Page 4 of Fractured Devotion
The boardroom is all glass and silent. There are ten chairs. Nine are filled. I take my seat just as Director Sharpe clears her throat and says, “Today, we welcome Mr. Kade Lorran, our new biomedical surveillance specialist.”
The man she introduced steps forward like he’s known this room all his life. He’s tall, sharp-boned, and composed. His eyes scan the room and stop briefly on mine. I don’t blink.
His voice is smooth and measured when he says, “Miramont’s security infrastructure will be restructured from the neural core out. Full biometric syncing, minimal external latency, zero leak points.”
I should admire the precision. But instead, my skin tightens.
He clicks the next slide. “Neural permission triggers can automate access hierarchies.”
My fingers twitch.
That phrase. It doesn’t exist outside classified forums. No one outside my team should know it.
His gaze meets mine again, calm and steady. Too steady.
Before I can speak, the lights flicker, and every screen goes black.
Gasps echo as someone mutters about a power cut.
“We’ll pause here,” Sharpe says tightly.
I rise before she finishes.
“Where are you going?” a board member calls.
“Diagnostics,” I say, already moving.
I don’t wait for permission or response.
The corridor narrows as I descend into the lower level, where the walls are steel, and the lights are colder. Past the restricted access door and down one final flight of stairs, the air shifts.
The monitoring chamber is cold, and fluorescent lights buzz overhead. I bypass the admin prompts and access the server stack directly. The system boots, then streams of code flash across the wall.
I spot one port. Open, unregistered, and hidden behind a proxy protocol.
Unauthorized.
I kill it.
Then I write a note, not in the official log, but in my private encryption drive. I will trace this.
Someone’s inside.
Night settles over the city like a heavy curtain, muffling the edges of everything. Back in my apartment, the cold feels deeper, like it seeped in through the walls while I wasn’t looking.
Everything remains in perfect order—monochrome and sterile, a reflection of how I compartmentalize what I can’t control. There’s nothing personal here. Nothing that whispers my name.
I sit by the window with my trauma journal. The leather is worn, but the binding is still perfect. Like me. Presentable on the outside.
I write about the blackout. About Alec. About Kade.
Something scratches at the back of my skull.
I flip back a few pages.
And right there, an entry I didn’t write.
It’s my handwriting, but not my tone. The words pulse with rage, and there, in the margin, circled three times:Celestia.
