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Fucking hell! Can’t he ever finish a damn sentence!?

"Security sweep in adjacent corridor. Standard pattern, but they're moving in this direction." He gathers the final essential supplies. "We need to move. Now."

And just like that, another almost-moment between us slips away, sacrificed to the immediate demands of survival.If I didn’t know any better I’d swear the universe was cockblocking me.

As we prepare to venture back into Unity's carefully monitored world, I wonder if we'll ever have the chance to finish these interrupted conversations, to say aloud the things we've only acknowledged in the deepest levels of neural synchronization.

But that's a luxury for a safer time. Right now, we have six hours of suppression treatment, a risky extraction plan, and the weight of Unity's entire security apparatus potentially descending upon us.

"Ready?" Trent asks, hand on the door control.

I nod, stepping into the role of maintenance worker Mira Davis one final time. "Ready."

As we part ways in the corridor, following our separate routes back to our quarters, I feel a strange sense of calm despite the danger surrounding us. For the first time since my symptoms began, I'm not fighting against what I'm becoming but moving toward it—toward answers, toward truth, toward whatever future awaits beyond Unity's walls.

Whatever that future holds, I won't face it alone. Trent Vanguard—rule-following, protocol-obsessed, perfect Sentinel Trent—has chosen to follow me into the unknown.

And that, more than anything, gives me the courage to face whatever comes next.

CHAPTER 8

Nothing makesyour palms sweat quite like sitting across from someone whose entire job is figuring out when you're lying.

"Let's review your observations again, Sentinel Thorne," Intelligence Officer Reyes says, her stylus tapping rhythmically against her tablet. "You reported no direct contact with the sympathizer network, yet surveillance shows you interacting with Supervisor Kaplan outside standard work assignments."

We're in a makeshift interrogation room, a repurposed storage unit in Lower Arcology's administrative sector. The suppression injection Trent gave me is still working, thankfully, keeping my unpredictable symptoms under control. But it can't suppress the hammering of my heart as Reyes methodically picks apart our mission reports.

"Kaplan assigned me additional chemical balancing shifts," I respond with practiced calm. "Standard procedure for new transfers. Testing our capabilities before full integration into the maintenance team."

Reyes studies me, her enhanced eyes—mechanically augmented with targeting scopes that catalog micro-expressions—scanning my face for tells.

The irony isn't lost on me. Unity condemns genetic modifications as abominations while celebrating mechanical augmentations as progress. Same destination, different road, but one is heresy and the other is advancement. Somehow changing your genes to see in the dark is an offense against humanity, but implanting metal and circuits into your skull to do the same thing is the pinnacle of human achievement.

"And Sentinel Vanguard was unaware of these additional assignments?" Reyes continues.

"I informed him they were routine maintenance tasks. Given our mission parameters, we decided splitting coverage would maximize surveillance opportunities."

Another lie. Another sin against Unity's most sacred virtue: absolute transparency. The words taste sour in my mouth, but I deliver them with conviction.

Reyes makes a note, her implants whirring softly as they track my vital signs. "Your partnership with Sentinel Vanguard has produced exceptional results historically. Your neural synchronization ratings remain the highest on record."

It's not a question, so I don't respond. The mention of our synchronization sends a flutter of anxiety through me. After what we experienced during our last sync session—that moment of complete transparency when each of us glimpsed the other's deepest feelings—any scrutiny of our neural patterns feels dangerously intimate.

"Yet your most recent field reports show discrepancies in observation times and locations," Reyes continues. "Care to explain?"

"The nature of undercover work in Lower Arcology requires adaptability," I say smoothly. "Maintenance schedules change frequently, creating surveillance opportunities we couldn't anticipate in our standard reporting templates."

God, I sound like a Unity propaganda broadcast. All the right buzzwords, all the proper deference to protocol, whileunderneath I'm planning to betray everything I've sworn to uphold.

Reyes leans forward slightly. "Sentinel Thorne, are you aware that three maintenance workers from your assigned sector have been taken for processing in the past week?"

My blood runs cold, but I keep my expression neutral. "No. Our cover necessitates limited access to Sentinel communications."

"All three exhibited signs of genetic anomalies consistent with Splinter modification attempts." Reyes watches me carefully. "All three worked shifts with Supervisor Kaplan."

So they're closing in on the sympathizer network. The question is whether they've connected it to Eden yet.

Or to us.