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Trent's expression softens slightly. "The perfect hiding place is often in plain sight. What better cover than becoming the very thing designed to hunt your kind?"

The logic is sound, but the implications are devastating. If true, my entire life—my training, my purpose, my identity as a Sentinel—has been built on a foundation of carefully constructed lies.

"I can't go back to Sentinel quarters," I say, stating the obvious. "Not with these symptoms becoming visible."

"No," Trent agrees. "Our only viable option is the sympathizer transport tonight. Eden's handlers have arrangements to extract Splinters and those with emerging modifications."

"You mean defect," I say bluntly. "Leave Unity. Become traitors."

"I mean survive," he counters. "Unity won't distinguish between you and a Splinter infiltrator if they confirm modifications. The processing protocols are clear."

He's right, and we both know it. Unity's response togenetic deviation is absolute—extraction of useful information, reversal of modifications where possible, then disposal in wasteland death zones.

"And you?" I ask, the question that's been burning in my mind. "What about you, Trent? You're not showing symptoms. You could maintain your cover, continue your career."

His expression hardens. "That's not an option."

"It should be. There's no reason for both of us to?—"

"There is every reason," he interrupts with unusual intensity. "We're partners. Where you go, I go."

The simple declaration hits me with unexpected force. Despite everything we've been through, everything we've felt during synchronization, we've never explicitly acknowledged what exists between us, this connection that transcends just a professional partnership.

"This isn't your fight," I say quietly.

"It became my fight the moment they targeted you." His voice leaves no room for argument. "Besides, I'm already compromised. Protecting a Splinter child, falsifying mission reports, accessing restricted information about genetic modification, they'd process me too, just more quickly."

I want to argue further, to give him an out, but his logic is unassailable. We're in this together now, for better or worse.

"So what's the plan?" I ask, yielding to the inevitable.

Trent activates a secure tablet, displaying a schematic of Lower Arcology's southern access points. "The sympathizer transport leaves at 2300 hours. We need to reach junction point 19-F by 2245, where we'll rendezvous with Lyra's team."

"What about our Sentinel tracking?" Every Sentinel carries multiple embedded trackers, standard security protocol to monitor field operatives.

"Already handled," Trent says, retrieving a small device from his gear. "Electromagnetic pulse, calibrated to deactivate specific tracking frequencies without damaging otherenhancements. Temporary solution, but it will buy us time to reach the extraction point."

I stare at him, momentarily speechless. The level of preparation, the careful contingency planning, all done without my knowledge, all in anticipation of this moment.

"You really have been expecting this," I say finally.

Something flickers across his face, an emotion I can't quite identify. "I've been protecting you for longer than you realize, Zara."

Before I can ask what he means, another wave of sensory distortion hits me. This time it's not visual but auditory. Suddenly I can hear conversations through walls, the hum of electrical systems, even the steady rhythm of Trent's heartbeat across the room.

I press my hands against my ears, but it doesn't help, the enhancement is internal, bypassing normal sensory pathways.

Trent is at my side immediately, recognizing the symptoms. "Focus on a single sound," he instructs, his voice steady. "Use it as an anchor point."

I latch onto his voice, letting its familiar timbre guide me through the overwhelming sensory input. Gradually, the chaos recedes, my hearing returning to something approaching normal.

"It's getting worse," I say, stating the obvious. "Faster progressions, more noticeable symptoms."

"Proximity to Eden might have accelerated the process," Trent suggests. "If your modifications respond to the presence of others like you, as she implied..."

It makes a disturbing kind of sense. After years of stability, my symptoms began accelerating precisely when our Splinter captures increased, when I was regularly exposed to individuals with active genetic modifications.

"If we can't control these symptoms until tonight, we'llnever make it to the extraction point," I say grimly. "The first visual manifestation will trigger security protocols."