“Yeah?” I glance at the device in her hand. “That what that is?”
Her grip tightens around it.
“That’s everything,” she says.
I nod once.
“Good,” I reply. “Because I didn’t get all of mine.”
Her gaze snaps to mine.
“You made it into the archive?” she asks.
“Eighty-two percent before they noticed,” I say, my mouth tightening slightly. “Enough to confirm patterns, not enough to bury them.”
“That’s more than enough,” she says immediately. “I got him on record.”
“Dadams?” I ask.
Her expression shifts.
Hardens.
“He’s dead,” she says.
The words land heavier than the alarms.
“Driscoll?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she replies, her voice tightening. “Right in front of me.”
I exhale slowly, something cold settling into place.
“Then we don’t have time,” I say.
“We never did,” she shoots back.
A squad turns the corner at the far end of the corridor, their movement sharp and coordinated, and I don’t wait.
“Move,” I mutter, pulling her with me.
We cut through the next passage before they can lock onto us, our pace syncing without discussion, her covering the rear angle as I take point through the turns.
“You’re bleeding again,” I say, glancing back just long enough to catch the darker spread along her side.
“I noticed,” she mutters.
“Try not to die before we get out,” I add.
“No promises,” she shoots back.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Then stop asking for reassurance.”
A sharp turn, a narrow corridor, then another junction, and I slow just enough to reorient.
“We’re not taking the main exit,” I say.
