Chapter 52 #2
“Believe me when I say, Ms. Thompson,” he replied coldly, “we have studied the outcomes of our decisions in meticulous detail. And we believe this is the only course of action that prevents you from destroying the future we are trying to preserve.”
The frame shifted again—this time widening—and a man stepped into view, dressed head-to-toe in black, with a hollow stare.
A Corona humming in his hand, its circular edge glowing an unnerving, surgical red as he pressed it to Saoirse’s blood-slick throat.
“Call them in,” he said. “Now.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My mind detonated in a dozen directions at once.
How the hell had they even gotten to Saoirse?
Caden had reinforced Crown’s Layers the second we’d contacted Rachel about our plan, sealing every possible breach. We’d triple-checked its protections.
So how was this possible?
A cold spike shot through my spine.
And if they’d bypassed Crown’s Layers… If they’d slipped past protection Caden himself had secured…
Fuck.
Did that mean they’d bypassed Kanata C’s Layers as well?
Could they portal in at any moment, into my fucking room?
If that was the case, and I called in James and Caden, I’d be delivering them straight into the Chiefs’ hands.
My chest squeezed so violently it felt like my ribs were folding inward. My lungs couldn’t expand. Oxygen clawed at my throat but wouldn’t go down.
Saoirse whimpered, soft, and strangled.
But I heard it.
I felt it.
It sliced through me like someone had rammed a blade between my ribs.
I couldn’t let them hurt her.
I couldn’t let them hurt any of them.
I couldn’t let this turn into a slaughter because I panicked.
For a heartbeat—only one—the pressure was so crushing, so suffocating, I felt myself lean toward it. Lean toward surrender. Toward doing anything, everything, to stop that glowing Corona from carving into Saoirse’s skin.
Shit, this was exactly what they wanted.
They wanted me frantic.
They wanted me drowning.
They wanted me obedient.
A puppet with a pulse.
No.
No fucking way.
They were bluffing. They had to be. Our alliance with Petru had rattled them to their core; I’d seen fear in them the last time we’d stood face-to-face. They wouldn’t risk detonating everything now.
I just needed time.
Time until backup stood between us and whatever insanity the Chiefs were planning.
I dragged air into my lungs until it scraped raw, then forced my spine straight, locking my knees before they could buckle, and tightened my grip on the Skindo until the ridges carved into my palm.
“The way I see it,” I said as dryly as I could manage, “you’ve got something to hold over me right now. But the second you carry out your threat, you lose your leverage. Completely.” I clenched my jaw, heat pulsing in my temples. “You let her go, and we’ll talk.”
The Chief exhaled, long and tired, like I was the one being unreasonable. “Call in your men, Ms. Thompson…or watch your best friend die.”
They wouldn’t do it.
They couldn’t do it.
If they killed her, the leash snapped. The leverage vanished. The threat died with her.
They wouldn’t.
But gods, it was one hell of a risk to take.
A sickening, bone-deep gamble.
Fuck!
I swallowed hard, pushing down the tremor crawling up my spine, gathering whatever shards of control I still had left. I lifted my chin, even though my pulse was rioting, frantic and unsteady.
“No,” I whispered.
Quiet, but solid.
The High Chief inclined his head once—almost courteous—and the man beside Saoirse lifted the Corona a fraction higher. Its red edge glowed brighter, casting a sickly halo across the filthy floor and the splattered wall behind her.
Saoirse forced her head up. Even through the swelling, through the bruises, through the blood matting her hair to her skull, she tried—tried—to form words.
Her lips trembled around shapes I couldn’t hear.
The Nexus didn’t transmit her sound. Only mine.
Only my breath, my pulse, my panic echoing back at me while she mouthed silent pleas.
“Stop it,” I snapped, too loud, too cracked. “Stop it! You want to play politics, fine—fine—but she’s not—she’s not part of this—don’t fucking touch her—”
“She is now.”
The weapon moved, making my stomach drop so fast I nearly doubled over.
“Okay. Okay, wait!” I blurted, stumbling over the words, tripping on them, reaching for anything they’d take. “Fine, I’ll do it, I’ll agree, just stop, just stop, I’m agreeing, all right? Don’t hurt her, I’ll call—”
But before I could finish…
One strike.
Brutal.
Precise.
Final.
The Corona sliced across her neck in a single clean arc, and the feed didn’t turn away. Didn’t blur. Didn’t spare me a pixel.
It caught everything.
The violent jolt of her body as the weapon flashed.
The eruption of blood—dark, thick, too much—spraying across the wall like someone had flung a bucket.
The way it soaked instantly through the thin fabric of her shirt, turning the pale material a soaked, sticky red.
The wet, choking spasm of her limbs as her nerves fired on instinct alone.
And then…her head dropping forward.
A sound followed—dull, heavy, meaty—as chin hit chest, as blood gushed in a horrible, continuous stream down her torso, dripping onto the concrete in fat, rhythmic splatters.
There was no cutaway.
No fade.
Only Saoirse—dying in real time—while the High Chief watched me through the frame.
And then I screamed.