Chapter 11 · The Anchor Girl

The timer hits forty-five minutes and Rowan's eyes go white.

Not silver. Not pale. White like someone pulled the plug on everything human-adjacent she's been faking since she landed in my freight elevator three days ago. Her pupils blow out, then snap back in, flickering like a bad bulb. The med pod hums louder. The IV line in her arm starts glowing the same cold blue as the burn on her shoulder.

"Rowan?" I'm on my feet before I realize I moved. "Talk to me."

She doesn't. Her head tilts, slow, like she's listening to something I can't hear. Her lips move. No sound comes out.

Jessa's hand lands on my wrist. "Don't touch her. Not yet."

"What's happening?"

"Memory extraction." Jessa's voice is flat. Clinical. The reporter voice she uses when she's forcing herself not to feel anything. "Your mom's countermeasure is pulling data out of the beacon and feeding it back into Rowan's core. She's seeing what Knox planted. All of it."

Rowan's fingers dig into the edge of the pod. The metal dents.

I yank my arm free from Jessa and step closer. "Rowan. Listen to my voice. You're here. You're with me.