Page 123 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“Do you really think something’s coming?” Rebel asks as we position ourselves in the living room. Max lies between us, alert even in his apparent rest.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “But I’d rather be paranoid and prepared than taken by surprise again.”

Rebel nods, understanding in her eyes. “To paranoia, then,” she says, raising an imaginary glass in toast.

“And preparation,” I add, matching her gesture.

Outside, the night is quiet. But somewhere in that darkness, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching, waiting, planning. The electronic glitches might just be coincidence. The maintenance worker might just be doing his job. My dream might just be trauma resurfacing.

I fall asleep clutching Hank’s hoodie, the familiar scent a talisman against the darkness. This time, I don’t dream of attacks or capture. Instead, I dream of Kazakhstan—but not the terror of being taken. I dream of the moment the reactor began to fail, of the cascade effect my hidden calculations triggered.

In the dream, I stand before the quantum equations I hid in Malfor’s system, watching as they spread, infecting the entirenetwork. The numbers transform into a beautiful, terrible pattern that consumes everything it touches.

I wake just before dawn, a terrible certainty settling in my bones. This isn’t paranoia or PTSD or even premonition.

It’s understanding.

The weird electronic glitches feel very similar to the cascade failure I designed for Malfor’s reactor.

Chapter 35

Three days passin a blur of espresso beans, laughter, and waiting. One day longer than Hank and Gabe promised, but I’m trying not to dwell on that.

Morning brings a false sense of normal. Sunlight streams through Jenna’s windows, casting warm patterns across the living room floor. The coffee smells rich and comforting. Luke’s laughter as he plays with Max carries the innocent joy of childhood. If I didn’t know better, I could almost believe yesterday’s fears were nothing but anxiety-induced paranoia.

But the certainty that gripped me at dawn hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s grown stronger.

We fall into our morning routine easily—mugs passed hand to hand, jokes traded across Jenna’s kitchen.

We get ready for the day and pile into two Guardian golf carts, headed for The Guardian Grind. Rebel claims she needs a triple shot or someone’s going to die.

We prep for the day and then open the shop for the early morning crowd, those coming off the night shift and those heading in for the day.

By mid-afternoon, I’ve slipped back into the rhythm of work more easily than I expected.

“Your technique is getting pretty good,” Malia observes as I expertly steam milk for yet another latte. She nudges me with her elbow, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. “I might have to offer you a permanent position.”

“I’d have to clear that with my two very possessive handlers,” I quip, though their extended absence weighs on me more than I let on.

Malia catches my glance at the door—probably the hundredth time I’ve checked it today.

“No news is good news,” she reminds me gently. “Walt says communications blackout is standard for sensitive ops.”

“I know,” I sigh, pouring the milk into the espresso with surprising precision. “I’m fine.”

And I am, mostly. The last three days have been unexpectedly… good.

Staying at Jenna’s apartment has felt like the college experience I was too busy studying to have. Malia hasn’t left my side, insisting on sleeping over each night, the two of us sharing Jenna’s guest bed like longtime friends at a sleepover.

I refuse to let my mind wander to all the possible reasons for the delay. Instead, I focus on the latte art I’m attempting—a simple leaf pattern that looks more like an abstract blob. Still, the customer smiles appreciatively when I hand it over.

“You’re getting better at that,” Malia approves. “Keep practicing; you might catch up with Rebel in a year or two.”

Behind the counter, Rebel snorts without looking up from her own far more intricate creation. She suddenly steps back from the espresso machine with a frustrated growl.

“Not again,” she mutters, tapping the frozen digital display mid-cycle. “This thing was just fixed yesterday.”

“What’s wrong with it?” I ask, stepping closer to examine the machine.

---