Page 379 of Immune

That is becoming a language I understand.

Valeria opens the case. Inside are drives, files, sample logs, and a stack of slim tablets with cracked screens.

“Vector kept more than cargo manifests,” she says. “They had NOVAC trial records, lists of people taken, transfer locations, failed dose reports, buyer contacts, and names connected to Haven Ridge.”

Maine’s hand tightens around the back of the chair while Fletcher goes still.

“Names connected how?” I ask.

Valeria’s eyes harden. “Some as victims. Some as suppliers. Some as buyers. Some as people who looked away.”

Oh, great. Just what every compound needs. A fucked-up betrayal buffet.

Mercer clears his throat. “There’s enough medical data here to move forward without starting from nothing. It shows what NOVAC tried, where it failed, and where the virus responded differently.”

His gaze moves to me carefully. Too careful.

“And my blood?” I ask.

Mercer does not flinch. “Potentially important.”

“Useful.”

Kaito’s voice is immediate. “Nope.”

I look at him but his expression does not change. His bond does, though. It steadies, sharp and sure.

“The information may be useful,” he says. “You’re not.”

Well damn. That goes right for a soft place in my chest and starts setting up a whole flower shop in the empty spaces between my ribcage.

“Annoying,” I mutter.

Kaito’s mouth almost moves. “Accurate.”

Mercer sits opposite me. “Dakota, I’m not going to sit here and pretend your immune response doesn’t matter. It does. But mattering is not the same thing as being available.”

I study him closely. He looks tired. So tired. And so human. Not forgiven, exactly, but certainly trying hard enough to earn it. I can work with trying. Trying doesn’t make me want to stab things.

“I’ll help,” I say, and Maine makes a sound like the words physically hit him.

I glance at him. “Oh, come on, man. Don’t start breathing like a haunted kettle. I only said I’d help. Not donate myself to science with a bow on my head.”

Ewan lifts one finger. “I want it on record that I would object to the bow. Doesn’t suit the brand.”

“My brand is knives and poor decisions. Why can’t I add a bow and make it pretty?”

“It’s just not the vibe, is it?”

Maine exhales then, not quite calm but closer, as if Ewan and I bickering is enough for him to realize I’m not still teetering on the precipice of insanity or death.

I turn back to Mercer. “I have terms, as you’re probably anticipating.”

Mercer nods, gathering his clipboard and pen. “Name them.”

“My consent is required every single time. Not blanket consent. Not once and then you keep poking me forever. Every sample. Every test. Every use of my information. You ask.”

Mercer writes. “Agreed.”