For the first time since we walked back into this place, the room feels like what it is: a war room—not a bunker, not a tomb. “We need a cover story,” Lila says. “For the world. For anyone who goes sniffing around. We can’t exactly file an out-for-lunch notice.”
“Cam and I are fine. We have a trusted employee in place. We don’t need a story. We just… stop showing up.”
“But what about Mara? The kids? Any contacts who aren’t fully in on the we faked our deaths plan?” Lila asks quietly.
Kiera answers that one. “We tell the ones who need to know that we’re going dark and why. Everyone else gets plausible deniability. The less they can honestly say, the better for them if Cicada comes knocking.”
Lila nods slowly. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Been thinking about running since I saw two lines that changed everything.”
There’s a beat of silence where something settles between us—an agreement, unspoken but solid. Cam starts tapping on the keyboard. “I’ll prioritize finding out if they have any other facilities and their locations. You two,” he points at Kiera and me, “start building the spine. Safe houses, contacts we can trust, contingencies for when we have to move.”
“On it,” I nod
“I’ll start with Mara. Ask who she trusts. People who’ve already been fighting this fight off the books,” Kiera announces.
Lila stretches, joints popping. “And I’ll start shopping for body armor that fits your new… priorities,” she says, waving a hand at Kiera’s midsection as she leaves the room.
Kiera flips her off. “If you try to put me in maternity tactical gear, I’m leaving you in a trunk somewhere,” she yells after Lila.
“You say that like it’s not on my bucket list.” Lila laughs out. A hint of some normalcy fills the air between us.
After the maps are pinned and the initial tasks split, I find Kiera leaning over the rail on the mezzanine, looking down at the mess below her. She doesn’t turn toward me when I step up beside her. “We just made this real,” she says quietly.
“It was already real. We just admitted it.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I do.”
We stand there for a moment, the warehouse humming beneath our feet, the future laid out in messy lines and half-formed plans downstairs. “You can still opt out,” I say quietly. “Of this. Of the whole thing. If you look at the plan and decide it’s too much.”
“Maybe it was by design,” she whispers. “Maybe they put our files next to each other and called it a project. They made their choices, but they don’t get to own the fact that I chose you anyway. Or the fact that you’ve claimed me from the beginning.” She looks back down at the floor, at the table, at the plans we just made for a war and a life. “But I am scared of what’s to come,” she admits, her voice soft with worry.
“Me too.” I pull her closer to me. “But that’s a good sign.”
She snorts. “Only you would say that.”
“Having no fear makes people do stupid things, make stupid choices. Fear means we know what we stand to lose, and we’re still choosing to fight for it.”
Kiera’s quiet, the gears of her head processing that thought. “All right, Ghost. Let’s build something they didn’t plan for.”
“On it, Thorn.” I kiss her temple, and we turn back toward the stairs—toward the maps, the missions and the fragile, dangerous future we just committed to, together.
Epilogue
Six months later…
The new safehouse we’ve moved into, the moment I started showing, is silent; the world outside is reduced to a distant hush of wind against the siding and the slow ticking of old baseboard heaters. The house has an older charm to it—the floorboards creak, the pipes rattle, and the wallpaper is older than any of us. It feels more honest than the penthouses and compounds we’ve bled through. No city glow, no sirens, just a black sky full of stars and a dirt road that ends half a mile from the front porch.Six months along…I can’t sleep on my stomach anymore; I can’t see my feet below my belly. Sterling’s had to help me shave this last month.It’s fucking exhausting to even breathe right now.Lying on my side, Sterling’s body curves behind me, his hand resting on the swell of my belly beneath the quilt. His breathing is deep and even. He only ever looks vulnerable in his sleep. Awake, he’s all edges and calculation. Asleep, the guard drops, and I see the boy Cicada never fully got its claws into, no matter what their files say.
I sit up as my laptop lights up from the bedside table, the screen casting a faint blue glow across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw. The raised scar I carved into his ribcage six months ago in the ruins of St. Jude’s catches my attention.Mine.For a moment, I just watch him, counting the rise and fall of his chest, the subtle twitch of his fingers against my skin when Briar shifts. I reach for the computer, moving carefully so I don’t jostle Sterling. Cam sent the file three hours ago, apologizing for the delay.
Forgot I mirrored the raw data before we torched the drives. Found a folder labeled “Terminated Assets.” Thought you should see it.
I open the first document. There’s some kind of genetic map–two sequences spiral side by side; one labeled Subject 001-A, the other Subject 012-B. The letters and colors would mean nothing to most people. I’ve read enough lab reports to know exactly what I’m looking at. The compatibility analysis blazes in red at the bottom of the screen.
99.7% Genetic Compatibility Pairing With Exceptional Stress Response Synchronization.
