“I made the tactical call.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Sometimes the tactical call is trusting the person who knows the ground better than you.”
“I’m not military.”
“No. But you know your people. And Seven. And you were right. They needed a chance.”
Warmth filled her chest. He’d listened and trusted her judgment. When was the last time someone had done that?
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hushed.
He gave a sharp nod. “We should move. They’re going to be pissed. Might speed up whatever timeline they’re on.”
“Engineering Control.”
“Lead the way, Chief Engineer.”
A smile lifted her face, and for the first time since she’d run from the elevator, she had a glimmer of hope that maybe everything would be okay.
She turned and crawled forward, arms trembling from exertion and adrenaline. Her head wound throbbed as the cold sank deeper.
But her people had a chance now.
Wyatt wasn’t one of her crew.
He owed her nothing.
And still, he’d chosen her side without hesitation.
That changed everything.
9
Engineering control wasa climb two levels up through the maintenance shafts using inch deep toe and finger holds. By the time they reached the vent above it, Jen’s fingertips felt blunt and distant and her toes burned inside her boots.
A quick scan of the room below confirmed control was empty, still sealed for now behind a heavy door—designed to hold against fire, pressure, and the night currently unraveling around them.
For a short time at least, they had some breathing space.
Wyatt dropped first, after confirming the room was clear to his satisfaction. She followed, his hands steady at her waist as he guided her down and set her carefully on her feet.
The moment her boots hit solid ground, the shaking started in earnest. Her teeth chattered hard enough that she bit her tongue, copper blooming sharp and sudden in her mouth. Cold had sunk its claws deep, burrowing into muscle and bone. She recognized it with the detached clarity of training.
Hypothermia.
The signs lined up neatly in her head even as her body unraveled—violent shivering, sluggish fingers, the creepingheaviness behind her eyes that whispered how easy it would be to sit down. Just for a minute. Just to breathe.
Dangerous thoughts.
She planted her feet wide until the floor stopped tilting.
Wyatt inspected the room with clipped strides, cataloging angles, the distance to the door. His lips had a faint bluish tinge, but otherwise he looked infuriatingly unaffected, as if cold were just another environmental variable to be accounted for and ignored. He checked the security feed mounted above the main workstation. His gaze tracked fast—corridors, deck access points, the canteen feed now clouded with drifting white.
“They’ll be looking for us. The Halon will have bought us some time while they get control back, but not much.” His intense gaze switched back to her. “We both need to warm up. You’re borderline hypothermic.”
Jen jerked her head in agreement, forcing words past her chattering teeth. “Lockers.” She pointed past the bank of computer workstations toward the door at the far wall. “Clean clothes. Fire safety protocol. We have to change if there’s fuel or oil contamination.”
Wyatt stepped ahead of her, pulling open the door to the locker room.
The space was narrow and functional. Six dented metal lockers, a tired-looking shower stall, a changing area half-concealed by a threadbare privacy curtain. Along one wall, shelves held neatly folded stacks of coveralls, the orange fabric bright against gray steel.
