And then it happens.
I cry.
Not the quiet, graceful kind. No, this is ugly. Loud. My shoulders shake, my knees hit the floor, and I curl into myself like I can make the world stop spinning if I just get small enough.
Kel. Gods, Kel.
I can’t fail him.
“You look like someone who lost more than she expected to find.”
I freeze.
The voice is low, rough with desert dust, but unmistakably feminine.
I whip around fast, eyes swollen, heart in my throat.
There’s a woman standing in the shadows near the doorframe, leaning against the crawler’s busted wheelbase. Her face is smeared with soot, a welding visor hanging from her belt. Scar running across one cheek, eyes like polished stone.
I blink. “Didn’t think there were any other women in this madhouse.”
She shrugs. “There’s five. Most don’t last long. You? You’re different.”
I wipe my face on my sleeve. “Yeah, well. Don’t feel it.”
She walks over, drops a worn oil rag in my lap. I take it. Sniffle. Wipe harder.
She squats beside me, not touching, just close. “You got that look.”
“What look.”
“The one people wear when they’ve already made the choice but don’t know how to live with it.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
“I might lose even more if I don’t act fast,” I murmur.
“Then don’t wait.”
And just like that, she stands and walks out.
No name. No lecture. Just truth.
Back in the lab, I move like I’ve been shot out of a rail cannon.
Fast. Precise. Shaking inside, but keeping my hands steady. Focused.
The stim injectors aren’t made for this. They’re calibrated for battlefield adrenaline boosts, not delicate marrow draws. But the housing tech is flexible enough. I strip one, expose the microcapillary chamber, and start modifying the regulator ports with a solder spike and micro-welder.
My hands move on muscle memory alone—academy training, years of field improvisation, back-alley med jobs.Thisis what I’m good at. This, not warzones or lying to people I used to love.
I pause, wipe sweat from my neck.
The converted injector pulses green.
If I’m right, if I time it perfectly, if the pressure valve doesn’t blow—this will pull enough stemline-rich blood to begin synth isolation. I just need Kyldak to sit still for sixty seconds.
