Chapter 75

​POV: Liam

​The Jersey shoreline was a smear of industrial grey and neon signs, but I didn't see the scenery. I only felt the terrifyingly shallow rhythm of Isabella’s breath against my neck. She was a ghost in my arms, her weight suddenly fragile, as if the very atoms of her body were losing their cohesion.

​The laptop screen in the bag slung over my shoulder was still pulsing that rhythmic, accusatory red.

​Time remaining: 3 hours, 42 minutes.

​"Lee," she whispered. Her voice was thin, a thread of sound caught in the wind. "Don't go back. She’s... she’s the one holding the door."

​"I’m not going back as a guest, Sarah," I said, using the name we had chosen in the cafe. It felt like a prayer, a way to anchor her to the world that didn't involve patents or shunts. "I’m going back as a thief. She expects me to negotiate. She expects me to bring the Founder’s Share and beg for your life."

​"And... are you?"

​"I’m going to give her exactly what she deserves," I said, my voice dropping into a cold, lethal register I hadn't used since the early days of the Sterling-Vane hostile takeovers.

​I didn't take a taxi. I didn't use a ride-share. I found a parked motorcycle outside a dive bar at the edge of the marina—a heavy, black cruiser with a loose chain and a rusted tank. I didn't have the keys, but I had a Sterling’s knowledge of proprietary electronics. I bypassed the ignition in forty seconds, the engine roaring to life with a jagged, angry vibration.

​I tucked Isabella between me and the tank, her arms wrapped weakly around my waist. "Hold on. Don't close your eyes. If you close your eyes, the data sync locks. Stay with me."

​"I’m here," she breathed.

​We tore across the George Washington Bridge, weaving through the morning traffic like a needle through silk. The wind was a cold, biting blade, but it served to keep her conscious. Every time I felt her grip loosen, I’d swerve, the sudden shift in momentum forcing her to tighten her hold. It was a cruel way to keep her alive, but it was the only way I had.

​The Sterling Medical Wing sat on the upper west side, a fortress of white stone and reinforced glass. It looked like a temple to health, but I knew it was a factory for control. As we approached the perimeter, I saw the black SUVs of the London 'Collection' team idling at the entrance. They weren't hiding. They were the welcome wagon.

​"They've seen us," Isabella gasped.

​"I want them to see us," I said.

​I didn't slow down. I accelerated, the bike screaming as I headed straight for the service entrance—the one meant for oxygen deliveries and medical waste. At the last possible second, I laid the bike down, the metal sliding across the pavement in a shower of sparks that blinded the guards at the gate.

​We tumbled into the shadows of the loading dock. I was on my feet before the dust settled, pulling Isabella into the recessed alcove of the freight elevator.

​"The biometric override is still in my blood," I whispered, pressing my thumb to the scanner.

​The system hesitated. For three agonizing seconds, the light remained a stubborn amber. I could hear the shouting of the guards around the corner, the sound of boots hitting the concrete.

​Accepted. CEO Access: Emergency Override.

​The doors slid open. We stepped inside, and the world went silent as we ascended.

​"Why... why did it work?" Isabella asked, leaning heavily against the mirrored wall of the lift.

​"Because Eleanor is arrogant," I said. "She thinks she’s already won. She hasn't bothered to wipe the local hardware because she thinks the building is hers by default. She’s waiting for me in the penthouse lab. She wants the spectacle."

​"Then let's give her a different show," Isabella said. She reached into the bag and pulled out the drive. "The purge codes aren't in the main server, Liam. They’re in the 'sandbox'—the isolated terminal my father used for the 2014 tests. It’s on the fourth floor. The morgue level."

​"The morgue?"

​"The only place in the building without a cloud connection," she said. "He was paranoid, remember? He didn't want the board to be able to 'cancel' a cure if it became too expensive."

​I hit the button for the fourth floor. The lift shuddered to a halt. When the doors opened, the air was ten degrees colder. There were no nurses here. No hum of life-support machines. Just the sterile, silent rows of steel cabinets and the smell of formaldehyde.

​I carried her to the end of the hall, to a small, heavy door marked Bio-Archive 04.

​Inside, the room was a relic. It was filled with CRT monitors and thick, shielded cables. This was the womb of the Medusa project—the place where the first lines of code were written before the greed took over.

​"There," Isabella pointed to a terminal that looked like a prop from a Cold War movie. "The hardline."

​I set her in the chair. Her skin was turning a translucent, waxy grey, the blue veins in her neck pulsing with a frantic, irregular rhythm.

​Time remaining: 1 hour, 12 minutes.

​"I need you to talk me through it," I said, my fingers hovering over the mechanical keyboard. "I know the finance, Sarah. I don't know the biology."

​"It’s... it’s a recursive loop," she whispered, her eyes fluttering. "You have to... you have to feed the shunt its own 'death' signal. It’s the only way to make it let go of the nervous system. Type: Omega.Zero.Null."

​I typed. The screen flickered, a waterfall of green text scrolling down the glass.

​"Now... the hardware handshake," she said.

​She reached back, her trembling fingers finding the port at the base of her skull. She pulled a cable from the terminal—a thick, braided wire—and handed it to me.

​"If I do this, it’s going to be a total wipe," I said, my hand shaking. "You won't be an 'asset' anymore. But you won't have the data either. The proof of the merger... the video from your father... it’ll all be gone."

​"Let it burn," she said. "I'd rather be a nobody who can feel her own heart than a queen who’s made of glass."

​I plugged the cable in.

​Isabella screamed. It wasn't a human sound; it was a digital screech, a sound of two worlds colliding. Her body arched, her eyes rolling back as the terminal began to drain the energy from the shunt. The monitors in the room began to pop, the glass shattering as the power surge ripped through the local grid.

​"Hold on!" I shouted, grabbing her shoulders. "Don't let go!"

​"Liam!" she cried out.

​The progress bar on the screen was a slow, agonizing crawl.

​10%... 20%...

​The door to the archive burst open.

​Eleanor stood there, flanked by two men from the London team. She wasn't wearing her boardroom suit. She was in a lab coat, her face a mask of clinical, detached fury.

​"Stop it, Liam!" she screamed. "You’re destroying the work of a lifetime! You’re killing the future!"

​"The future is already dead, Eleanor!" I shouted over the roar of the servers. "I’m just burying the body!"

​"Step away from the terminal," Eleanor ordered. The guards drew their weapons, the red lasers of their sights dancing over my chest. "If you finish that purge, the core will detonate. It’s a failsafe I installed myself. You’ll kill her to save her."

​"You're lying," I said. "You wouldn't put a bomb in your own daughter."

​"Wouldn't I?" Eleanor asked. She held up her own terminal—the one she had used in the basement. "The purge you’re running is incomplete. It’s missing the biological shunt-gate. If you don't stop now, her heart will stop the second the data hits zero."

​I looked at the screen.

​85%... 88%...

​Isabella’s face was a mask of agony, her breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. I looked at Eleanor, then at the girl in the chair.

​"Liam," Isabella whispered, her eyes finding mine for a fleeting, lucid second. "Don't... don't listen. She’s... she’s the noise. I’m the signal."

​"She’s dying, Liam!" Eleanor stepped forward, her voice a seductive, terrifying hum. "Give me the Share. Let me stabilize her. We can still save the legacy. We can start over. Just the three of us."

​"The three of us," I repeated, the words tasting like poison.

​I looked at the share certificate in my pocket—the gold-foil key that could buy the cure or fund the escape. Then I looked at the terminal.

​95%...

​The cliffhanger wasn't the decision; it was the sound from the monitors. A low, rhythmic thumping.

​Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

​It wasn't the machine. It was Isabella’s heart, amplified through the speakers of the ancient terminal. It was slow. It was steady. And it was fighting the code.

​"Liam, the failsafe!" Eleanor screamed, her finger hovering over the trigger on her device. "It's now or never!"

​I didn't step away. I reached out and smashed the terminal’s 'Enter' key with my bandaged fist.

​The room went black. The screaming stopped. The only sound was the shattering of the last CRT monitor and the heavy, terrified breathing of the people in the dark.

​"Isabella?" I whispered.

​A small, weak hand found mine in the darkness. "I... I can't feel the hum," she said.

​But the silence was broken by a sharp, electronic click. Eleanor’s voice came from the shadows, cold and devoid of any maternal warmth.

​"You chose the girl," Eleanor said. "A sentimental mistake. Now, give me the Share, or I ensure that the 'nobody' you just created stays that way."

​A flashlight clicked on, illuminating the barrel of a gun pointed directly at Isabella’s head.