Page 41

Ziva

The door to the workshop creaks as I push it open.

The sharp, familiar scent of metal and oil hits me, grounding me in a way the cold night air never could.

I breathe it in deeply, flicking on a small lamp, its warm glow casting long shadows on the walls.

The workbench is cluttered with parts and schematics, a chaotic mess that only I can navigate.

Sitting, my eyes fix on the pile of old NeuroMods, the cold metal seeming to mock me. I remember how simple it was, back when I first tinkered with them—just a twist of a dial, a quick adjustment. Now, it feels much messier.

My hands move on their own, disassembling the device with practiced ease.

I need to create something that works like an emotional bomb, something that will overload the Enforcers long enough for us to make our move.

The irony isn’t lost on me; I’m building a device to simulate the very thing we’re fighting for.

Hours pass, and I lose myself in the work. The tightness in my chest eases slightly as I focus on each wire, each resistor. Working on NeuroMods is the only time I ever feel in control.

A soft knock on the door pulls me from my trance. I turn to see Myall standing in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the corridor’s harsh lighting.

“I thought you’d gone home,” he says, stepping inside.

“I needed to get started,” I wipe my hands on a rag, avoiding his gaze as I speak. “What are you doing here?”

He holds up a small nutrient bar. “Food. You never remember to eat when your working.”

I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until he mentioned it. Myall sets the nutrient bar on the workbench, the gesture alone makes my stomach growl.

“Thanks,” I say, though I’m not sure if I should take it, I have too much to do tonight.

“Eat,” he pulls up a stool beside me, his tone brokering no argument.

I take the nutrient bar off the counter and take small bites. We sit in silence for a while, the tension between us thick but not unbearable.

“How’s it coming?” he asks, nodding towards the device in my hands.

“Slow without all the equipment from the tech lab,” I say. “But I think it’s doable.”

He watches me work for a moment, and I can feel his thoughts weighing heavy. He wants to say something, and I brace myself for whatever it is.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he starts. “About being sorry. I didn’t expect things to go south this quickly.”

I set the NeuroMod down with a sharp exhale. “What did you expect, Myall?” I can barely hold back the frustration in my voice. “A nice, easy rebellion? We knew the risks and we took them anyway and now Arden is in danger.”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “I know. And I understand now why you pushed to put ‘us’ on hold. What’s happening to Arden makes my stomach turn. The thought of losing you… it’s unbearable, Ziva.”

“I know,” I say finally, fiddling with a lose wire. “I sometimes question whether we made the right call in choosing this fight. But then I remember that we could never truly be together, not with The Authority in charge.”

There are moments when I question everything we’ve done—the lives we’ve risked, the choices we’ve made. But then I remember—it’s not about our comfort, it’s about freedom.

He nods, and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease a fraction. “You’re right. I just… I don’t know how to let you walk into danger.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I say, though I’m not sure how.

An hour later, Myall and I meet the others back in the storage room of the old factory. The tension in the air is palpable, and I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or more anxious.

“It must have been Khynan,” Jorel says as we enter the storage room, and my stomach twists. “He was the one Arden was going to meet. He must have turned her in.”

I look at Myall. His eyes are stormy, the kind of unsettled that can break either way—toward action or despair. I think he knew, or at least, suspected, that it was Khynan.

“Why?” Tariq’s voice cuts through the murmur. “Why would he do that? He said he believed in our cause, that he wanted to join us.”

I clench my fists, the anger in the room is contagious. We’re all thinking the same thing—If Khynan could betray us so easily, who else might fold under pressure? Who else isn’t as committed as we thought?

“Enough,” Myall says, and the room falls into a sullen silence. “We don’t know the whole story.”

I can’t hold it in. “The story is simple. He sold her out to save his own skin. Cowardice is a pretty straightforward plotline.”

Myall’s eyes flick to me, and I see the hurt there. Not just for Arden, but for Khynan, for a young boy who was scared. “Ziva,” he says, but I’m not done.

“We thought he believed in what we’re doing. We thought he could be one of us. How many more like him are going to turn us over to The Authority rather than risk their necks for a chance at freedom?”

Restlessness consumes me. I can’t stay still, not with this rage simmering under my skin. “We can’t just sit here and hope the Enforcers don’t come knocking. We need to get her out, Myall.”

“Ziva,” Myall says again, more firmly this time. “We will. But rushing in without a plan will just get us all captured—or worse.”

I stop and look at him, he’s right, of course. He’s always the rational one, the strategist. But rational doesn’t cut it for me right now. Rational feels like giving up.

“She knew the risks,” someone mutters, and I can’t even tell who.

I turn to the door. I can’t take the defeat in their voices, the resignation seeping into every word they say. Their faces, drawn with exhaustion and fear, blur in front of me. These are the people who are supposed to fight beside me, but right now they look like they’re ready to surrender.

It’s a weight in my chest, something cold and heavy, pressing me down. I can feel my own pulse in my temples, the heat of anger surging through me, raw and unfiltered. Every breath tastes bitter, like dust and desperation.

I can’t just sit here. I can’t let this be the end.

“Where are you going?” Myall asks.

“To finish the device,” I say. “It’s the only thing that might give us a chance.”

I leave before he can say anything else, before he can temper my anger with his reason. I walk quickly back towards the workshop, my mind racing ahead of me.

We thought we were so clever, so prepared. We thought our cause was enough to inspire unshakable loyalty. But one boy’s fear has undone us, and now the cracks in our rebellion are starting to show and we’ve barely even begun.

Arden’s the last person who deserves to be sitting in a Harmonization cell, waiting for the NeuroMods to drain her of everything that makes her Arden . Waiting for us to rescue her—or not.

The heat of my anger cools, replaced by a sharper, more determined focus. This isn’t just about us anymore—it’s about proving we can win.

We have to save her, not just because she’s one of us, but because if we can’t save Arden, then we can’t save anyone. And if we can’t save anyone, what’s the point of all this?

Back in the workshop, I close the door behind me with a soft click and exhale.

The familiar clink of metal against metal echoes in the room as I set to work, each motion fluid, automatic.

The smell of oil and soldering fumes hangs thick in the air, coating my tongue with its acrid bite.

My hands move, steady despite the turmoil inside me.

This is the only place where I don’t feel like I’m drowning.

The device feels cold against my skin as I turn it over in my hands. It’s a brilliant piece of work, if I do say so myself. The kind of brilliance that could change everything—if it works.

Gently, I set it down—like it’s made of glass and start to tinker. Every twist of a screwdriver, every spark of a soldering iron, is a small act of rebellion. A way to channel my anger into something useful. I promised him I’d keep fighting, but fighting isn’t enough. We need to start winning .

Nearly done, I hear the door creak open. Myall stands in the doorway, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. He steps in and closes the door behind him.

“Ziva,” he says, and I brace for whatever comes next. “We have a plan.”

I let out a deep breath. “Good,” I say, though a part of me is still prepared to go in alone if I have to.

He walks over and looks at the device in my hands. “Is it ready?”

I nod. “It’ll work. At least, it has to.”

He reaches out and touches my hand, the contact startling in its tenderness.

“We will get her back,” he says, and I believe him—or at least, I believe he believes it. Right now, that’s enough.

“Tell me the plan,” I say, and he does.

As he speaks, the anger inside me begins to cool, settling into something stronger—more durable. A quiet resolve. A flicker of hope. We’re not as broken as I thought. The cracks are there, but they’re not fissures. For now, that’s enough.