Page 73 of Reckless: Collision

“Oh my god, did you see him?” One practically swoons.

“Delicious.”

A possessive spark flares before I squash it. They better not be talking about my Theo.

My. There’s that word again, trying to claim what isn’t mine to keep.

“That drummer,” another sighs, and relief wars with my mission focus.

Time to execute.

I stumble into them with calculated clumsiness, a move perfected through years of social engineering. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” The apology flows sweet as honey as I steady the girl, my hand sliding into her open clutch like a digital pickpocket. Some people protect their phones better than their bank accounts. Others don’t protect anything at all.

Bile rises in my throat—part guilt, part disgust at how easy this is. How simple it is to breach someone’s privacy when they trust too easily. But betas are dying, and I need answers more than I need a clean conscience.

“Oh my god, get her in a stall before she pukes all over my brand new shoes!”

“Girl, hold it—you’ve got this!”

The four of them shepherd me into a stall like concerned mother hens, and I drop to my knees in a performance worthy of an Oscar. The porcelain is cold against my bare legs, a sharp contrast to the burning weight of the stolen phone in my palm.

“Just let it happen!” one encourages, voice thick with omega sympathy. “It’s easier if you don’t fight it.”

I kind of love them for their support. For their instinct to protect even a stranger. It makes the theft sit heavier in my stomach than any amount of lemon drops.

“Can someone let the guy in the hall know I’m good?” I force out between fake heaves, using the sound to cover the click of the phone unlocking. No password protection—the digital equivalent of leaving your front door wide open. I want to lecture her about basic security, about the dangers lurking in ones and zeros.

Instead, I open her browser while guilt slithers up my spine like malicious code. I squash it down, the same way I squash any emotion that threatens to compromise my mission.

Alpha Hub pops up in her recent searches and—Jesus Christ, I didn’t even know that kind of content existed. My curiosity sparks, a new tab tempting me before I remember why I’m here.

Focus.

Sterling Labs’ CEO. That’s the target. But the search returns nothing—no name, no face, just a private entity hidden behind corporate veils. It’s the digital equivalent of a black hole, and that sets off every warning bell I have.

What kind of pharmaceutical company hides its leadership?

The kind that’s killing betas.

I switch to news searches, and my blood runs cold. The headlines stack like body counts:

Multiple beta deaths lead to string of investigations.

New virus on the rise: what all betas need to know.

How to protect yourself against the new deadly beta virus.

Why is virus beta-only affecting betas?

Hundreds dead in the last weeks alone. Thousands hospitalized. The numbers blur like corrupted data, each statistic a life, each life a warning.

It’s worse than I thought. So much worse. And here I am, playing dress-up and drinking lemon drops while my kind dies in hospital beds. The USB drive hidden in my bra burns against my skin like an accusation.

I need to get somewhere private. Need to decrypt what I found, need to understand exactly what?—

“Hey, has anyone seen my phone?”

Time’s up. Game over.

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