The door behind Gene opened again.
Jack's voice. Close. Too close.
"She's in the vault," he said, his voice tight, speaking into a comm unit. Sublevel 3. Accessed Echelon."
Gene didn't hesitate. The instant the progress bar kissed 100%, she ripped the drive free, the new data a prize clutched tight in her hand. A silent exhale escaped her lips as she melted behind a stainless-steel surgical caddy, a mountain of gleaming, sterile instruments looming above.
The cold metal bit into her back, contrasting with the fire raging within. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing in the sudden silence, each throb a warning siren.
She was a predator, but now, she was also prey. Somewhere in this sterile labyrinth, eyes were watching, waiting. And the data in her hand had just painted a target on her back.
"Damn it," Jack muttered, his voice audible even behind the caddy. "She's not ready for this level. Not yet." There was a pause, a rustle as he presumably adjusted his comm. "If she's cracked the surface, we'll bury her before she sees daylight. Containment protocols are active."
Each footfall echoed, amplified in the vast control room as Jack moved. He swept his gaze across the banks of inactive consoles, a hunt for shadows in a space that should have been humming with life.
Silence hung like a leaden veil, thick and suffocating, concealing threats just beyond perception.
A faint click echoed, the door closing softly, a muted caress compared to its earlier roar.
Footsteps faded, a deliberate retreat down the corridor. The silence that followed was different. It wasn't empty anymore.
It was a taut, strained awareness, the held breath of a place that knew it was no longer alone, a place that had been violated and now waited, poised for anything.
After she left, the air became oppressive and motionless, a smothering cloak that swallowed everything.
Every nerve in her body screamed, a taut wire stretched to the breaking point. A full, agonizing minute clawed by, each second an eternity of potential discovery, of alarms blaring and capture imminent.
Only when the silence became absolute, a vacuum where his footsteps should have echoed, did she dare move.
Her limbs, locked in place by fear and tension, protested with a chorus of pops and creaks. She peeled herself from behind the caddy, the cold metal a fleeting comfort.
The drive, heavy with stolen data, felt like a brand against her skin as she slid it into the hidden pocket, a clandestine compartment she'd painstakingly sewn into her jacket's lining during training. This wasn't just theft; it was treason.
Time was bleeding away. She moved with a desperate, practiced grace, her eyes darting, seeking the next lifeline.
The auxiliary duct panel, glimpsed in the lab's schematic during her treacherous data heist, beckoned. It was a gamble. Small, designed for ventilation, not a human being, but it was her only chance.
A claustrophobic nightmare awaited, but that was preferable to capture. Every breath was a stolen one, every movement a silent prayer against discovery. The escape had begun.
She didn't breathe again, not truly, until she surfaced in a derelict alley two blocks from HQ, pushing aside a grate covered in grime and dead leaves. A cool breeze mixed with the acrid scent of exhaust and the earthy dampness of concrete outside.
The sky was a battlefield, night's inky black receding in a brutal, beautiful surrender to a crimson and gold dawn. But the victory felt tainted, the colors bleeding like a fresh wound across the horizon.
A train shrieked in the distance, its wheels clawing at the rusted tracks, a desperate, mechanical cry echoing the fear clenching her gut. Closer now, a siren wailed, a mournful, keening lament cutting through the pre-dawn stillness.
It was a lonely sound, yet it felt like a spotlight, drawing attention to secrets best left buried. The city was stirring, stretching, yawning itself awake, blissfully unaware of the darkness festering just beneath its vibrant skin. The horrors were lurking, watching, waiting.
The alley reeked of stale beer and desperation, the rising sun painting the overflowing dumpsters and fire escapes with long, skeletal shadows. Gene didn't dare breathe too deeply.
Every rustle of trash, every screech of a distant car, clawed at her nerves. The drive in her pocket felt like a lead brick, a burning brand pressed against her thigh.
It wasn't just weight; it was the burden of secrets, the potential for chaos, the price she might have to pay. It pulsed against her, a frantic heartbeat mirroring her own escalating fear.
Something was coming; she could feel it in the prickle of the morning air, the suffocating silence that preceded the storm.
Gene stood motionless.
She could turn the drive in. Be loyal. Stay safe.
Or she could do something else.
She thought of Igor: how he'd looked in the van after the rally. Broken, shaking, still trying to protect someone else.
She thought of Maisie: smug and sharp-tongued, yes, but with cracks showing through. A girl raised to rule a machine she no longer believed in.
She thought of the look Jack gave her, like she was an asset. Not a person.
She made her decision.
Gene pulled up a contact ID. One that had been buried in her memory cache for months.
"Maisie Lennox, Restricted Line"
She tapped it.
And for the first time since joining the White Angels, she let her hand tremble.