The days that followed Daniel’s unexpected call were a blur of conflicting emotions. Ryan’s treatment continued, and the routine of hospital visits, medication schedules, and sleepless nights persisted. But now, between the sterile walls of the hospital and the sterile walls of my mind, I couldn’t shake the unease that Daniel’s presence had stirred. His offer had been made in a seemingly harmless tone, yet something about it unsettled me.Callum and I fell into a strained silence, our once easy conversations now punctuated with awkward pauses and unspoken tension. He noticed my withdrawn demeanor, my distracted gaze, the way I’d stare off into space when he wasn’t looking. He could tell I was carrying something, a secret or a weight, but he didn’t press. It was as if he was giving me space to figure it out on my own, but I knew he was growing more and more concerned. The strain was evident in the way he would look at me, the edge in his voice when he spoke, but I didn’t know how to ex
The days that followed my conversation with Callum were a blur, but they weren’t a peaceful blur. Every moment felt like it was suspended in the tension of what could be, what might come, and the relentless weight of the choice that was looming over me. I could feel Daniel’s presence pressing in from the outside, waiting for me to make a decision, but I was trapped in this space between past and future, between trust and doubt.Ryan’s treatment continued, a rhythm I had grown all too familiar with. The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of monitors, the soft hum of nurses moving through the halls—it had become a part of my life, an unchanging backdrop to the turbulence of my emotions. I tried my best to be strong, to hold it all together for Callum, for Ryan, for myself, but there was a crack in my resolve, and it seemed like it was getting wider with each passing day.Callum’s worry was evident in his eyes every time he looked at me. His attempts to shield me from the weight
The days that followed my meeting with Daniel were some of the hardest I had ever faced. I couldn’t shake the weight of the decision that loomed over me, pressing down with increasing force. The tension between Callum and me was palpable, thicker than ever. He hadn’t asked about the meeting, not directly, but I knew he could tell something had changed. My silence was heavy, my distraction obvious. And still, I couldn't bring myself to tell him the truth.Ryan’s condition was worsening. Every day, there were moments when I thought the fight would be over, when I would watch him sleep and wonder if I was seeing him for the last time. And yet, in the same breath, I clung to the hope that we could make it through, that things could get better. But the uncertainty was suffocating. Every medication administered, every round of treatment, felt like a reminder that we were running out of time.I wasn’t sure what I was searching for. Maybe I was looking for a sign, something that would make th
The days that followed my decision were anything but easy. Even though I had chosen to stay with Callum, to lean on the bond we had built over the years, the weight of my choice pressed down on me like an iron vice. I had rejected Daniel’s offer, but in some quiet, hidden corner of my heart, I still questioned whether I had made the right decision. I hadn’t fully embraced the idea of the future without his help, his promise of an escape from the suffocating reality I had been living in.But as I spent more time with Callum, as I saw the way he fought for us, fought for Ryan, I began to feel that flicker of hope grow a little brighter. Maybe we didn’t need Daniel. Maybe we just needed each other.Ryan’s condition was still precarious. Some days, he seemed like he was doing better, his color returning to his cheeks, his voice stronger when he spoke. But those moments were fleeting, like sunshine breaking through a storm, only to be swallowed by clouds once more.We had a good day here a
The next morning came too quickly. The sunrise spilled soft orange light through the curtains, painting the room in a warmth that felt too gentle for the weight pressing on my chest. Callum had already gotten up. I could hear him downstairs in the kitchen—muffled sounds of a kettle boiling, the low hum of the radio, the quiet patter of his footsteps moving in familiar rhythm.I pulled myself from bed slowly, each movement a reminder of the exhaustion lodged deep in my bones. Ryan had another appointment today. A new specialist. One Callum had found after days of phone calls and medical forums. He never gave up—not on Ryan, not on me. And I hated how part of me still felt tempted by Daniel’s offer, even after everything.I met Callum downstairs, where he stood with two mugs of coffee in hand. He passed one to me without a word, offering a tired smile. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes—worry etched into every part of him now."Big day," he said, breaking the silence."Ye
The question hung in the air like frost, suspended and sharp. I didn’t answer immediately. I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t know—but because the truth was complicated, layered, messy. I wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders, the cold biting through even that small comfort. Callum didn’t press me. He never did. That was one of the reasons I had come to rely on him so completely. But right now, I wished he would say something. Anything. “Yes,” I said finally, barely above a whisper. “But not the way I love you.” His eyes flickered to mine. “What does that mean?” I looked at him, really looked at him. The man who had stepped in when everything was falling apart. Who stayed, even when the weight of my grief and guilt threatened to drown us both. Who loved Ryan like his own. “It means I loved the idea of Daniel. The life we had before everything broke. Before the sickness. Before the loss. I loved the certainty he offered.” “But you don’t trust him,” Callum said, more a st
Days passed.Ryan remained in recovery, and the doctors said it was a miracle he survived the trauma. Callum never left his side during the first 48 hours, and I stayed as long as I could—until reality knocked again, cold and sharp.Work.Deadlines. Reports. Meetings. Schedules. The world outside the hospital didn’t care about the wounds we were nursing or the chaos we had survived.So I returned to the company.Back to polished shoes and pressed blouses, empty coffee mugs, and overly enthusiastic greetings from coworkers who didn’t know, or pretended not to know, what had happened.I was just “the secretary” again. The assistant with quiet eyes and a composed smile, sitting outside Callum’s office and managing his appointments like I hadn’t once held his hand beside a hospital bed. Like we hadn’t once whispered words we couldn’t take back.The company buzzed with energy that felt foreign to me. Laughter in the pantry. Flirtations over email. The sound of heels against the marble floo
Days passed and with each one, the silence between Callum and me became thicker. At work, we fell back into our roles—him, the cold and polished CEO; me, the efficient assistant with unreadable eyes. The moments we’d shared—too fragile, too private—seemed to shrink beneath the weight of routine.But something had shifted. Not just between us, but in the air around us.It started small.A hushed conversation in the hallway that cut off the moment I walked past. A paused laugh when I entered the breakroom. Stares that lingered just a little too long.Rumors.They crept in like cracks in glass—subtle, invisible at first. But they were growing.“He’s been different lately.”“She’s always in his office late.”“Have you seen how close they stand?”One morning, I found a printed photo carelessly left near the printer tray. Callum and me—taken from a distance, probably through the office windows. We were walking through the small park near the firm. He was looking at me, not smiling, but seei
The snow came in thick that morning.It blanketed the ridge in silence, muting the world until everything beyond the windows blurred into shades of white and grey. Callum stood outside, barely a silhouette against the swirling flakes, wrapped in that old green coat he found in the closet and claimed as his own. I watched him through the frost-laced glass, my hands cupped around the ceramic mug—his coffee, still bitter, still undrinkable.But I sipped it anyway.Because he’d made it for me. Because the effort mattered more than the taste.I opened the door slowly. The cold slapped my skin, immediate and bracing.“Morning,” I called.He turned slightly, his breath visible in short puffs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”“You didn’t.” I stepped beside him. “You okay?”His jaw tensed. “I’m… almost.”I waited. We’d fallen into a rhythm like that—one of pauses and offerings. No pressure. Just space, held gently.He finally said, “I dreamed I was back in the vault. But this time, I walked in willi
The safehouse in the Scottish Highlands didn’t look like much—half-buried in moss and stone, tucked beneath a crooked ridge. But after what we’d been through, it felt like the world’s last cathedral. Quiet. Empty. Untouched by programs and wires and memories that weren’t ours.Callum barely spoke the first day. He slept. For once, real sleep—not the restless, drug-induced recovery that followed every mission. I watched him from the armchair across the room, wrapped in the heavy plaid blanket someone had left behind, eyes tracking the rise and fall of his chest as if I still didn’t quite believe he was breathing freely.I wanted to reach for him. But after Reykjavik, after the screaming and seizures and crimson light inside that vault—I was afraid of shattering something fragile. Not him. Us.So I waited.On the third night, the fireplace crackled back to life, and so did he.“You should sleep,” Callum murmured from where he stood by the window, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I
The corridors beneath Reykjavik were colder than death. The walls hummed faintly with latent energy — the kind that made your skin crawl, like the building itself remembered violence.We’d split into two groups. Julian and Will were planting the disruptor arrays across the upper levels. Sage was syncing the transport failsafe. I stayed with Callum.He was quiet beside me, moving slowly but steady, hand trailing lightly against the steel walls like he needed to touch something real. The tremors in his body had lessened, but I could still see the fatigue in his eyes.“Pain okay?” I asked, adjusting my grip on the rifle slung across my shoulder.He gave me a faint smile. “Manageable. I’ve had worse.”That much was true — but it wasn’t his body I worried about. It was what they had done to his mind. What they had put inside him.We reached a chamber lit only by our headlamps. The walls narrowed here, funnelling down into the main vault. The Eidolon core was just beyond.Callum paused at t
The chopper thumped across the burning skyline like a bleeding heartbeat, rhythmic and urgent. I sat beside Callum, cradling him against my side, his blood soaking through my sleeves. He was slipping in and out of consciousness, and every time his eyes fluttered open, I reminded him, “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”Julian sat across from us, checking a battered tablet that had somehow survived the inferno. The glow on his face was pale and grim.“We didn’t get it all,” he muttered. “Their central servers were offline before we reached the lab. Everything in Callum’s head may be the last uncorrupted copy.”Will glanced over his shoulder from the cockpit, voice tense. “And now they know that. Which means we’ve got a target painted on our backs the size of a continent.”I turned my head, looking back at the black column of smoke curling into the sky. Calidus wouldn’t mourn the loss. They didn’t grieve — they adapted. A fallen lab was just another lesson. A reminder to harden the next one.B
He looked at me like a dying man trying to remember sunlight.The flickering fluorescent light above cast shadows across his face, deepening the hollow beneath his cheekbones, making the bruises bloom darker on his skin. I reached out, but he flinched.“Callum,” I said again, gentler this time. “I know what they’ve done. I see it. But they don’t get to keep you.”He swallowed, and the sound felt deafening in the silence. “You don’t know what I’ve given them, Athena. What I had to give.”Julian appeared behind me, scanning the room with his weapon drawn, tense and ready. “We need to move. This place won’t stay quiet for long.”I looked back at Callum, still shackled to the cot. “We can’t leave him like this.”“There’s no time,” Will’s voice crackled through my comm. “Guards converging. Eastern hallway. You’ve got five minutes, max.”I turned to Julian. “Cut him loose.”Julian hesitated only a second before crossing the room. “He’ll slow us down.”“Then we’ll move slower,” I snapped.Ca
And he was trying to reach me.“I thought he died,” Will said, hands trembling as he decrypted the next packet.“He was supposed to,” I whispered. “He wanted us to believe it.”Julian joined us ten minutes later, still bruised but sharper than ever. He scanned the metadata twice before nodding.“This wasn’t sent from the convoy,” he said. “It came from inside the Calidus fallback grid. Probably rerouted through a relay station using a clean identity.”“So he’s behind enemy lines,” I said.“Or being kept alive by someone with an interest in not killing him.”“Leverage,” Will said. “Or… bait.”The thought made my stomach clench.“Either way,” Julian added, “he sent this for a reason. He’s telling you he made it. That he’s waiting.”I looked at the screen again.Echo. Down. Survived.Not help. Not run. Not goodbye.Just three words.A signal in the dark.We flew to Montenegro the next day.Julian tracked the signal’s bounce path to a portside comms hub buried in a crumbling Cold War-era
Three days had passed since Will told me Callum was dead.Three days since the convoy firestorm — since the smoke, the silence, and the sound of nothing on the other end of the line. We buried his name in an encrypted memorial on the darknet, posted beneath a single phrase: Some ghosts burn brighter than the living.The world kept moving.The children were safe — scattered across hidden sanctuaries with new identities and guardians who still believed in justice. Nora-3 was adapting faster than we thought possible. Her neural scans had begun to normalize, as if freedom was rewriting her brain.But me?I was static.Functioning. Breathing. Moving.But not feeling.Not really.Until the ping.It came through Will’s system at 2:17 a.m. — a ghost packet embedded in a relay node we’d used back in Prague, long since scrubbed and mothballed.I was the one who saw it.The days were a blur of comms and half-formed plans. Every hour that passed with Callum’s message sitting like a hot ember in m
There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty.The kind that wraps around you after a moment so sharp, so unforgiving, that your brain hasn’t caught up yet. Like the second after a gunshot, or the pause before someone says, “It’s not what you think.”I sat in that silence, staring at the message on Callum’s encrypted tablet.It had lit up when he stepped away to take a call — some logistics check-in with Will. He’d left it open. That alone should’ve been a red flag. Callum never left anything unsecured.But maybe… maybe part of him wanted me to see it.The message was from Lara.Lara: The flight from Riyadh is booked. If we do this, there’s no turning back.Below that, a location ping.Not Novus-related. Not a safehouse.A villa. Remote. Coastal. Private.There was a follow-up message, timestamped an hour earlier.Lara: Are you sure about her? You said she’d never find out.And then — the worst part — the reply.Callum: She’s distracted with the child protocols. Let’s finish this
I didn’t leave Berlin.Not really.I stayed close enough to watch Callum from a distance — to feel the gravity of him without getting pulled back into orbit. He didn’t chase me. That was worse than if he had. Because it meant he knew I wasn’t ready to hear anything that would make this less real, less raw.I stayed in an old Cold War-era substation the resistance had converted into a shelter for journalists and data couriers. The air smelled like copper and engine oil. The beds were steel slabs with thin foam. It was perfect. Unemotional. Unattached.I needed that right now.Because I couldn’t stop thinking about the messages.Not just the words Lara wrote — but the pauses. The silences in between. The way Callum had answered her, and more damning: the way he hadn’t.He hadn’t denied it meant something.He hadn’t told her to stop.He hadn’t told me the truth.I’d trusted him with my life. With my mind. With my body. And in the end, it was something so simple — a lie by omission — that