Page 87

I take experimental breaths, marveling at my body's transformation. "It smells different now. Almost...sweet?"

"Your olfactory system has recategorized the toxins," Vex explains. "Your lungs are now processing them as useful compounds rather than poisons."

"Useful how?" Trent asks.

"Fuel, maybe. Building blocks for cellular repair." Vex shrugs. "Each adaptation is unique, it’s hard to say."

I rise shakily to my feet, testing my renewed strength. "How much farther through the zone?"

"Another two hours at our current pace," Vex says. "Less if you're up to moving faster."

"I'm good," I insist, though my legs still feel wobbly. "Let's go."

Trent's hand closes around my arm. "You just underwent a complete physiological transformation. Take a minute."

"We don't have a minute," I remind him. "Your enhancement filter has—" I check his watch, "—less than an hour before degradation."

The concern in his eyes deepens. "I'll manage."

"We all will," Vex interjects, impatience evident. "But standing here debating it won't help."

We resume our journey, now with Trent's condition becoming the primary concern. As his enhancement filter approaches its time limit, I notice his breathing growing more labored, his movements less fluid.

"Your filter's failing," I say quietly when Vex moves ahead to scout.

"Functioning within acceptable parameters," Trent responds automatically.

"Bullshit. I can hear your lungs struggling."

His expression tightens. "Necessary risk, okay? We'll clear the zone before critical failure."

"And if we don't?"

His eyes meet mine, that familiar Sentinel resolve unwavering. "Then we don't."

An hour later, Trent's condition has deteriorated significantly. His skin has taken on an unhealthy pallor, and each breath sounds raw. Still, he pushes forward, refusing to slow our pace.

"Edge of the zone," Vex announces as the landscape begins to show signs of recovery—patches of normal soil, less distorted vegetation.

Relief floods through me, but it's short-lived. Trent suddenly stumbles, a harsh cough tearing from his throat.

"Trent!" I catch him before he falls, alarm spiking as I feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"Filter failure," he manages, voice rough. "Expected."

Vex is beside us instantly, helping support Trent's weight. "How bad?"

"Toxin levels at 60% threshold," Trent reports clinically, despite his obvious distress. "Survivable with immediate evacuation."

"We're evacuating," I say firmly. "Right now."

We half-carry Trent the remaining distance, emerging from the contamination zone into relatively clean territory as the sun begins to set. We find shelter in a small grove where the air runs clearer, laying Trent on a bed of moss.

"Water," Vex instructs, already digging through his pack for medical supplies. "His system needs flushing."

I help Trent drink, supporting his head. His normally controlled features are tight with pain, but he accepts the water without complaint.

"Unity pursuit?" he asks between sips.