Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 159(@200wpm)___ 127(@250wpm)___ 106(@300wpm)
Crewe hovers nearby. He’s pretending he isn’t hovering. But he totally is. He leans against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, coffee mug in hand, watching me like I’m a mission he refuses to lose.
“You’re going to get a paper cut,” he says.
I don’t look up. “If I bleed out from a paper cut, I want you to know it’s Brenda’s fault.”
His mouth twitches, just barely. “Still blaming Finance.”
“Always.”
I flip through another notebook, handwriting slanting across the page. It’s messy in the way only my handwriting can be—like my thoughts were sprinting and my pen was trying to keep up.
I pause on a page titled: FAILSAFES + HUMAN ERROR = ALWAYS ASSUME THE HUMAN WILL RUIN IT.
My throat tightens.
I swallow and keep going.
Because this is what I do when I’m scared. I dig. I analyze. I find patterns. I make lists. I build logic ladders out of panic until I can climb out.
Except tonight, every page feels like proof that someone is inside my world.
Maybe inside my head.
I slide open a folder and a photograph slips out onto the rug.
Not a printed photo.
A Polaroid.
Old. Slightly bent at the corner. Two people in it—me, younger, smiling too big, face sunburned and happy. And him beside me, arm slung around my shoulders like he owns them.
Evan Bell.
My stomach drops so hard I swear it hits the floorboards.
Crewe’s gaze sharpens instantly. He doesn’t move closer, but the air around him changes. Tightens.
“Who’s that?” he asks, voice calm in the way a blade is calm.
I stare at the photo like it might burst into flames if I glare hard enough. “My ex.”
The word tastes bitter. Like old coffee left on a hot plate.
Crewe’s eyebrows lift a fraction. “Your ex.”
I don’t like the way he says it. Not accusing. Not judgmental. Just… alert.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “And before you ask—no, I don’t have a lot of old exes sniffing around.”
His mouth twitches again. “Wasn’t going to ask that.”
I flip the photo over. On the back, in my handwriting, there’s a date and a joke.
Evan + Riley / Test Range / Don’t let me crash the drone again lol
My chest tightens. The memory tries to rise—warm sun, laughter, that early feeling of being seen by someone who thinks your brain is the coolest thing about you.
Back when I didn’t know “being seen” could turn into being watched.
I push the memory down and keep flipping through the folder. There are old printed notes from an early project—back when my work was half-baked and hopeful and not yet important enough for anyone to break into a base lab over.
A sticky note is stuck to one page, curling at the edges. Evan’s handwriting—sharp, lean, too neat.
Your code is beautiful. Don’t ever let anyone “simplify” it. They won’t understand what it is. What YOU are.
My skin prickles.
Crewe sets his mug down. “Riley.”
Something about the way he says my name makes my spine straighten. Like my body knows to take him seriously even when my brain is in a spiral.
I swallow. “He went off-grid months ago.”
Crewe’s eyes narrow. “Explain.”
I exhale, rubbing my palm over my thigh like I can wipe the goosebumps away. “He was… talented. He worked drones like they were an extension of his hands. He always wanted to push things further. Faster. More autonomous.”
Crewe doesn’t blink.
“And,” I add quietly, “he always liked my coding. Too much.”
Crewe’s jaw clenches.
“He wasn’t violent,” I say quickly, because something about Crewe’s stillness makes me want to defend even the parts of my past I’m not proud of. “He was just… intense. He didn’t love that I chose Ridgeway over him. He said the base would swallow my work and spit it out as a weapon.”
Crewe’s voice drops. “Did he threaten you?”
“No,” I say, then hesitate. “Not directly. But he got weird when I pulled away. He’d show up at my apartment. He’d send long emails. He’d talk like my code belonged to him too because he ‘understood’ it.”
I realize my hands are shaking when the folder crackles under my grip.
“I thought he’d eventually move on,” I whisper. “But then he disappeared. Ghosted. No social media. No contact. Just… gone. I was relieved.”
Crewe’s eyes stay on my face, not the papers. Like he’s trying to measure how deep the fear is under my words.
“And now,” I say, voice thin, “my lab is destroyed, my code is being used like a weapon, and someone is sending me messages like they know me. Like they’ve been in my life the whole time.”
Crewe doesn’t hesitate. He reaches for his phone.
“Crewe—”
“I’m calling Chen,” he says, already moving.
I scramble to my feet, clutching the photo. “It’s just a thought. I don’t know if it means anything.”
“It means something,” he says, tone firm. “We don’t ignore possibilities.”
He steps a few feet away, still within my line of sight. His shoulders square the moment the call connects, like his spine locks into duty.