Chapter 20 · One Clean Minute

"Test it," Levi said. "Or is the great Nash Ortega scared of a door."

I didn't move. My knuckles were still white around the wrist wrap I'd used to drop him twenty seconds ago, and his hand was still locked around mine, holding the phone hostage between our chests like a hostage negotiation nobody won. The panel light above the frame sat red. Not blinking. Not cycling. Just red, steady, like it had decided something about us and wasn't taking it back.

"You test it," I said. "You're the one who signed the paper that put me in cages for a living."

"And you're the one holding a dirty panel against my pulse point like a threat." His breath hit my jaw, too close, too warm, smelling like antiseptic and something underneath it that wasn't clinical at all. "Move your hand, Ortega."

"Move yours first."

Neither of us did. That's the thing about a standoff — somebody has to blink and it costs something either way.

The intercom cracked before either of us gave in.

"Hold, this is corridor tech.