Page 207 of Immune

My real name remains tucked behind his teeth, and somehow that scares me more than if he’d thrown it into the room like a live explosive.

“No,” I say sharply.

Hale turns fully toward Mercer. “How do you know that name?”

Mercer’s eyes remain on me. “Conrad mentioned enough.”

Enough.

The word twists harshly. Not children, not daughter. Not anything the rest of the room can fully unwrap. But I hear the words he’s not saying out loud. I hear every missing syllable, and my hand closes around the edge of the table.

Maine’s hat sits heavy on my head. Not just faded cloth or just protection. It’s a fucking grave marker I’ve been wearing around for six years because a burial wasn’t available and my grief needed somewhere to live.

No.

No, no, no.

Maine is dead. Maine has to be dead. The world is fucking brutal, but at least it’s simple when people die. You lose them, you break, you keep walking. You make the missing part useful or sharp or both. You don’t survive six years believingsomeone is nothing but ash, only for a man in a lab coat to open a folder and rattle the coffin.

“Say the name,” I whisper harshly.

Mercer’s throat works with a swallow, and behind him, Hale says, “Doctor, classified personnel are not—”

I move.

Fast enough that one guard lifts his weapon.

Fast enough that my bad knee screams in pain that lances up my leg.

Fast enough that Kaito steps in front of the rifle before I fully even register the barrel pointed at me. Not touching me, but blocking them. Burning wood and worn flannel flares brightly, no longer a soft restraint but more of a warning.

Fletcher’s voice cuts through the room. “Lower it.”

The guard doesn't, and Fletcher turns his head slowly. The Southern is gone, leaving only steel in its wake.

“I said lower it.”

Hale snaps, “Stand down.”

The rifle dips, barely, but I don’t care. I’m leaning over the table now, one hand braced on metal while the other is poised near the knife no one knows about except probably everyone with eyes. “Say. The. Name.”

Mercer looks at Hale once, then back at me, right before he shatters my entire world.

“Maine O’Reilly.”

Everything stops. Not dramatically. There’s no shatter or scream, only absence. Every sound disappears so completely I almost think Ewan has snuck the headphones back over my ears.

Maine.

Maine O’Reilly.

Maine, who painted my nails black because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking in the days before he left, back when he still believed small things could keep me together. Maine, whotaught me how to climb through bathroom windows because he said the front doors were for people with too much faith in humanity. Maine, whose voice still lives in every single rule that keeps me hidden.

Hair covered.

Scent dead.

Keep moving.