-up tailor. Inside was a cramped but secure back room filled with gear, IDs, and even small arms. Someone had kept it stocked—someone who hadn't expected visitors.
"Whose place is this?" Elena asked.
Henri didn't answer. His silence said enough.
They changed quickly. She put on a dark hoodie and worn jeans, tied her hair up into a bun. He picked black cargo pants, a thermal shirt, and a cap pulled low over his eyes.
"You look like a hitman."
"You look like trouble."
They shared a glance—just a breath of peace between storms.
And then Henri said something that made her stomach drop.
"There's a mole."
Elena's blood ran cold.
"What?"
"In the resistance. Someone high up. Maybe even someone you trust. They knew where we were going. That means either Ivy said something under pressure… or someone else is feeding them intel."
She thought of Larkin. Of Asha. Of every name and face that had once seemed unshakable.
"We're not safe anywhere then."
"No," he said quietly. "Which is why we make ourselves invisible."
Two hours later, they arrived at the outskirts of the city.
Henri led them to an old shipping yard—abandoned on the surface, but he knew better.
"He's inside."
"The architect?"
Henri nodded.
The main warehouse stood like a rusted beast in the mist. Barbed wire coiled around its roof like a crown. The silence was thick—too thick.
"Are you sure about this?" Elena whispered.
"No. But we're out of options."
They crept in through a side entrance.
Inside was colder than it should've been. The air reeked of old iron and oil. Machinery lined the walls, long-since dead.
Henri moved like he knew the path.
"He used to run tests here. Before they expanded the program. I remember this place. Vaguely. In flashes."
"And this architect guy? What does he want?"
"Control. Over people like me. Over people like you."
They passed through a final metal door.
And there, waiting behind a desk cluttered with wires, data drives, and syringes, sat a man in a beige lab coat, older than time, face partially hidden behind dark glasses.
He smiled.
"Henri. Elena. Right on schedule."
Elena froze.
"He knows our names."
The man chuckled.
"Oh, I know much more than that. Sit down. We have so much to discuss."
Henri didn't move.
"You're going to tell us everything."
"I already planned to. You see… the real story hasn't even started yet."
The man leaned forward, glasses glinting.
"Because you two… are just the beginning."