“You really had to throw a smoke bomb?” Wilson asked from the backseat, coughing into his hoodie. “I think my lungs just filed for divorce.”Reika snorted from the front passenger seat, sliding her goggles off. “You’re welcome, by the way. I just broke a federal prisoner out of a moving van. Maybe toss a thank-you in there?”“Thank you for destroying my airway,” Wilson wheezed.Davion sat in the middle row, hoodie up, eyes locked on the side mirror. The city lights blurred past them. Fast. Fuzzy. But his mind was sharper than ever.“They’re gonna double down now,” he said. “Block roads. Issue statewide alerts.”Beverly, seated beside him, reached for his hand. “Let them. We’ve got more eyes on us now than they do. We go dark? People notice.”“We need a safe spot,” Reika said. “Somewhere they won’t look. Somewhere we can plan for once.”“I know a place,” Wilson muttered. “It’s not pretty, but it’s quiet. Abandoned train yard outside Midridge. My cousin used to use it for illegal drone

The warehouse was quiet now.Too quiet.Beverly sat on a cracked crate near the far wall, legs swinging, her fingers drumming anxiously against her jeans. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the air still felt damp and charged, like the storm wasn’t done—just waiting for round two.Across the room, Davion stared out a shattered window. His hoodie was still soaked, bloodstained from old wounds and fresh ones. But he didn’t flinch. Not when the wind howled. Not when a rat scurried past his foot. Not even when Reika coughed on purpose just to break the silence.“Okay,” she said finally, arms crossed. “We either talk or we sit here until mildew eats my socks.”Wilson glanced up from where he was fiddling with a shortwave radio. “I’m not opposed to mildew. Kind of poetic, honestly.”“No one wants poetic socks,” Beverly muttered.Davion turned from the window. “We’re not safe yet.”“Duh,” Reika said. “We just exposed an underground network of corrupt cops, cult members, and a guy who litera

Downtown was chaos.Crowds swarmed City Hall like moths to a flame. Protesters with signs. Reporters screaming into cameras. Police in riot gear lining the steps.And at the center of it all—Beverly, Reika, Wilson, and Davion, standing shoulder to shoulder like they weren’t teenagers about to break every law in the book.“Okay, this is officially the dumbest thing we’ve ever done,” Wilson whispered, adjusting his backpack with the laptop inside.Reika rolled her eyes. “Speak for yourself. I once scaled the south dorm building to prank a teacher with a banner that said ‘You Grade Like a Coward.’ This is tame.”Beverly shoved a mic into Davion’s hand. “No pressure, but… say something epic.”Davion stared up at the city’s towering heart. Sirens wailed in the distance. The crowd pulsed. Sweat rolled down his back. His hoodie felt like armor now. Not to hide—but to fight.He clicked the livestream.A red dot blinked.“Hi,” he said, voice low but steady. “You know my name. You’ve seen my fa

The motel room they crashed in smelled like old coffee and bad decisions.Beverly sat cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, laptop balanced on her knees. Wilson was pacing in the corner, rambling code like a possessed gremlin. Reika was sharpening a pocketknife. For no reason. Just vibes.Davion stood by the window, watching the rain soak the streets outside like the whole city was mourning something.“We’ve got about twelve hours,” Wilson said, tapping the screen. “After that, the signal from the surveillance servers goes cold. No backups. No trace. We either dump everything now or lose it forever.”Davion didn’t turn. “Dump it.”Wilson paused. “Dude, you sure? Like… once this goes live, we can’t take it back. There’s no coming back from this. You’ll officially be the most wanted whistleblower-slash-alleged-killer in the country.”“Good,” Davion said. “Means they’ll stop pretending I’m not real.”Reika raised an eyebrow. “Poetic. Also, dumb. But okay, let’s

The elevator dinged, but Irene didn’t step out right away.She stared at her reflection in the polished doors—dark eyeliner, sharp cheekbones, and a glare that could burn through steel. Then she inhaled once, shoved her hoodie up, and walked into the belly of the beast.“Finally,” grumbled a voice behind a desk. “You’re late.”“Tell Iron Hand he can wait,” Irene said without stopping.“You got an appointment?”“I’ve got intel.”That shut him up.She pushed past the guards like she owned the place, ignoring their twitchy hands near their weapons.Inside the war room, Iron Hand was mid-conversation, red lasers dancing across a map. His inner circle stood like statues—except one guy who kept eyeing her like she was an insect.“You bring trouble,” he said coldly.Irene smirked. “I am trouble.”“Irene,” Iron Hand finally spoke. His voice was deep, calm, and terrifyingly still. “What’s your offer?”“I want in.”The room went silent.“You’re already in,” he said.“No. I want in-in. I’m tired