Page 6 of Fractured Devotion
“You’re late,” he says without looking up.
“You knew I would be,” I reply, folding my arms.
His eyes cut to mine, sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. “You understand the risk I took in bringing you in. The boardthinks you’re here for biometric compliance. You don’t get to improvise.”
“I don’t improvise,” I say. “I adapt.”
Felix stands, brushing his gloves clean. “Celeste cannot know. Not ever. She’s… foundational. Too valuable. If she senses surveillance beyond the norm, she’ll vanish behind protocol so deep that even I won’t find her.”
“I don’t need her permission,” I answer, my voice low. “I need proximity. And answers.”
He studies me. “Then get them quietly. And for God’s sake, don’t underestimate her. She’s more observant than you think.”
“I’m more careful than she can catch,” I mutter as I walk away.
Minutes later, I’m deep inside the archival server access tunnel. This place isn’t meant for surveillance work. It’s a digital graveyard of old footage and discarded trial sessions. But I know what I’m looking for.
Celeste. Seven years ago.
Her tribunal hearing file is buried under layers of classified locks, but I have the keys. I always do.
The footage loads.
She’s younger, yes, but not soft. Even then, she wore her logic like armor. Her voice is steady as she rebuts accusations of ethical violations in neural redirection. The panelists fidget, but she doesn’t. Her confidence slices through the room like a scalpel.
I pause the footage at the seventeen-minute mark. Her mouth is still, but her eyes… her eyes betray something. A flash of doubt, guilt maybe. But it’s gone in an instant.
I reach out and touch the screen.
“You knew the cost,” I murmur.
I save the footage under a new folder. And I name itFractured Devotion.
It’s not because I think she’s broken.
But because I want to be the only one who sees the pieces.
And put them back the way I want.
Back in my suite, lit only by the glow of interface dashboards and the low throb of the server’s heartbeat, I revisit today’s recordings one more time. I linger on a clip of her exiting the elevator, her shoulders rigid, her gaze unreadable.
Soon.
Soon, I’ll have every angle.
Not just to watch. But to understand.
To unravel.
To rebuild.
The next morning arrives in shades of dull gray, thick with mist and unspoken tension. I step into the west hallway under the pretense of inspecting motion sensor alignments. My security badge grants me passage into technical service corridors, unlit and narrow, running like veins beneath the skin of Miramont.
A janitorial drone passes me without pausing. I blend in with my hood low and gloved hands tucked behind my back. Every movement is measured. Every breath is calibrated.
What I’m about to do won’t show up in any internal audits.
The first camera node is nestled into a vent casing outside Celeste’s lab. It’s a temporary fix—thin, disguised as a dust filter, and no larger than a thumb drive. From there, it’ll relay footage to my proxy server, which is untraceable.
