Page 20 of Jump or Fall
“Yeah. I’ll keep in touch. Put your carrier in the alley behind your apartment. I’ll do the swap tonight.”
She nodded, then slipped through the door and into the night.
Gordon lingered, staring at the spot where she’d been. Then, he turned and made his way back into the tunnels, trying to shove down whatever was gnawing at him.
But as he walked away, he found himself glancing at his hand. It was still warm where she’d touched it. A warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Chapter 8
Mara
It had been a week, and Mara was itching for the next meeting. The clock read 3:00 p.m., meaning she still had at least an hour before she could leave.
Gordon’s suit was packed in the carrier under her desk. She tapped her nails impatiently. The repairs had been simple. Despite his dissection of the suit, the only real issue had been a few crossed wires.
The corners of her mouth twitched at the thought of watching him struggle to piece everything back together.
That morning, he’d messaged to say he installed the panels so they were ready for the swap. He didn’t need the full suit, but carrying the entire thing made the modified gauntlets less conspicuous if her bag was searched.
Her mind drifted to the moonlit waves and Gordon’s hand wrapped around hers. He hadn’t let go. She’d worried the walk back would be awkward, that he would retreat to his quiet persona. But he hadn’t. If anything, he’d seemed lighter, easier to talk to. His presence did something to her, made her feel like a human again.
A sharp ping broke through her thoughts.
A meeting request. Frowning, she opened it, but the only thing inside stated it was urgent.
Thanks, Tamar.
Mara scrunched her face and tapped to accept. As she dragged herself toward the conference room, she passed the front desk where Tamar sat with her head down.
That wasn’t a good sign. She was already chilly toward Mara, but she usually glanced.
The room, like most in the building, was filled with natural light streaming through the black windows. A long, polished slab of dark wood dominated the space, surrounded by ten chairs.
Seated at the table was Millon Hirono, the company’s owner and CEO. His eyes darted in her direction before returning to the window. The other chairs were occupied by Asher, Silva, and Dawson, whose usual cold scrutiny swept over her from head to toe.
Her stomach clenched, but she swallowed hard to maintain composure.
Dawson gestured for her to sit beside him. Like a trained dog, she obeyed, keeping as much distance as she could.
Millon was in his early forties, with pin-straight black hair, and dressed exclusively in black. Today he wore a black button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves and matching slacks. His father, Kenji, also had an affinity for the color—reflected in the building’s exterior. The bulletproof material could be made into other colors, but the Hironos always chose black.
Millon’s left arm ended just above the elbow, replaced by a sleek bionic prosthetic. Rumors circulated about how he’d lost it, but no one knew the truth. His personal life remained just as mysterious as the missing limb.
“We need to discuss the status of synth-minds,” Millon began. “Mara, how’s it coming?”
Her spine stiffened. She needed to think of something fast. “I only need to test one more thing and we’ll be ready to deploy.”
“What still needs testing?”
She scrambled for an answer. “The weapon sync. The delayed reaction time compensation is fully functional, but we need to ensure the weapon fires correctly too.”
The weight of Dawson’s stare was almost crushing—she hoped he believed it. The Silvers were anticipating this extra advantage, and the time it had taken already felt like she was pushing it. His presence at this meeting meant she had no buffer left.
Silva nodded. “Makes sense. No point in having the gun point accurately if it doesn’t do anything.”
Millon considered this, his olive-skinned face still as a photograph while he stared out the window.
“How long will this take?”
