Page 35 of Damian
Cyclone stood apart, laptop balanced on a crate, his brow furrowed so deep it looked carved there. He shook his head, muttering, “It’s like he knows we’re coming before we even move. Every trail’s scrubbed clean.”
I turned away, staring down the endless rows of containers, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. The team was unraveling, and I couldn’t shake the hollowness gnawing at me.
Because I missed her.
Morgan.
The scratch of her recorder, her clear voice cutting through noise and chaos. She’d have seen something we missed, connected dots no one else could. The silence without her felt wrong. Empty.
I closed my eyes a second longer than I should have. Her face was there, the way she’d looked at me when I promised I’d come back. The way her voice had broken on thatplease.
When I opened my eyes, the yard was still empty, the team still heavy with frustration. And me—still carrying the weight of a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep.
“We keep moving,” I said, my voice rough. “Luthor’s out there. And if it takes every night we’ve got, we’ll find him.”
Nobody argued. But their silence spoke louder than words.
42
Damian
By the time we dragged ourselves back to the farmhouse, the air inside felt heavier than the night outside. Three days, three trails gone cold. The team was worn thin — River restless and pacing, Roger sharp as broken glass, Cyclone sunk behind his laptop like he could will the answers to appear.
I dropped into a chair, rubbing the grit from my eyes. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. And again, it hit me—what was missing. No soft click of Morgan’s recorder. No steady voice weaving sense through chaos.
I would’ve given anything to hear it again.
“Wait.” Cyclone’s voice cut through the quiet.
I looked up. His eyes narrowed at the screen, fingers frozen above the keys.
“What is it?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned closer, scrolling back through lines of code and pings only he could translate. His frown deepened, then stilled, like the ground had shifted under him.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.
River stopped pacing. “Spit it out, Cyclone.”
Cyclone slowly turned the laptop toward us, his voice low, almost disbelieving. “She’s sending me messages.”
The room went still.
“Who?” Roger asked, his tone clipped.
Cyclone’s gaze locked with mine. “Morgan. It’s her. Look—” He jabbed a finger at the screen. “Patterns in the data, not random. Breadcrumbs. Places. Coordinates. She’s telling us where to look.”
For a second, all I could do was stare. My heart slammed against my ribs, heat and disbelief colliding in my chest.
River let out a breathless laugh. “That stubborn little—”
“She’s out there, helping us,” Cyclone said, his voice steadier now, conviction replacing disbelief. “Even after everything, she’s still in the fight.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. All I saw was her face the night I left her at the cottage, the way her voice had trembled onplease.
And now, against every odd, every danger, she was reaching for us.
For me. This is too dangerous.
