Chapter 12 · Tactical Surrender

The perimeter fence dropped at 4:12 in the morning.

I felt it hit before the proximity alarm even shrieked—that deep, sickening vibration rolling straight up through the concrete slab. Chain-link crumpling under heavy tracks like kitchen foil.

Red strobes flooded the hall. Every single sensor went hot.

I had cold coffee sloshing over my knuckles and one boot half-laced. By the time I hit the stairwell, the triage airlocks were cycling, screaming scrubbers pumping chemical ozone into the corridor to scrub out the scent.

Useless. I could smell him anyway.

Pine. Fresh iron. And underneath it, the sweet, rotting reek of blood fever.

"Status," I snapped.

Julian stood dead-center in my triage bay like he owned every square foot of tile. No shirt. A field dressing slapped crooked across his ribs, edges soaked gray and weeping. Six days of running fever had hollowed his cheeks out, carving his jaw to bone and leaving his eyes unnaturally bright.

He turned around slow. Like turning around was a damn courtesy.

"Four rigs in the yard," he said. His voice was gravel. "Two are mine. Two aren't."

"My sensor grid says you brought an army."

"Your fence is flat, Nora.