“I don’t need to be,” I reply. “I just need to be difficult to replace.”
Silence stretches again before he steps back.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats.
He turns and leaves without another word.
The door seals behind him, and the room feels different immediately, as if pressure has lifted just enough to breathe.
I stand still for a moment, listening to the fading echo of his presence and the steady hum of the estate settling back into place around me.
“That’s your timeline,” I say quietly.
Tomorrow is not a deadline.
It is a window.
I turn back to the console, my mind already recalculating everything I have learned. He wants control, relies on structure, and assumes compliance, and all of those are weaknesses if approached correctly.
I pull up the system again, this time moving faster and pressing slightly harder at the edges of what is accessible, testing boundaries without crossing them.
A minor delay flickers across one of the submenus.
“There you are,” I murmur.
It is small, but it is real.
I allow myself the faintest hint of a smile, not because I am confident, but because I finally have something tangible to work with.
“I don’t need permission,” I say under my breath, my voice steady.
I just need an opening--And now, I have one.
CHAPTER 4
TYROK
The estate is cleaner than it should be, and that is the first sign something is wrong.
I crouch just beyond the outer perimeter, one claw resting lightly against the fractured edge of decorative stonework that someone believed was ornamental instead of structural. The air carries that processed scent I tasted from orbit, resin layered thick with something metallic beneath it, the kind of smell that clings to places where control matters more than comfort. The ground hums faintly under my hand, a steady vibration from the estate’s internal systems, and I follow the rhythm of it instinctively, mapping the flow of power without needing to see the circuitry itself.
“They’re running a closed loop,” Vihl mutters beside me, his voice low and edged with irritation. “Security grid’s tighter than I expected. Not military grade, but not sloppy either.”
“I didn’t expect sloppy,” I reply, my gaze still fixed on the structure ahead.
He shifts slightly, rolling one shoulder as he studies me. “You expected worse.”
“I expected smarter,” I say, rising slowly to my full height.
That earns a short laugh from him, sharp and humorless. “You’re getting picky.”
“I’m getting accurate.”
The estate’s outer lights hum faintly above us, casting a steady glow that does not flicker or drift. Everything about this place is controlled to a degree that suggests obsession rather than efficiency, and that distinction matters more than most people realize. Obsession creates patterns, and patterns create predictability.
“Teams are in position,” Vihl says, tapping his compad once. “We go when you say.”
I let my gaze travel across the structure one more time, taking in the symmetry, the rigid vertical lines, the repetition that borders on compulsion. This place is not designed for comfort or status; it is designed to impose order, to reinforce hierarchy, to remind everyone inside it exactly where they stand.
