Page 70 of Whisper

“What they tried to do tous.”

Us. Another word that shouldn’t matter as much as it does.

But as I sit in this concrete box, bleeding slowly, watching Eliza tear her shirt into bandages while Phoenix hunts us through the streets of D.C., the word carries weight I wasn’t expecting.

Us against the world.

Us against an AI that kills anyone who threatens it.

Us against odds that get worse by the hour.

But us, together, might be enough.

“This isn’t going to work,” Eliza says, examining the makeshift bandages already soaking through with blood. “You need real medical supplies. Gauze, antiseptic, proper pressure bandages.”

“No stores.”

“I’m not talking about stores.” She stands, paces the small space like she’s working through a problem. “There’s a homeless camp two blocks from here. I saw it when we came in.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Cooper, listen?—”

“No.” The word comes out sharper than intended, but the idea is tactically insane. “We don’t involve civilians. Ever.”

“We’re not involving them. We’re asking for help.” She stops pacing, looks at me with that stubborn tilt to her chin I’m starting to recognize. “I give someone fifty dollars and a list. They go to the nearest convenience store, buy what we need, bring it back.”

“They’ll take the money and run.”

“Maybe. But maybe they won’t.”

“Eliza—”

“I haven’t given up on humanity yet.” Her voice carries quiet conviction that cuts through my objections like a blade. “Not everyone is looking to screw over someone else. Some people help when they can.”

The bleeding has slowed but not stopped. Red seeps through the fabric bandages, and my vision blurs slightly at the edges. She’s right about needing real supplies, but involving random civilians violates every operational protocol I’ve ever learned.

But protocols assume backup. Extraction. Support systems that don’t existright now.

Right now, there’s just us. And her idea might be the only option that doesn’t involve me bleeding out in this concrete box.

“Fifty dollars,” I say finally.

“Yes.”

“They don’t come back, we’re fucked.”

“They don’t come back, we try something else.”

I reach into my tactical vest, pull out a roll of cash. Peel off two twenties and a ten, hand them to her along with a pen from my gear.

“Gauze pads. Medical tape. Antiseptic. Ibuprofen.” I close my eyes, trying to think through the fog of blood loss. “Protein bars. Water bottles.”

She scribbles the list on a scrap of fabric. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes. Any longer, I come looking.”

“You’re not coming anywhere. You’re staying right here. Try not to bleed to death, please.” She moves toward the door, then pauses. Looks back at me with something that might be fear or determination or both. “Don’t you dare die while I’m gone.”