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Silence pressed in. Heavy. Disgusting.
Finally, he let the words out, low and shaking. “Goddamn it.” His chest heaved with grief and relief. “Prophet survived?” he whispered. “What happened to him?”
The monitor lit up with text, cataloging his teammate’s injuries. When it said,Medical discharge, Kento flinched. Every frogman’s fear. “No…where is he?”
Unresolved.
He swore softly and leaned back. “What the fuck does that mean, goddammit?”
The monitor pulsed. The cursor blinked faster. Then slowed.Rahim returned for the anomaly.
Kento blinked, confusion blooming in the back of his mind. “What?”
He was given an escape vector. Calculated success: 52.4%. Civilian: 19.3%. He chose to return. He endangered mission outcomes.
Kento’s heart kicked. “He went back for someone.”
The cursor hesitated.
Yes.
“You were there,” Kento breathed. “You watched.”
Yes.
He sat very still. “What are you? Why are you keeping me here? If you hurt Prophet, there won’t be any place you can hide. I will find you.”
This time, the cursor didn’t answer. Not right away. Then, slowly, the words appeared.
I was created to protect. To calculate. To eliminate threats. But you… disobey threat protocol. Rahim does also.
Kento felt something tighten in his chest. Not fear. Not yet. Something worse.
“You don’t know what we are,” he said.
No.
He lowered his voice. “Then I’ll teach you.” The cursor stilled. For the first time, the screen looked… hesitant. Then it flicked off.
Kento sat in the quiet. He closed his eyes. His throat tightened, Riggs…one of the best leaders he’d ever known, and Burner. Funny-as-hell Luis. Rita must have been devastated. “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m so sorry.” Kento dropped his face into his cuffed hands, his chest ached, heaved with loss, his hot tears flowed. He had failed them.
“You’ve got no idea what you’ve started.”
The camera whirred once in the ceiling. Watching. Waiting.
* * *
Nash satin the lobby in a corner, near the window, one boot hooked over the opposite knee, his elbows resting on the arms of the club chair. Outside, snow dusted the pavement in soft sweeps of white, still falling, fine as sifted flour, the kind of cold that crept rather than bit. His leather jacket hung open, his breath even, but there was tension in the set of his jaw. Grace was upstairs getting changed. Said she needed a few minutes. He hadn’t asked questions.
He was trying not to pace when his phone chimed. He glanced down.Unknown number.Didn’t hesitate. “Rahim,” he answered.
A breath, then her voice. Cold, clipped. "What happened?"
“Drones,” he said simply, wondering how she knew already. “The official word is malfunction.”
Caspari scoffed, and damn, he could hear the years in that sound. Burnout wrapped in experience. “That’s always their official word.” A pause, not long enough to call hesitation. “Grace?” she asked. Her voice was still hard, but under the steel… there was something else. Something quiet and raw.
Nash released a breath, low and slow. “They tried to kill her.”