12. Alex
Chapter twelve
Alex
I didn't know where to put my hands.
The morning after felt more intimate than the night before. Sex had been straightforward—desperate, necessary, like breaking through ice on a frozen pond to breathe. Standing in Michael's kitchen while he measured coffee grounds with military precision involved navigating unmapped territory.
His apartment surrounded me with fragments of his life: a tactical backpack tossed in the corner, a weathered copy of Marcus Aurelius's Meditations on the side table, and running shoes lined perfectly against the wall.
The blinds remained half-drawn. Every shadow held its breath.
I shifted my weight while borrowed sweatpants hung loose on my hips. They smelled like him—cedar soap and laundry detergent.
"Your coffee machine looks like it requires a license to operate."
Michael's mouth twitched. It was something that was not quite a smile. "Gift from Marcus. He believes good coffee is a moral imperative."
"Is it?"
"According to him, bad coffee leads to bad decisions." Michael's fingers brushed mine as he handed me a steaming mug. "Though that theory didn't stop me from making plenty."
The kitchen wasn't small, but Michael moved through it like a man accustomed to narrower spaces—shoulders slightly hunched and steps measured to avoid collision. He kept a careful distance between us, not cold but guarded, as if proximity might dissolve whatever boundaries he'd spent the night rebuilding.
When I glanced up from my mug, I caught him watching me with an expression I couldn't decipher.
He broke the silence abruptly. "I should have offered you a towel."
"What?"
"Last night. When you arrived soaking wet, I should have—" He broke off the sentence.
"I wasn't here for towels."
He gazed at me from across the kitchen. We were like two planets trying to find new orbits—cautious, gravitational, and inevitable.
While we sipped our coffee, Michael spoke again. "There's something I never had the chance to tell you… about Tahiti."
"What about it?"
"Right before falling into the fire, Lars Reeves said something. Five words: 'Tell her the deal's off.'"
I set my mug down with deliberate care, afraid my trembling fingers might betray me. "You never mentioned that before."
"That's what I'm saying. This is the first time we've connected since the explosion. It also didn't seem relevant until you shared your research."
"Tell her the deal's off," I repeated, testing the words. "Her. Not them." I considered the possibilities. "Evelyn Shaw?"
Michael moved to the table, lowering himself into a chair across from me. "Maybe. Or someone else connected to that Asphodel project."
"Someone he needed to warn." I leaned forward. "Michael, this changes everything. If Reeves was trying to stop something—"
"Then he wasn't the villain they're making him out to be." Michael's voice dropped lower. "And whatever he died trying to prevent is still happening."
I reached across the table for his hand. "Thank you for telling me."
He wove his fingers together with mine. "You weren't going to stop looking anyway. Whatever's happening, you've made yourself part of it." He paused. "You know, I need you to understand what we're facing."
We. Not you. Not me. We.
"Project Asphodel." I pulled my laptop from my bag and set it on the kitchen table. My fingers moved across the keyboard, unlocking my encrypted files. "Named after the fields where souls awaited judgment in Greek mythology—a purgatory where they decided the fate of the dead."
Michael dragged his chair closer, our shoulders almost touching as he leaned in to see the screen. Electricity raced up my spine.
"This is everything I've found." I pulled up documents and research notes. I clicked to the next screen. "The language in these files is maddening—intentionally vague, but this is bigger than I thought. It's not only a surveillance system."
He leaned in, scanning the text. "What are we looking at?"
"A system designed to eliminate people before they've done anything wrong."
Michael straightened, tension hardening his jaw. "Like... pre-crime?"
I nodded grimly. "Worse. This thing doesn't only predict behavior—itactson it. Fully autonomous."
His brow furrowed. "You mean an AI-driven... kill system?"
"Yes, precisely." I pulled up another document, half of it blacked out. "No human oversight. It uses data input and algorithmic analysis. If a person hits the threshold—"
"They're flagged?"
"They'reeliminated." My voice dropped. "Automatically. No arrests. No due process. The system decides they're a threat... and deletes them."
Michael's hand curled into a fist on the table. "What kind of data are we talking about?"
"Everything. Social media, financial records, emails, browser history, even DNA profiles. It builds a real-time risk score."
He swore under his breath. "So one wrong post, or one misinterpreted purchase—"
"Could get you killed." My throat tightened. "Without warning. Without trial."
Michael exhaled slowly, the air between us turning heavier. "Execution by algorithm."
"Yeah." I shut the laptop, unable to look at the screen anymore. "It's not only unethical. It's genocide waiting for a green light."
Michael stood abruptly, pacing the narrow confines of the kitchen. His movements reminded me of a caged animal—controlled energy with nowhere to go.
"Based on her publication history, Evelyn Shaw was developing systems to prevent this kind of autonomous decision-making." I scrolled through her academic papers. "She was advocating for ethical constraints in AI warfare. Then suddenly, she stopped publishing, joined Reeves-Halvorsen, and disappeared a year later."
Michael paused by the sink, gripping the edge of the counter. "An act of conscience. She saw what they were building and couldn't be part of it."
"And Lars Reeves may have had the same realization." I closed the laptop. "What if he wasn't attacking that guard? What if he was trying to stop whatever's happening?"
Michael's jaw tightened. "Then whoever's protecting Asphodel won't stop at Lars."
I bit my lip. "And if the project launches, no one will be safe — not journalists, dissidents, or anyone the system miscalculates as a threat." Whoever had sent messages to my computer, broken into my apartment, and monitored my phone wasn't playing games. "We need to find Evelyn Shaw."
Michael returned to the table. He sat across from me.
He spoke in a careful, quiet cadence. "If these people are willing to silence a billionaire's son, they won't hesitate when faced with a cop on leave or a history professor."
The fear I'd been suppressing crystallized into hard truth. This wasn't academic research anymore. It was life and death—Michael's, mine, and perhaps many others.
"I know, but I can't walk away from this. Can you?"
Michael held my gaze. "No, I can't."
The simple admission felt like a vow between us. Whatever came next, we would face it together.
Michael's body tensed as he began to retreat into himself. I'd seen it before—in myself. It was a common instinct to withdraw when the world became too sharp and dangerous to comprehend.
"You don't have to do this alone." My voice was barely above a whisper.
"I've spent the last week pushing everyone away."
"Your brothers?"
He nodded, raking his fingers through his hair. "Marcus called. Matthew texted. Miles sent memes to make sure I was still breathing."
"And you've ignored them all?"
"I thought it would be cleaner that way. It would contain the fallout."
"Isolate it to only you, you mean." I reached out and rubbed his knuckles. "You need your family, Michael. Now probably more than ever."
He shifted in his chair, discomfort evident in every line of his body. I waited, watching a struggle play across his face.
Michael leaned back. "You said I need my family. And maybe you're right."
"Yes."
"After Dad died, we set up weekly Sunday dinners. They soon became non-negotiable. Every week, no matter what shift we worked, what fight we had, the McCabe brothers showed up at Mom's house."
It was a ritual, and it wasn't about food. It was about proving they were still there and tied to each other. Marissa's family set up something similar with weekly Zoom calls.
Michael continued to explain. "I've never missed more than one, even after deployments. Even after my transfer to SWAT." He shook his head. "I've already missed two since getting back from Tahiti."
The admission was a heavy one. Michael hadn't only created isolation from his family; he'd set himself adrift. He didn't let the love shared in the tradition keep him attached to reality.
He looked like he was fighting himself. It was some invisible, endless war. His hands curled loosely against his mug, flexing once, twice, before he finally spoke. Not rushed. Not casual. Like it cost him something.
"Would you come with me?" he asked in a voice surprisingly steady. "We're allowed to bring guests."
It wasn't a casual invitation. It was a test. Could he trust me to agree to get to know him beyond what was broken?
Something flickered behind his eyes — a flash of relief, maybe, or fear. I wasn't sure which, but for the first time since I'd shown up in his life, he didn't look like he was bracing for impact.
A lump formed in my throat. If I went, I wouldn't be only a distraction anymore. I'd officially be part of his story.
Guilt about Marissa suddenly rattled me. Was I allowed to step into someone else's family when part of me still belonged to a different life?
I heard Marissa's voice in my head, nudging me. "Love is additive, not a replacement."
My voice was rough and raw when I responded. "Yeah, I'd like that."
Michael excused himself to shower, and I remained at the kitchen table, fingers holding onto the edge. The apartment settled around me—creaking pipes, the muffled rush of water, and someone's footsteps in the unit above.
I traced the grain of the wooden tabletop, following its whorls and interruptions. Each knot told a story of resistance, growth, and obstacles incorporated instead of overcome.
I thought about how grief worked the same way. It wasn't something you could defeat. You grew around it, enclosing it inside your rings.
Maybe love worked the same way.
Maybe I wasn't betraying Marissa by moving forward.
Maybe I was building a life that could hold all the parts of me — the old grief and the new hope.
I closed my eyes, letting the sound of running water and the faint hum of Michael's apartment wrap around me like a lullaby.
Whatever came next, I wouldn't face it alone.