Chapter 11 · That Ain't My Signature

Ryan didn't let go of the chip. Derek's blood was still on it, sticky between his fingers, and he held it up to the light like maybe the smudge would explain why his own name was sitting on a military consent form he didn't remember signing.

Derek was slumped against the wall, breathing shallow, one hand pressed to his ribs. He wasn't looking at Ryan anymore. Just staring at the floor like he'd already said too much.

"When'd I sign this?" Ryan asked.

Derek coughed. Didn't answer.

"Derek."

"Three years ago. Week before the Caracas job."

Ryan's jaw tightened. Caracas was the extraction that went sideways. The one where his limiter fried and half the squad didn't make it out. He remembered the firefight. Remembered the heat signature going haywire on his HUD. Remembered waking up in a med bay with his nervous system lit up like a fusebox and no one willing to tell him what the hell happened.

He didn't remember signing anything.

"I don't buy it," Ryan said. "I would've told you to shove that contract up your ass."

"You did," Derek muttered.