Page 66 of Whisper

The questions pour out now, shock wearing off, her natural verbal processing kicking into overdrive. Part of me appreciates it—means she’s thinking clearly, not shutting down under stress. But the constant chatter broadcasts our position to anyone listening.

“Quiet.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet. You’re bleeding, we’re being hunted by artificial intelligence, and you won’t explain anything. I have a right to know?—”

Pain flares through my shoulder as I grab her arm, stopping her mid-sentence. Blood loss makes my grip tighter than intended, and she winces.

“Sound carries,” I say, voice low and sharp. “Every word you speak gives away our position.”

Her green eyes widen behind the glasses. Understanding flashes across her features—we’re not safe yet. Won’t be safe for a long time.

She nods, lips pressed together.

Good. Maybe the academic can learn tactical thinking after all.

We move through residential streets, staying away from main arteries where surveillance concentrates. My mental map overlays the terrain—safest routes, choke points, escape options. Southeast toward the river, avoiding major intersections, using alleys and side streets that cameras don’t cover.

The shoulder wound leaks steadily now. Warm blood runs down my arm, soaks into the tactical vest’s padding. Notarterial bleeding—that would be spurting, bright red, game over in minutes. This is muscle damage, capillary bleeding, manageable if I can get pressure on it soon.

But soon might not be soon enough.

My vision wavers slightly as we cross another street. Blood loss. Early stages, but noticeable. The body prioritizes blood flow to vital organs, starts shutting down peripheral circulation. Fingers and toes go numb first, then dizziness, then cognitive impairment.

I’ve got maybe an hour before it becomes a real problem.

Eliza stays quiet, but she watches me constantly. Those sharp green eyes catalog every stumble, every time I favor the wounded shoulder, every drop of blood that hits the pavement behind us. Her academic brain processes data, reaching conclusions I don’t want her to reach.

That I’m hurt worse than I’m admitting.

That this isn’t as controlled as I’m pretending.

That we might not make it.

Smart woman. Too fucking smart.

The industrial area opens up ahead—chain-link fences, loading docks, the kind of urban decay that developers ignore and homeless populations claim. It’s perfect territory for disappearing. Surveillance cameras focus on valuable assets, not abandoned real estate.

But it’s still two miles away, and each step sends fresh pain through my shoulder, my ribs, down into my core where muscle strain meets blood loss meets the simple fucking physics of a human body trying to function with holes in it.

“Cooper.” Eliza’s voice carries new urgency. “You’re getting pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re losing blood, and you’re going to pass out if we don’t?—”

“I said I’m fine.”

But my voice comes out strained with pain I can’t completely hide. She hears it. Processes it. Files it away with all the other data points that add up to the truth I don’t want to admit.

I’m running on borrowed time.

Phoenix isn’t the only thing hunting us—blood loss is hunting me, and it’s patient, relentless, inevitable.

We reach a small park, where trees provide cover from overhead surveillance. I lean against a bench, just for a second, just to assess our position and plan the next move. Not because my legs feel unsteady or my vision keeps blurring at the edges.

Tactical assessment. That’s all.

Eliza positions herself between me and the street, blocking sight lines like she’s learning operational security through observation. Her eyes stay on my face, watching for signs I’m trying not to show.