The emergency briefing on Ring-14 had been just that. Peyton's exhaustion was obvious—the fusion core resurrection had taken everything out of him—but his voice carried that familiar edge when operational security was compromised.

"Lia detected an unknown data bleed thirty minutes ago," he'd said, gesturing at the diagnostic readouts. "Someone's been watching our internal subnet. Could be automated surveillance, could be active monitoring."

"Our Ghost network installation was already scheduled for tonight," Lev had pointed out, checking his equipment manifest.

"Then we accelerate it," Peyton decided. "Install the nodes as planned, but while you're in there, sweep for anything that doesn't belong. If someone's tapped their systems, they've had to plant hardware somewhere."

Sorrel had studied the vent schematics on her tablet. "Coverage pattern?"

"Start with the primary data junction near our quarters, work outward. Priority is getting our secure communications online, but flag anything unusual." Peyton's expression had been grim. "We can't afford more surprises."

Now, three hours later, Sorrel found herself squeezing through Cali Station's ventilation system with Lev, their mission expanded from simple installation to active counter-surveillance.

"Good thing I didn't eat those muffins," Lev said.

"You could have eaten ten, and it wouldn't make a difference," Sorrel replied. "You want to try being my size."

"Liar," he said, "This is tight."

She watched his ass wiggle some more to get through the next conduit, but he was panting and sweating much more than anticipated.

While Peyton and Mac handled his parents' arrival preparations at Ring-14, Sorrel, and Lev had their own critical mission: establishing their own Ghost network connections that would give Frost Enterprises its promised foothold in the shadow economy. A simple exchange, secure data routes for occasional "special deliveries." Lev had struck the deal mere hours ago, but implementation required the physical placement of network nodes in Cali's infrastructure.

That meant a lot of squeezing into tight places where no one but drones usually ventured. This was more than awkward.

"We're almost there," Sorrel said. "One more wiggle."

"You're loving this, aren't you?"

"What?" she acted shocked.

"Me like this?"

"All sweaty," she asked, then rolled her eyes at him. "Yeah, you're adorable."

"Ass," he quipped. "Ugggh," with one last push, he dropped the last meter into the ventilation shaft, his boots ringing a hollow gong through the metal skin of Cali Station. Sorrel followed, as silent as a falling shadow, her headlamp cutting a clean knife-edge of white through the murky sodium haze.

"Vent-crawl leaderboard still stands," he said over their encrypted channel. "You're at forty-two meters. I claim fifty-one."

"We'll fix that," Sorrel answered, sealing the grate above them. The panel clanged home, confining them to the station's lungs. Mom would hate this grime, she added silently, then shrugged the thought away. She didn't mind any of it, not when it was setting up their future.

A handheld meter in Lev's glove blinked. "CO₂ baseline nine-hundred parts per million. We keep moving."

They belly-crawled forward, their elbows scraping off thermal paint, their knees sliding over decades of dust. The air carried a taste of oxidized copper she could almost feel on her tongue. Twice Lev paused to scan duct IDs on his slate, silent hand-signals steering her deeper.

The hexagonal duct narrowed again, forcing Sorrel lower against the metal. The Reynolds number in a one-meter duct is approximately 2,600, keeping the flow laminar. She recited it automatically. Stay belly-down, keep the flow, stay undetected.

"Junction coming up," Lev murmured. "Two hundred meters."

The constant 54 Hz vibration of the fans radiated through Sorrel's chest as she crawled. Her father would have called this "field experience"—the practical education that complemented theoretical knowledge. Her mother would have called it beneath her station.

My station now is Cali, Sorrel thought with grim satisfaction. And I'm literally beneath it.

Lev paused unexpectedly. His breathing was controlled but audible in the confined space. "How's your neural integration holding up?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Sorrel glanced at him, surprised by the personal question. Through the blue-tinted glow of their lamps, she could see genuine concern in his eyes.

"Chen's adjustments are stable," she answered carefully. "Why?"

"This is our first field operation since..." He trailed off, as if uncertain.

"Since our new faces?" Sorrel finished for him. A small smile touched her lips. "I'm fine, Lev. Better than fine. This feels right."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "The others rely on your medical expertise. I rely on your field competence." His words were clipped and efficient, but something in his tone suggested deeper meaning.

"Is that all you rely on me for?" Sorrel asked, surprising herself with the directness of the question.

Lev's eyes widened slightly—the most emotion she'd seen from him outside of crisis situations. "No," he turned and continued forward.

The exchange gave Sorrel an unexpected warmth despite the cold metal beneath her. Their relationship had been strictly professional since her joining the team, but moments like this, brief glimpses beyond Lev's carefully maintained facade, hinted at possibilities she hadn't considered, nor fully explored yet. It left her mind whirring and her body tingling. Ever since that night in the bar, dancing with her, and Peyton pushing her to talk to him, she'd found many opportunities, but never the 'right' one.

There was so much more to the big man than she ever thought, and she wanted to know all of it, of him.

Orange fiber trunks split the duct like frozen river weed at Junction E-77. Sorrel's pulse kicked, the perfect tap point. She wrestled a crystal-memory slug the size of her fist from her tool pouch; its surface caught Lev's lamp scattering it like blue glass.

"Ghost handshake in three... two..."

The slug slid home with a soft magnetic click. Blue filaments flared inside, negotiating with remote relays invisible to official nets. A shimmering aurora crawled across its surface before fading to a steady glow.

"Packet flow nominal," Lev reported. "Good drop."

The adrenaline fizzed through Sorrel's veins. "First legal crime of my life."

Lev actually chuckled, a dry, half-rusty sound. "Wait until your second."

She gave him a surprised look.

"You know, I never expect to hear you laugh," she said, keeping her voice light.

Lev's expression flickered between uncertainty and something softer. "There wasn't much reason before."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

"And now?"

He adjusted his equipment, buying time before answering. "Now there's purpose. Direction." His eyes met hers briefly. "And better company."

The crystal slug pulsed steadily between them, each beat confirming successful data transfer through their conduits and the Ghost network.

"Time to head—" Sorrel began, but the words died as the pressure shifted around them.

The numbers in her HUD screamed before the alarms did. The duct pressure dipped three pascals, tiny but enough to ping the station AI that oxygen was bleeding where it shouldn't.

"Drone response in three minutes," Lev warned.

Sorrel yanked out a wafer-thin drive. Markov's biometric master key. She slid it into a maintenance jack; a string of characters rippled across her HUD: A97D6...

"Nyx?"

"On it," Nyx replied.

"Fuck," Lev said.

Two minutes.

"Done," Nyx reported.

The AIs override was taken, and the vent logs were rewound, smoothing the pressure blip into a scheduled calibration.

The job was done, but the air thickened. The CO₂ meter flashed amber at 4,200 ppm.

With her head spinning, Sorrel pulled the drive free. "Get us an exit path. Now."

Lev eyed her, voice even. "You're flushing slower than the baseline."

"Caffeine deficit." She forced a grin that fooled no one.

The sodium lamps pulsed with her heartbeat now, their amber glow stretching into strange halos. Sorrel blinked hard, forcing her brain to function through the rising carbon dioxide. Back at the Academy, she'd done high-altitude training that simulated oxygen deprivation; this felt similar but more insidious, a gradual dulling rather than an immediate struggle.

Lev moved fast, checking junctions off. His breathing remained controlled and measured, and his respiratory training was evident in how he conserved oxygen with each step.

Sorrel followed, counting her own breaths. In for four, hold for four, out for six. The technique helped, but the concentration it required slowed her progress. The meter on Lev's wrist now flashed between amber and red as CO₂ approached 6,000 ppm.

"Stay with me," Lev said, grasping her wrist. The physical contact was unexpected; he typically maintained precise personal boundaries. "I'm right here."

His fingers shifted to find her pulse point. "Elevated but regular. Focus on my voice."

"Since when are you the medic?" she asked, her attempt at humor undermined by breathlessness.

"Since our medic needs one." His grip tightened momentarily, almost like a squeeze of reassurance, before releasing. "Two hundred meters to the junction. Count with me."

The simple task of counting down meters as they crawled gave her mind something to anchor to as the hypoxia threatened to cloud her thinking. Lev's voice remained steady, a lifeline pulling her forward.

Sorrel's lamp caught an unfamiliar device wedged amid cable bundles, sleek corporate housing, and LED pulsing Braker blue at a T-junction.

"Unregistered slug," Lev muttered, already scanning. "ID obfuscated."

"Nyx?"

Sorrel pried it loose; tiny glyphs scrolled across its face:

PROJECT EPITAPH v2.1.

Her mind flickered between sharp clarity and muddy confusion. Epitaph. The project name triggered recognition, something from her father's secured files, whispered about in executive late-night meetings. Alarm flooded her veins, and she stuffed the slug into a shielded pouch. The duct swayed, and her vision pulsed white.

Lev's hand clamped her elbow. "CO₂ 7,200. We move."

"I'm—" The word wobbled, she hated it. Fine, she finished inside.

Together, they dragged themselves back, meters seemingly stretching into kilometers as each breath cost more.

The ventilation shafts constricted, the walls pressing closer with each labored movement. Sorrel's muscles protested, her movements becoming less coordinated. The CO₂ meter now flashed steady red: 8,200 ppm. Not immediately lethal, but enough to impair cognition and motor control.

Lev moved faster but kept close, his eyes constantly checking behind on her, cataloging micro-tells of impairment. His concern was professional but evident; they needed everyone at peak capacity, and hypoxia damage could be permanent.

"Almost there," he assured her. "Stay with me, Kerry."

It was the use of her real name, not "Dr. Hinada" or simply nothing, as was his usual approach, that cut through the fog. The rare personal address carried weight.

"Didn't know... You cared," she managed, fighting for each word.

Lev's expression shifted momentarily, something raw breaking through his composed exterior. "I do," he said simply. The admission hung between them, unexpectedly profound in its brevity.

Trait Unlocked: Emotional Partnership Protocol [67%] - Sorrel

Trigger: Shared danger creating romantic attachment under operational stress

Function: Enhanced team coordination through emotional bonding

Risk: Personal relationships may compromise operational judgment

They toppled through the service shaft a moment later. The station air was bland but blessedly low in CO₂. Sorrel leaned against a bulkhead, breathing in deeply waiting for her pulse to settle.

Lev pretended to inspect the gear while he watched her eyes. "Hypoxia kills neurons in minutes."

"Medical lecture noted." She pushed herself upright. "Any alarms?"

"None. Markov's key worked."

"Then let's deliver our prize."

The corridor stretched before them, oddly distorted through Sorrel's recovering vision. She walked as quickly as she could, compensating for the sluggishness in her responses. Pride kept her back straight, steps measured. She was a Hinada by blood, but life would be very different from here on out. She'd chosen Frost's as her allegiance, and weakness wasn't an option, especially not in front of Lev.

Dammit, she thought. I'm hook, line, and sinker...

They took several maintenance passages back toward the residential ring, avoiding security checkpoints and surveillance zones mapped out during previous excursions. Sorrel's mind gradually cleared, but she noticed a persistent delay in her reflexes. Reaching for a door pad took fractionally longer, and processing directional changes required extra concentration.

Trait Unlocked: Permanent Sacrifice Integration [56%] - Sorrel

Trigger: Accepting permanent neurological damage for mission success

Function: Psychological adaptation to irreversible operational costs

Status: Understanding that some prices cannot be undone

Just temporary, she reassured herself. However, the cold analytical part of her brain, the part trained at the medical school and the Academy to assess damage objectively, knew better. Some neurons wouldn't recover. A small price in the grand scheme but a permanent one nonetheless.

In a deserted utility corridor, Lev suddenly stopped. He turned to face her, his expression uncharacteristically uncertain.

"What happened back there..." he began, then paused, seeming to search for words.

"The hypoxia? I'll adapt," Sorrel said, misunderstanding intentionally, not ready to address the moment of vulnerability they'd shared.

"Not that." Lev stepped closer, voice lower. "When I said I cared."

Sorrel's pulse quickened in a way that had nothing to do with oxygen deprivation. "You were keeping a team asset functional," she said, offering him an easy out.

"No." His response was immediate and firm. "It wasn't professional."

The admission hung between them again. She studied his face, seeing past the controlled exterior to something she hadn't noticed before—uncertainty, yes, but also passion?

"We should discuss this when I'm not brain-damaged," she attempted to joke, but it came out wrong.

Lev nodded, understanding. "Later, then." Instead of moving away like she expected, he reached forward and adjusted the collar of her jacket. A gesture so unlike him, so intimate she found herself holding her breath. "When we're both ready."

The moment passed, but something had fundamentally shifted between them. A door opened that neither had truly acknowledged existed until now.

***

Peyton, Mac, and Dr. Chen were already ringed around the worktable when Sorrel set the Epitaph slug down. Peyton's gaze sharpened.

"Braker R&D casing. Encrypted?"

"Deeply," Lev said, cabling it into an air-gapped terminal.

Peyton's jaw set. "Can we crack it?"

"I can," Nyx's voice echoed in the room.

Dr. Chen glanced at Peyton. "You have two AIs?"

"You can tell just from his voice?"

"I've been around an awful lot of people and AI," Chen replied.

While Lev worked, Sorrel went to fetch some water for them all. The cold bottle from the fridge slipped, missed by a centimeter, scattering across the counter.

"Sorrel?" Lev called.

"I'm okay!" Slow. She clenched her useless fingers, and then cleaned up the mess.

"SpO₂ upon entry ninety-two percent, now ninety-seven. Cognitive latency increased by two percent from baseline." Lia said from a wall speaker

"Don't tell them," Sorrel's shoulders stiffened. "It's temporary."

"Flag recorded," Lia answered softly. "If it gets worse, I will tell them."

"Noted," Sorrel replied. "Thank you."

Back at the table the slug's blue LED blinked twice—then shifted to crimson as the packet counter began to climb.

Lev blanched. "Broadcast mode engaged."

"To where?" Mac asked.

"Not on public nets... It's tunneling inside the Ghost mesh. The Brakers are already there."

Peyton's eyes met Sorrel's. No blame, just strategy. "Then we flush them out before they hijack our line."

Sorrel felt the lingering fog at the edge of her thoughts, an irreversible tax on her speed. Fine, she told herself. I'll just think faster than ever.

Fun, she realized, sometimes comes with scars.

Dr. Chen moved to her side, and a medical scanner was already evaluating her condition. His clinical detachment was oddly comforting as he reviewed the results.

"You can't kid us. Mild hypoxic insult," he confirmed. "The two percent processing delay is likely permanent, but adaptive neural pathways will compensate over time." He glanced at Peyton. "Similar to the adjustments your systems made post-surgery."

"I'll be fine," she said.

"You will, but don't hide things, understand? I am your doctor."

"Understood," she sat back down.

Mac leaned over the terminal, studying the packet counter with growing concern. "They're not just listening. They're transmitting."

"Can we backtrace?" Peyton asked.

Lev's fingers worked on his tablet. "Working on it. The Ghost network is designed to prevent exactly that."

"But we have an advantage," Sorrel said, pushing aside the frustration of her impairment to focus on strategy. "They don't know we found their slug."

Peyton nodded, understanding immediately. "We feed them what we want them to see."

From across the table, Lev caught Sorrel's eye, a silent question in his gaze. Are you alright? She gave him a slight nod, appreciating the concern while refusing to show weakness in front of the others. Their earlier moment remained between them, a private understanding amid the crisis.

She would talk to him, she promised herself, she would.

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