Long-press a paragraph to send danmaku
"You're lying."
Sienna's voice cuts through the vault air like a blade. She's still standing three feet back from the monitor, arms crossed, staring at the date stamp on the video file.
Tomorrow's date.
"I'm not," I say. My hand's still on the mouse. "Play it or don't. Your call."
"That's not possible."
"Yeah, well, neither's dying four times in one day, but here we are." I lean back in the chair and meet her eyes. "You want proof I'm in a loop? There it is. That file didn't exist this morning. It'll exist tomorrow. I grabbed it then and dragged it back here."
She doesn't move. Her jaw's tight, shoulders locked. She's scared. Good. She should be.
"Play it," she says.
I double-click.
The screen flickers. Then Mia's face fills the frame.
I stop breathing.
She looks older. Thinner. Her hair's shorter, choppy, like she cut it herself with kitchen scissors. There's a bruise yellowing along her left cheekbone. But it's her. It's Mia.
"If you're watching this," Mia says, "Sienna's still alive. Don't let her stay that way."
My chest goes hollow.
"She helped them take me," Mia continues. Her voice is flat, dead. "Six years ago. She brokered the deal. I was the payment for a contract Marcus wanted buried. Sienna knew. She let it happen. So if you've got any sense, you'll let Marcus finish what he started today and walk away."
The video cuts off.
Silence fills the vault like water.
I don't look at Sienna. Can't. If I do, I'll break something.
"Val—"
"Don't." My voice sounds wrong. Too quiet. "Don't say my name."
"That was six years ago," Sienna says. "I didn't know what Marcus—"
"You knew." I stand. The chair scrapes against concrete. "You brokered it. Mia just said so."
"I brokered a contract. I didn't ask what the terms were."
"Bullshit."
"I didn't know it was a person!"
Her shout echoes. I turn and look at her. Really look.
She's pale. Shaking. Her hands are fists at her sides.
"You expect me to believe that?" I say.
"I don't care what you believe." Her voice drops. "But it's true. Marcus told me he needed a high-value asset moved off the books. I set up the handoff. I didn't see the cargo. That's how it works in this business. You don't ask. You don't look. You just take your cut and move on."
"And when you found out?"
"I didn't. Not until two years later, when Marcus got drunk and told me he'd traded a girl to cover a contract he'd botched in Prague." She swallows. "By then it was too late. She was gone. I had no idea where. And if I talked, Marcus would've killed me and buried it deeper."
I stare at her. My hands itch for something to break.
"So you did nothing," I say.
"I stayed alive," Sienna snaps. "That's what I did. Same thing you're doing right now."
"I'm trying to save my sister."
"And I'm trying not to die today." She steps closer. "You think I'm proud of what I did? You think I sleep well? I don't. But I can't undo it. All I can do is not let Marcus win today."
I want to hate her. I do hate her. But Mia's face is burned into my skull, and the timer over Sienna's head says five hours, fifty-three minutes, and I need answers more than I need revenge.
"Where," I say.
"What?"
"Where did Marcus send her?"
Sienna's quiet for a long moment. Then she says, "I don't know."
"You're lying."
"I'm not. Marcus never told me. He kept that part locked down. But—" She hesitates. "But he kept records. Everything he's ever done, every deal, every body. He keeps it all in a core drive. Physical, off-network. He's paranoid like that."
"Where's the drive?"
"I don't know."
I step into her space. She doesn't back up.
"Try again," I say.
"I don't know," she repeats. Her voice is steady now. "But I know how to find it. Marcus is old-school. He doesn't trust clouds or encryption. He keeps the drive somewhere he can see it, touch it. Somewhere close."
"Your penthouse."
"Maybe. Or his office. Or—" She stops. Her eyes flick to the side, like she's remembering something. "Wait."
"What?"
"My garage." She says it slowly, testing the words. "Three months ago, Marcus asked if he could store a car there. Said it was a collector's piece, needed climate control. I didn't think anything of it. But he's been down there twice since then, and both times he went alone."
"What kind of car?"
"A '67 Shelby. Black. He keeps it under a tarp in the back corner."
My pulse kicks. "He's not storing a car. He's storing the drive."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. He is." I turn back to the monitor and pull up the building's camera grid. "Where's the garage access?"
"Sublevel two. But you can't just walk in. It's biometric."
"I've got your fingerprints."
She blinks. "What?"
"From your coffee cup this morning. Lifted them in the kitchen while you were busy trying not to shoot me." I pull the lifted prints from my jacket pocket—clear tape pressed over the ridges. "You're sloppy when you're scared."
Her expression flattens. "I'm starting to really dislike you."
"Yeah, well, you killed my sister, so we're even."
"I didn't kill her."
"You helped." I pocket the prints and check the timer again. Five hours, forty-seven minutes. "We've got time. We go down, we pull the drive, we get Mia's location, and we figure out how to stop Marcus before he gets here."
"And if the drive's not there?"
"Then you better hope you've got another lead, because if I run out of time and Mia's still missing, I'm letting Marcus put you in the ground."
She stares at me. Then, slowly, she nods.
"Fine," she says. "But if we're doing this, we do it now. Marcus has someone inside building security. If we trip the wrong camera, he'll know."
"So we don't trip the cameras."
"Easier said than done."
"I've done harder."
She almost smiles. Almost. Then the lights cut out.
Both of us freeze.
The vault goes black. Emergency lighting kicks in two seconds later—dull red strips along the floor. The monitor dies. The lock on the vault door clicks open with a soft metallic snick.
Someone cut the power.
"Marcus," Sienna breathes.
"No." I grab her wrist and pull her toward the door. "He's still off-site. This is someone else."
"Who?"
"I don't know, but we're not staying to find out."
I shove the vault door open and step into the hallway. Smoke curls along the ceiling. Thin, acrid. Not fire. Gas.
"Shit," I mutter.
Sienna yanks her wrist free and pulls her sleeve over her mouth. "We need to get out. Now."
"Not without the drive."
"Val—"
"Not. Without. The drive." I turn and meet her eyes. "That's Mia's location. That's the only thing that matters."
"If we stay, we die."
"Then we move fast."
She stares at me. Then she swears under her breath and nods.
We run.
The hallway twists left, then right. The smoke thickens. My eyes start to burn. Sienna's coughing behind me. I can hear voices now—two, maybe three—coming from the stairwell ahead.
I stop. Sienna nearly crashes into me.
"They're between us and the garage," she hisses.
"I know."
"So what do we do?"
I glance at the ceiling. There's a ventilation grate ten feet up, just past the next corner.
"Can you climb?" I ask.
"Can I—what?"
I don't wait for an answer. I grab a fire extinguisher off the wall, wedge it under the grate, and boost myself up. The metal's cold under my palms. I pry the grate loose, shove it aside, and reach down.
"Come on," I say.
Sienna stares at me like I'm insane. Then she grabs my hand.
I haul her up. She's lighter than I expected. Stronger, too. She pulls herself into the duct without a word and I follow, dragging the grate back into place just as footsteps echo below.
"Thermal says they're still in the vault," a man's voice says.
"Then why's the door open?"
"I don't know. Check it."
I press my palm over Sienna's mouth and hold still. Her breath's hot against my skin. Her pulse hammers under my thumb.
The footsteps fade.
I let go. Sienna doesn't move. We're too close. I can feel her ribs expand with every breath. Her eyes are wide, locked on mine.
"You good?" I whisper.
She nods.
I don't believe her. But I don't have time to care.
We crawl.
The duct runs horizontal for twenty feet, then drops. I can see the garage through the slats below—rows of cars under dim emergency lights. The Shelby's in the back corner, just like Sienna said. Tarp pulled tight.
I pry the next grate loose and drop.
Sienna lands beside me a second later. Her hand's on my shoulder for balance. She doesn't pull away.
"There," she says, nodding toward the Shelby.
We move fast. I yank the tarp off. The car's perfect. Black paint, chrome trim, not a scratch. I try the door. Locked.
"Of course," I mutter.
Sienna pulls a slim metal tool from her pocket and hands it over. "You're not the only one who lifts things."
I pop the lock in four seconds. The door swings open. Inside, tucked under the passenger seat, there's a small black case.
I grab it.
The timer over Sienna's head drops from six hours to ten minutes.
I freeze.
"What?" Sienna says.
"We need to move," I say. "Now."
"Why? What did you—"
The case starts beeping.