Page 192 of Fractured Devotion
The city hums somewhere beyond the horizon, too far to hear, too blind to see what we’ve done.
We head toward the industrial edge of the docks, where warehouses sit abandoned and forgotten. The old shipping district is quiet at this hour, the roads slick with salt air.
My contact waits in an empty container lot, lounging against a rusted truck with a cigarette burning between her fingers.
“Lorran,” she greets, her eyes flicking to Celeste. “Didn’t think you’d bring company.”
“She’s not company,” I reply, handing her the envelope thick with cash.
She counts it without hesitation before jerking her head toward a rigged-up terminal inside a gutted van.
“Line’s clean. Two hours before they’d even think to look.”
I glance at Celeste. She’s already watching the terminal like she can see the code waiting inside.
“We won’t need two,” she says, calm as ever.
Inside the van, the air is stifling, thick with old engine oil and heat. The sun spills through the cracked windshield, bathing everything in harsh white light.
We sit side by side, our bodies close and our breaths steady.
Her fingers fly across the keys, breaking through layers of firewalls with terrifying ease.
“Six deadlock encryptions,” she mutters, her tone focused and razor sharp. “Failsafes, counter-triggers, and nested mirrors. They were scared.”
“But not smart enough,” I murmur, leaning closer.
She lets out a soft, almost cruel laugh. “I built most of this. They never changed the backbone.”
The first barrier collapses with a satisfying chime.
“Access granted.”
Her eyes light up with victory.
We dive deeper together, slipping through trapdoors and buried partitions and dismantling every secret they locked away.
“Here it is,” she breathes, her voice tight. “The root. Their core. Meridian’s heart.”
I take over, my hands steady, feeding in the purge commands one by one.
“Time to end it.”
The root directory opens, revealing everything they’ve hidden.
Names, experiments, surveillance data—every sordid detail, exposed.
“Delete it,” she says, her voice a lethal calm.
“Not yet,” I reply, copying every file to our drive, making sure we keep a record. “They deserve exposure,” I explain.
She watches me, her expression unreadable, but she doesn’t stop me.
When the transfer finishes, I trigger the purge.
Code vanishes line by line, data melting away, the system collapsing under our hands.
Celeste leans back, exhaling a shaky breath.
