Page 115 of Reckless: Corruption

“Fascinating combat application,” she pants, blood still seeping from her deepening arm wound. “Very effective synthesis. Much style integration.”

We’re almost to the door when Alexander recovers, rage transforming his movements into something feral and unpredictable. He slams into me with the force of a freight train, sending us both crashing into equipment carts.

“You think you can beat me?” he snarls, hands closing around my throat. “I’ve been training for this my entire life!”

His fingers dig into my windpipe, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. This is it, I think distantly. This is how I die—at the hands of the brother I never knew, while my pack waits somewhere without me. After everything, after finding them, after choosing them, I’m going to die here.

Then Alexander’s weight is suddenly gone. I gasp for air, spots dancing across my vision, to find Mona standing over him with a fire extinguisher gripped in her hands.

“Very predictable blind spot,” she informs his dazed form. “Much sibling knowledge. Specific vulnerability exploitation.” She taps the spot behind his ear where she struck. “Always your weakness. Since age seven. Very consistent vulnerability.”

She offers me a hand up, her manic smile tinged with something like genuine concern. “Fascinating combat resilience. Very Sterling genetics. Much stubborn survival instinct.”

The sound of heavy boots approaching pulls us back to reality. Alexander is already struggling to his knees, shaking his head to clear it, as his backup arrives.

“Time to go,” Mona announces, pulling me toward the exit.

We burst through emergency doors into utility tunnels, tactical team members shouting commands behind us. My mind maps the layout, recognizing the pattern—these connect to the same system I used during my ill-fated escape weeks ago.

“Left here,” I direct, taking the lead. “Then second right. It leads to the forest edge.”

Mona follows without question, case clutched against her chest. Behind us, angry voices echo, growing closer. My lungs burn, throat still aching from Alexander’s grip, but the need to survive—to get back to the pack—drives me forward.

We reach a security door, and I slam my palm against the scanner. For a terrible moment, nothing happens. Then green light bathes my hand.

“Sterling genetics,” Mona observes as the door unlocks. “Very convenient. Much security bypass.”

Once through, I key in the lockdown code Ryker taught me. Steel reinforcements slide into place, sealing the exit behind us.

“That won’t hold them long,” I warn, voice rough from Alexander’s attack. “Especially not Alexander.”

“Sufficient delay. Approximately seven minutes. Very predictable response time.” She examines the wound on her arm, which has continued bleeding steadily. “Unless he’s sustained concussion. Probability approximately sixty-three percent. Then perhaps nine minutes.”

“He won’t stay down,” I say, pulling off my outer shirt to wrap around her arm. “Trust me.”

We continue through the tunnels, each turn bringing us closer to the extraction point where the pack should be waiting. My lungs burn, muscles screaming from the fight, but I push forward.

“You knew about some of it,” I say between breaths. “About the designation manipulation. About what was happening to me. But not all of it.”

“Fragmented knowledge. Daddy compartmentalizes everything. Intentional security mechanism.” Her eyes flick to me. “Suspected virus purpose. Confirmed scent changes. Knew vaccine stabilized markers. Did not know about Whitmore’s enhancements.”

“And Finn? Is he dying because the virus is trying to rewrite him?”

Her expression turns grim. “Probable. Beta genetic structure less adaptable than yours. Rejection of viral recoding causes system failure. Very concerning prognosis. Much need for updated vaccine.”

“Updated?”

“Based on original virus. Not Whitmore’s version.” Her voice carries rare gravity. “Booster might help stabilize. Buy time. No guarantees.”

Fear claws at my chest, sharper than Alexander’s hands had been. The thought of losing Finn, of watching the virus slowly kill him because he’s fighting the transformation—it’s unbearable.

“And me?” I ask. “Why am I different?”

Her smile carries the weight of scientific certainty. “Genetic anomaly. Very interesting mutation. Much evolutionary potential.”

“I’m still beta,” I remind her.

“Yes. And no.” She glances at me, something like admiration in her gaze. “The virus was designed to identify designationpotential, then manipulate it. Very precise genetic targeting. But you...”

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