Because of the audacity of it, was either the bravest or the most reckless thing Grayson had done all evening.

Xavier’s own words were returned to him with the same inflection, the same tempo, the same carefully neutral tone.

Xavier’s jaw twitched, and then he turned on his heel.

"We’re done here." He addressed Colonel Vane. "Log the agreements. Have operational terms drafted by oh-six-hundred. Then send them to Lt. Hawn before joining Mr. Maxwell’s party."

Colonel Vane saluted. "Yes, sir."

And just like that, the meeting was done, and Xavier shook hands with Grayson. His eyebrows slightly furrowed at the contact. Their hands weren’t gripping that tight, but he was sweating hard.

With both of them puzzled at each other’s reactions, they failed to notice that in Grayson’s bracelet, one of the pearls turned completely black.

After releasing their hands, Xavier walked out of the tent, which seemed to be quite in a hurry.

Grayson was already turning on his light brain before the tent flap had stopped swaying.

"Bryan," Grayson said as soon as the call was received. "I need accommodations arranged for Colonel Vane and approximately four to six personnel. Full clearance to common areas, restricted access to the executive floor pending my personal authorization. Use Suite 7-B below my penthouse."

Even from where Pete stood, he could hear Bryan’s voice crackling through the call. It was pitched high enough to suggest that the man was about three sentences away from a full-blown interrogation.

[What do you mean, Colonel Vane—Grayson? What the hell happened? The bombing is all over StarNet. Are you hurt? Is Pete alive? Why is the military assigning you a babysitter? And why am I hearing about this from the news instead of, I don’t know, a DIRECT COMMUNICATION—]

Grayson turned the volume down and said, "Bryan."

But Bryan wasn’t going to just listen right away. [—from my superior, who, may I remind you, I am also personally invested in the continued survival of—]

"BRYAN." Grayson made his voice grave and slightly louder than before. "Suite 7-B. Four to six. I’ll debrief when I’m back."

The line went silent for a beat.

Then, he heard Bryan’s voice, [...Fine. But I’m logging a formal complaint about your communication protocols. AGAIN.]

The call ended.

But Pete could already picture their group chat lighting up like a warzone of its own.

Ciel would probably chat fast with Bryan so that they couldn’t see any other messages.

Thiago would probably demand medical confirmation that everyone still had the correct number of limbs.

Julius would be running threat assessments on the people added by the military to their ranks.

And Lilianna’s silence in the chat would probably be the loudest and most obvious thing in it.

Chronos—

Pete’s chest tightened; he must be worried sick now.

Before he could even think about what to say to Chronos, Pete saw Geron pass between him and Grayson without a word.

Within arm’s length of Grayson, who was still busily typing away in his light brain. A fast movement passed that if Pete hadn’t had a trained eye, he would’ve missed it.

A folded piece of real paper passed from Geron’s hand to Grayson’s.

Grayson felt it and glanced at it for less than a second. Then, without hesitation, he palmed it backward to Pete.

Pete unfolded it against his thigh, keeping the motion small.

Four words, written by hand that were neither rushed nor careful—just certain:

They are after you.

Pete read it twice, and then he folded the paper into a tight square. He slipped it into the inner lining of his jacket, where the fabric had a stitched compartment originally designed for emergency field notes.

They already knew that what these people were after was really Grayson, not Lilianna.

The Mecha Research Institute had been targeted because Grayson had interests there—because Pete worked there—because of the web of connections that the Maxwell Corporation had in there while mixing strategic ventures.

Cut the nerve, cripple the body.

But Geron sending a physical note meant that the baron believed the threat was grave enough to warrant analog communication.

That it wasn’t just as simple as cutting Grayson’s interests. That, taking Lilianna because they knew her as Grayson’s friend, there was something special about her to warrant this kind of treatment.

But rather something more?

When Pete looked up, Geron was already gone, swallowed by the dark and the dust.

Then, his special notification chimed.

Pete’s hand went to his light brain before his conscious mind had fully processed the sound.

It was the tone he had assigned to exactly one contact.

A frequency-modulated ping that bypassed his standard message filters and hit a secondary alert channel he had set up specifically so he would never miss it.

But when he opened his light brain, his inbox was a disaster.

There were dozens of messages from colleagues, research associates, departmental heads, journalists (how the hell had journalists gotten his private channel?), and at least three automated system alerts from the Institute’s now-defunct security network, still faithfully reporting breaches in a building that practically no longer existed.

But Pete ignored all of them.

There, buried beneath the avalanche of notifications, was the name he was looking for.

From: C-Love

Pete tapped the message open and felt the breath leave his lungs.

○●○●

BLERRGHHH

Chronos had been vomiting for most of the afternoon, and he was getting very, very tired of the bathroom floor.

It wasn’t the dramatic kind of sickness—no cold sweats, no trembling hands gripping porcelain while haunting orchestral music swelled in the background.

It was just a normal, miserable, deeply unglamorous kind. His stomach simply decided, at irregular intervals, that whatever he ate needed to be poured outside immediately.

So, Chronos, who was simply lying on Pete’s couch and staring at the ceiling, would suddenly stop at what he was doing and run to the bathroom, and kneel on the heated tile until his body finished its business.

Then he would rinse his mouth, splash water on his face, and go back to the couch.

Repeat.

Miserable, right?

But the strange part was that nothing else was wrong. No splitting headaches. No vertigo that sent the room spinning. No blurred vision or muscle weakness or any of the dozen symptoms that he knew.

Just the persistent vomiting like clockwork, utterly inexplicable.

Well, it’s not completely inexplicable.

But Chronos just wasn’t ready to consider the most obvious explanation yet.