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342
Echo didn’t shatter all at once.It cracked.Davion felt it in the air—the way conversations stopped when he entered a room, the way screens dimmed just a second too late. Trust was no longer assumed. It had become a currency, and everyone was afraid of being broke.Mara stood at the center of it all, calm on the surface, but the tightness in her jaw betrayed her.“The channels are open,” she announced. “We are not hiding.”The words echoed through the command chamber like a challenge.Davion watched analysts exchange uneasy glances. Some straightened, relieved. Others stiffened, fingers hovering near shutdown commands.Exposure had done what it always did.It forced people to choose.Beverly watched the live data from Wilson’s setup, her heart pounding as Echo’s internal communications spiked.“They’re splintering,” Wilson muttered. “Internal factions. Some want transparency. Others want a purge.”“Of me,” Beverly said quietly.“And of Davion,” Wilson replied.She swallowed. “Then we
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Echo didn’t feel like a headquarters.That was the first thing Davion noticed when he returned.No steel corridors screaming villain. No armed guards pacing dramatically. The facility was clean, quiet, almost elegant—white walls, soft lighting, glass panels that reflected instead of threatened.Control disguised as calm.Mara walked beside him, heels clicking lightly against the floor. “You look disappointed.”“I expected more cages,” Davion replied.She smiled faintly. “We don’t imprison allies.”“Allies don’t usually get kidnapped,” he said.“First impressions matter,” she agreed. “We adjusted.”Davion didn’t respond. He was already mapping the space—camera placement, exits, blind spots. Echo had upgraded from Iron Hand’s brutality, but their mistake was subtlety. Subtle systems always assumed compliance.And compliance was something Davion no longer gave freely.Beverly watched his heartbeat through numbers on a screen.Wilson had patched into the biometric feed Echo required Davio
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Davion counted the steps.Thirty-two from the holding room to the corridor junction. Twelve more to the elevator. He memorized every sound, every shift in air pressure, every camera blink. Echo hadn’t blindfolded him—not out of mercy, but arrogance.They wanted him aware.“Try anything,” the masked handler said coolly as they walked, “and the town loses power again.”Davion didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.He was already trying something—quietly, internally—testing how much of the old instincts were still his and how much he’d buried with Iron Hand.The elevator doors slid open.Below ground.Again.Some things really didn’t change.Beverly hadn’t slept.Her eyes burned as she stood in Wilson’s makeshift command room, screens lighting her face in pale blue. Power grids, satellite pings, message relays—Echo was careful, but careful left patterns.“They’re ghosting their signal through maritime relays,” Wilson said, fingers flying over keys. “Old trick. Smart.”“Smart isn’t unbeatable
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The first sign that something was wrong came quietly.Too quietly.Davion noticed it while locking up the community center one evening. The streetlights flickered once, then steadied. The air felt heavier, like the moment before a storm breaks.He paused, keys still in his hand.His instincts—dulled but not gone—stirred.Someone was watching.“Relax,” he muttered to himself. Small town. No enemies. No war.Still, he scanned the street.Empty.He exhaled and turned—The lights went out.Every single one.The street plunged into darkness, sudden and absolute.Davion’s muscles tensed. He stepped back instinctively, pulse quickening. The ocean breeze carried the distant sound of waves, but everything else felt muted, wrong.Then his phone buzzed.Unknown number.One message.ECHO PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.His blood ran cold.Beverly was halfway through editing an article when the power cut in the house. Her laptop died instantly, the room swallowed by shadows.“Davion?” she called.No answer.H
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Davion learned quickly that peace was not the absence of noise.It was the presence of choice.The train hummed beneath him as it cut through the countryside, trees blurring past the window in soft streaks of green and gold. He sat by the aisle, hood pulled low, hands folded loosely in his lap. No weapon. No comms buzzing in his ear. No countdown ticking in the back of his skull.Just motion.Beverly sat across from him, legs tucked beneath her, notebook balanced on her knees. She’d been scribbling for most of the ride—ideas, thoughts, pieces of a life she was finally allowed to imagine.“You keep staring like you’re waiting for something to explode,” she said without looking up.Davion blinked, then smiled faintly. “Habit.”She looked at him then, eyes soft but sharp. “You’re allowed to relax.”“I know,” he said. “I’m just… learning how.”They were leaving the city behind. No cameras. No press. Just a small town by the coast where nobody knew the name Davion Vire and nobody cared to.
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The city didn’t explode when Iron Hand fell.It didn’t burn or celebrate or suddenly become better.It just… breathed.Davion noticed it from the hospital window three days later, watching traffic move like it always had, people still rushing to places that mattered to them. The world hadn’t stopped for his war, and somehow, that felt right.He rested his forehead against the glass.For the first time in years, his head was quiet.The door opened softly behind him.Beverly stepped in, holding two paper cups of coffee. She moved slower now, carefully, like her body was still deciding whether to trust the peace.“Doctor says you’re not allowed to disappear,” she said, handing him one.He huffed a faint laugh. “I’ll behave.”She stood beside him, following his gaze out the window. “They’re dismantling the last cells today.”“Good,” he said. “The kids?”“Safe,” she replied. “Witness protection. Therapy. Real names again.”Davion closed his eyes.Real names.“That’s all I ever wanted for t
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