The chemical stink was everywhere. Antiseptic and burned ceramic mixed together, coating the back of my throat with every breath. I sat in the dark of the supply closet, back against shelves loaded with industrial cleaners, and tried to breathe quietly.

  Outside, boots passed. Then more boots. Then the crackle of a radio.

  "Lost him at the sorting hub. He's in the corporate level somewhere. Sweep sector by sector."

  Vasquez. Calm. Methodical.

  "He can't hide forever. His thermal bleed is getting worse."

  Kessler. Closer now. Right outside the door.

  I stopped breathing. My right hand rested in my lap. The index and middle fingers were pale, waxy. When I tried to flex them, they moved, but I couldn't feel the fabric of my pants beneath them. Couldn't feel anything.

  The boots stopped.

  A long pause. I imagined him looking at the door. Scanning. Waiting.

  Then the radio crackled again.

  "Kessler, pull back to the processing bay. We're rerouting. Something triggered a contaminant alert in the waste line."

  A grunt. Then the boots moved away.

  I waited. Counted to sixty. Then counted again.

  I peeled the glove off my right hand. The skin underneath was a mess—blistered, peeling, raw in some places, dead white in others. The two numb fingers looked almost normal, but when I pressed them with my left thumb, I felt nothing. Just pressure somewhere else, translated through bone.

  I tested my grip on a shelf edge. The fingers didn't close fully. They wouldn't hold anything heavier than a rag.

  I wrapped fresh tape around them, tight enough to compress but not cut off the circulation I couldn't feel. The thermal wrap from before was soaked through, useless. I left it on the floor.

  The interface plate was still pressed against my chest, warm from body heat. Then it got warmer. Not my body. The plate itself.

  I pulled it out. The surface was faintly warm, the exposed circuitry pulsing with a soft, internal light.

  [OMEGA-NULL COMPONENT: PASSIVE HANDSHAKE DETECTED]

  [NEARBY ADMIN TERMINAL: ACTIVE]

  The supply closet didn't have a terminal. But the corridor outside did.

  I waited another thirty seconds. No sounds. No footsteps.

  I cracked the door open. The corridor was empty. Clean white walls, corporate signage, recessed lighting. A terminal sat at the far end, its screen glowing standby blue.

  I moved. Kept low, kept close to the wall. The plate warmed against my chest with each step closer.

  The terminal was a standard issue supply interface. Used for ordering chemicals, tracking inventory, logging spills. Nothing sensitive. But it was connected.

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  I pressed the plate against its reader slot. The induction pins made contact. A soft hum.

  [HANDSHAKE ESTABLISHED]

  [OMEGA-NULL COMPONENT: INTEGRITY 23%]

  [LOCAL NETWORK ACCESS: GRANTED]

  The screen changed. Not the supply interface anymore. A deeper menu. Maintenance logs. System diagnostics. And a personnel registry.

  I scrolled. Found the active contractor list. Three names: VASQUEZ, M., KESSLER, J., and a third, DEKKER, S., marked as DRONE OPERATOR.

  I didn't have time to be subtle. I selected all three, pulled up their IFF profiles, and changed the designation field from "ASSET RECOVERY TEAM" to "HAZARDOUS WASTE - CONTAINMENT REQUIRED."

  Then I hit commit.

  [IFF OVERRIDE ACCEPTED]

  [PROPAGATING TO FACILITY SYSTEMS...]

  [CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS INITIATED FOR DESIGNATED UNITS]

  I pulled the plate free. The handshake dropped. The screen reverted to its blue standby.

  I moved back toward the supply closet, but stopped at the junction. A new sound echoed through the corridor. Not footsteps. Machinery. Automated doors cycling. Bulkheads sealing.

  Then Vasquez's voice, sharp now, not calm.

  "Kessler, why is the system flagging us as contaminants?"

  "I don't—the doors just locked behind me. I'm sealed in the processing bay."

  "Same here. Dekker, status?"

  A pause. Then a third voice, flat, no emotion.

  "Drone just powered down. It's not responding to my commands."

  I smiled. It felt wrong on my face.

  Then I turned and walked back to the supply closet. I had minutes before they figured it out. I needed to use them.

  Inside the closet, I pulled the data slug from my pocket. The one I'd taken from the second casing back in the test bay. Small, thumbnail-sized, marked with the Stasis-Global logo.

  The terminal in the corridor was still accessible. I moved back to it, pressed the slug into a secondary reader slot.

  [EXTERNAL DATA DEVICE DETECTED]

  [DECRYPTING...]

  [ACCESS GRANTED: ARCHIVE LEVEL 3]

  The screen filled with text. Test logs. Variable designations. Processing dates.

  I scrolled past entries I didn't recognize, names that meant nothing. Then I found a file labeled:

  RULE ZERO — INTERNAL — COUNCIL EYES ONLY

  The file opened. Only three lines were visible before an encryption lock slammed it shut.

  [RULE ZERO: SYSTEM INTEGRITY REQUIRES ONE ACTIVE DEVIATION. OMEGA-NULL CANNOT BE DEPLOYED WITHOUT BIOMETRIC CONSENT FROM A CONFIRMED VARIABLE.]

  [RULE ZERO: DEVIATIONS ARE THE ONLY STABLE HOSTS FOR OMEGA-NULL FREQUENCY MODULATION. ATTEMPTED DEPLOYMENT WITHOUT HOST RESULTS IN CATASTROPHIC FEEDBACK.]

  [RULE ZERO: DEVIATION SEVEN IS THE ONLY REMAINING HOST. ALL PRIOR CANDIDATES DECOMMISSIONED.]

  I stared at the words.

  Kaelen couldn't kill me. If I died, the weapon was useless. All his talk of queues and processing, all the threats—they were negotiation tactics. He needed me alive.

  The encryption lock flashed.

  [ACCESS DENIED]

  [RULE ZERO FILE: COUNCIL RESTRICTED]

  [LOG ATTEMPT: REGISTERED]

  I pulled the slug. Too late. The attempt was logged. Kaelen would know.

  I moved back to the supply closet, closed the door, and sat in the dark.

  The plate was warm against my chest. Warm from use. Warm from the handshake. I pressed it against my skin and felt the heat seep into my ribs.

  Then I coughed. The chemical stink from the fog, from the cleaners, from everything—it coated my lungs. I breathed through my mouth, trying to filter it.

  The smell of antiseptic and burned ceramic. It was going to be with me for a long time.

  Outside, the facility hummed. Doors cycled. Bulkheads held. Somewhere, three contractors were trapped in their own containment zones, sealed in by a system that now saw them as waste.

  I had minutes before they figured out how to override it. Maybe less.

  But for now, I was alive. I had the plate. I had the slug. And I had a new piece of information.

  Kaelen couldn't touch me. Not directly. Not without breaking the weapon.

  That changed everything.

  The screen in the corridor flickered. I couldn't see it from the closet, but I heard the chime.

  [FACILITY WIDE PATCH DEPLOYMENT: IN PROGRESS]

  [OMEGA-NULL HANDSHAKE ANOMALY: TRACE ACTIVE]

  [SOURCE: SECTOR 7 CORPORATE LEVEL — SUPPLY CLOSET 4C]

  Footsteps. Not boots. Something lighter, faster. Multiple sets.

  Then a new sound. The ventilation grille above me rattled.

  Click-click-click.

  The tagging unit. It had found me again.

  [REMOTE OVERRIDE: INITIATED]

  [QUARANTINE MODE: ACTIVATING]

  The lights in the corridor died. The emergency backups kicked in, painting everything red.

  I stood, plate in hand, and waited for the door to open.