Time melted away into a hazy void. Flickers of a long-forgotten boy danced through her mind like brittle shards of an ancient mosaic fragments that had lain dormant for years now jarringly aligned before her eyes. His once-beloved face, which she had nearly erased from memory, now emerged contorted and ravaged by a silent, corrosive force. With a simmering bitterness of regret, Tyler edged forward, his movement measured yet heavy with unspoken sorrow, as he slid along the sterile corridor toward the looming elevator doors. His hands, stretched wide in a desperate bid for support, pressed against the unforgiving wall. In that relentless moment, a torrent of pity and searing shame crashed over her, each pulse of her heart echoing the irreversible cost of the past.
He was another casualty steeped not in the corrupt machinations of society, but in the shadow of her own faltering resolve. The bitter proof of the cowardice that had plagued her existence now manifested before her eyes. Tyson had warned her well: the hunger of regrets was returning, as inevitable as a roosting chicken. With a tightening grip on reality, Noel forced her focus onto the grim present, though her eyes betrayed her; she could not escape the sight of his—once tender, hazel orbs reminiscent of his father's and grandfather's warmth—now morphed into dead, coal-like embers ignited in a sickly, tortured red. "No, my son," she whispered, the words heavy with both anguish and disbelief, as the broken visage before her sealed the irrevocable cost of choices long made.
Her hand—a trembling, hesitant plea—extended toward him, as if reaching for a salvation that had long since slipped away. In that silent gesture lay the unspoken promise to hold him, to ease his torment, to mend the hurt that no longer belonged to the past. But fate had already closed that door; this fragile moment of compassion was forever lost.
A shrill chime from the elevator bell abruptly shattered the stillness, its sound a dissonant reminder of impending change. The carriage jerked suddenly, emitting a high-pitched metallic wail that resonated like a dying cry through the corridor. It was a fitting score to the agony at hand.
With a final, deliberate momentum, the elevator doors slid shut, each movement precise and final, sealing the compartment with a resonant thud. In that echoing closure, she and Nolan pressed forward through the sliding passage, ascending toward the roof where new dangers—and perhaps a flicker of hope—awaited.
Beneath them, a disquieting, relentless pounding reverberated against the metal shaft doors, an ominous drumbeat that faded into insignificance against the urgency of the moment. High above, the unmistakable whirl of helicopter blades sliced through the heavy air, a harbinger of chaos looming over the scene. Resolute, Noel decided it was time to marshal her resolve. The elevator’s cramped interior offered barely enough room for her and Nolan, the gurney commandeering nearly every inch of space. With precise, almost desperate contortions, she extricated a rugged duffle bag that had been wedged amidst a tangle of equipment, hoisting it over her shoulder. Its clattering, a staccato rattle against the narrow confines, punctuated the tension like a prelude to the storm yet to come.
With a surge of grim determination, she reached back once more, her fingers closing around the weight familiar of her rifle. In one fluid, precise motion, she extracted a loaded magazine from the recesses of her pocket and slid it seamlessly into place—a silent promise in the midst of chaos. The control panel blinked urgently, its numerical beacon settling on “6” like a countdown in neon; only four floors remained in this precarious ascent.
Bending low amidst the cramped confines of the lift, she grasped the briefcase terminal—its cool surface a tether to the mission's last vestige of order—and carefully positioned it beside Nolan on the gurney. A whispered thought crept through her mind, terse and resolute: “We're almost there.” In that fleeting moment, as every second bristled with impending calamity, she recognized that this meticulous routine was all the preparation they could muster before plunging deeper into the unknown.
Noel’s thoughts raced to Jax—did he lurk among the shadows on the roof, waiting like a silent guardian? What secrets did that elevated haven conceal? She had never seen it in all its mystery. In the past, when they had covertly set up shop, they had ascended on foot, a careful choice to stay unseen. Now every fiber of her being tingled with genuine curiosity. In the charged quiet of the cramped lift, she murmured under her breath, “Jax… ” Each ascending floor promised to unveil another layer of the unknown, and the rooftop beckoned with the allure of hidden truths waiting to be revealed.
The elevator coughed and spluttered its familiar protest—stalling mid-ascent like a reluctant beast—before finally settling into a lethargic pause. The doors crept open to unleash a maelstrom of urgency. Outside, chaos reigned: individuals surged to and fro in a frantic waltz, clutching bags and boxes as if escaping an impending doom. In the heart of this pandemonium, Noel’s senses reeled. Her eyes darted over a sea of hurried faces as she searched desperately for one in particular. A strangled whisper escaped her lips, barely audible over the clamor, “Where are you?” Her disorientation mingled with mounting suspense, each passing second a reminder that amidst the turmoil, time was her most unforgiving enemy.
Before her, a formidable Chinook helicopter loomed like a metallic leviathan, its rotors a relentless fury of sound that tore through the silence. The deafening blades churned the air into savage gusts, lashing at Noel’s face with the force of a tempest and compelling her to instinctively shield her eyes. As the wind battered her, she stole a quick glance back at Nolan—a silent affirmation of their unity, before bracing herself to move toward the airborne behemoth.
The corridor beyond was a chaotic mosaic: massive totes and rugged Pelican cases were strewn about like forgotten relics, while a throng of desperate people moved in erratic, disjointed flows. Each step was a battle against the surging crowd, a race against the pulse of imminent danger. Amid the clamor, her voice cut through the din with urgent clarity, “Someone, please—explain what’s happening here!”
Driven by a mix of determination and trepidation, Noel pressed forward into the heart of the tumult, her senses alert to every whispered rumor and frantic exclamation. In that charged moment, she knew that deciphering the chaos could mean the difference between salvage and total collapse.
As the helicopter began its ascent, its roaring cascade receded into the distance, unveiling a solitary figure clad in a vibrant orange safety vest and a gleaming helmet. The man stood alert amidst the aftermath of chaos, an anchor in a sea of frenzied movement. With a mixture of cautious resolve and lingering desperation, Noel moved toward him, her heart pounding as she struggled to place the familiar yet unnamed face she’d glimpsed before. In a silent yet confident gesture, she lifted her hand in a tentative wave—the clamor of rotor blades now reduced to a manageable murmur as the chopper climbed higher into the twilight. Steeling herself against the jitter of uncertainty, she called out with restrained urgency, “Have you seen Jax?”
The man inclined his head in measured acknowledgment, his eyes narrowing as they roved over the restless expanse of the night. "Yeah," he murmured in a hushed tone laden with unspoken concern, "he didn’t want to go. He said he was looking for you. I insisted you’d meet him at the rendezvous." His voice dropped as he scanned the star-flecked sky, each word dripping with urgency. A long, weighted pause stretched between them until he finally added, "I think he’s probably on..." His voice faltered, lost amid the shifting shadows, then he leaned slightly forward as if to share a clandestine secret. "There," he declared, nodding toward a distant glow, "that's the one being loaded when I saw him."
Amid the bedlam, a pair of strobing lights pulsed into existence—brief, desperate beacons that flickered and then vanished into the consuming darkness. In that ephemeral glow, a gentle wave of relief began to wash over her, softening the relentless edge of fear for a moment. With the air still crackling from the recent chaos, she turned to him, her voice low and urgent, “Thank you. Any idea when the next chopper is coming?” Her question cut through the tension like a blade, each word weighted with hope and the desperate need for rescue.
He shook his head slowly, the movement laden with resignation and urgency. "They’ve rerouted the choppers to the garage," he murmured, his tone low and steady amid the chaos. "It could be a while—maybe twenty to thirty minutes." He paused, his eyes briefly scanning the teeming crowd on the roof—faces pressed together in anxious clusters, desperate for escape. "Hang tight up here," he commanded. "I’m going down to figure out how many more people we need to get out of this mess." With that, he turned and melded into the throng, disappearing into the mass of people as the busy rooftop swallowed his silhouette.
Noel’s eyes flickered to the tumult above as strobing lights sliced through the darkness—one the man had indicated, the familiar glow of the aircraft they’d just escaped, and a third, ominous beacon materializing in the distance. With heavy, measured steps filled with contemplative dread, she turned back toward Nolan.
Then, a roar of devastation shattered the fragile calm: a massive explosion erupted behind her, its fury soon joined by another ear-splitting detonation. The third chopper, desperately evading enemy fire, plummeted as another barrage of missiles slammed into its vulnerable frame. Flames burst forth in a hellish display as three helicopters succumbed to the inferno, their burning forms silhouetted against the thrumming menace of circling jets.
“Move! Get down!” someone screamed from the crowd as panic took hold of the rooftop. Amid the cacophony of terrified shouts and the clatter of fleeing footsteps toward the stairwell at the front door, the relentless staccato of a jet’s minigun rang out, each burst hammering the roof with savage precision. A jet swooped low overhead with a piercing whoosh, forcing Noel to duck instinctively. Without warning, another jet opened fire, its merciless minigun unleashing a barrage that lit the night with violent sparks. Every sound, every flash, drove home the relentless urgency of their escape.
Noel finally made her way back to Nolan, weaving through the chaos toward the elevators positioned directly opposite the stairway into the building. The rooftop lay hauntingly silent now—every living soul had scurried inside, leaving behind only the echo of their desperate retreat. Gripping her rifle, she adjusted its night vision optics and peered through the green-tinted lens. In the distance, two predatory jets circled ominously, their engines a low, menacing hum in the night. A storm of thoughts roiled within her as she contemplated the stark reality: could her humble 5.56 stand a chance against such a formidable war machine? In a low, tremulous murmur meant only for the darkness, she wondered, “Is this my final shot at survival?”
From across the way, down the shadowed staircase, anguished screams sliced through the air—a raw, violent outcry that hinted at horror unfolding within. Inside, something brutal was taking place, a maddening clamor of pain and despair. In a heartbeat gripped by dread, Noel pivoted sharply; her rifle, steady despite the tremor in her hands, locked onto the door that led into the chaos. The screams swelled, echoing and drawing ever closer, until they halted as suddenly as they began, plunging the scene into an unnerving silence. In that heavy calm, only the distant, persistent drone of airborne jets could be heard—a sound that promised further peril. Then, emerging from the murk of night, Noel saw them: sleek, predatory silhouettes of jets circling ominously above, their presence a stark reminder that the danger was far from over.
Through the fractured doorway, Noel’s scope revealed ghostly figures emerging from the building—a disconcerting parade of the once-formidable COA operatives now marred by a receding software virus. The viral corruption had loosened its grip, and in its weakening wake, their forms materialized in hesitant succession: first two, then four, then five—a slow, deliberate trickle advancing with disjointed, glitching steps. Their movements were erratic, their eyes vacant, each one still searching in vain for Nolan.
A cold surge of determination coursed through her as she raised her weapon. In a terse, resolute whisper to herself—“Not on my watch”—she charged the rifle, her fingers working the mechanism with fierce precision. With every pull of the lever, the tension mounted until she took definitive aim, her focus unwavering amid the unfolding chaos.
Well-aimed shots flared into the night, but each precise round only seemed to brush the advancing figures, a futile attempt at halting their relentless approach. They staggered, their movements momentarily disrupted as if caught in a spasmodic dance; at times, a few fell, but the rest regrouped and continued, inexorably drawing nearer. Frustration clawed at her as she switched to burst fire, the rapid discharges denting their momentum just enough to slow the tide, yet never to stop it.
"Come on, fall back!" she hissed through gritted teeth, frantic and desperate as she reloaded once more. The rhythm of her reloads—an endless cycle of survival instinct—became a discordant metronome to the battle. Each snap of the magazine and each squeeze of the trigger was met with a grim realization: it was no use. They played with her resolve, toying with her fear as they closed their distance, now only halfway from her, shrouded by the oppressive darkness and the weight of impending doom.
Click. The sudden mechanical stutter of her malfunctioning rifle echoed like a death knell in the oppressive silence. In that heart-stopping moment, the COA soldiers halted their relentless advance—frozen mid-stride, their progress suspended as if by dark magic. They were now roughly halfway, and through the haze of imminent threat, she caught sight of a soldier with a sinister, almost predatory smirk; he seemed to relish this agonizing pause, as if every second stretched his satisfaction.
All around her, the roar of jets reverberated through the night sky, their engines a relentless, warlike thrum that underscored the pending doom. The cacophony of metallic howls and distant explosions set her thoughts racing—pondering whether her end would be delivered by the unyielding force of those aerial beasts or by the steady, inexorable approach of the COA soldiers. The weight of waiting, soaked in dread and unfulfilled expectation, was more than she could bear.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Unable to stand the mounting tension any longer, she flung the inert rifle aside with raw defiance. In a voice edged with furious determination, she screamed into the tumult, “If you want him, come and take him!”
#
Lil’lah had never been born for the cockpit—her mind thrived in the realm of circuitry, mechanics, and theoretical design, not the ruthless chaos of aerial combat. Yet, within the armada, flight was not a choice but a mandate, a barrier she had no option but to cross if she wished to ascend in rank as a Sentry. So she had chosen the vortex striker-class interceptor—not for its firepower, not for its aggression, but for its speed, its ability to maneuver, to escape when needed.
She had never wanted this. The thought of engaging in aerial or space warfare gnawed at her, an unshakable terror that coiled deep in her chest. The unnatural stillness before battle, the violent beauty of explosions scattering in the vacuum of space, the sharp, unforgiving reflexes required to survive—it all felt foreign, like a language she wasn’t meant to speak. But the armada cared little for personal fears. Every Sentry was expected to fly. Every Sentry was expected to fight.
Lil’lah barely registered the shift in her breathing as her systems flared to life, a sharp notification flashing across her console—hostile aircraft detected. The message blinked with measured precision, indifferent to the weight it carried.
Then, in rapid succession, alarms chimed in, cascading warnings like ripples in the dark. Her warp drive integrity flickered uncertain on her readouts, the satellites she had tapped into whispering cautions in stark data streams—no-fly zone detected. A quiet but insistent advisory followed: Ba’urgeon regulations recommend activating your transmitter in hostile environments.
Her fingers hovered over the controls, reluctant. The air around her ship felt dense, charged with something unseen. Regulations told her what she should do, but instinct urged hesitation. There was more to this space than static warnings—more than restrictions and protocol. Something wasn’t right. She exhaled slowly, listening to the quiet hum of her vessel, searching for whatever it was she wasn’t being told.
She flipped the switch. A faint hum pulsed through the cockpit as her transmitter came to life, its frequencies stretching outward. Static buzzed briefly before Roel’s voice broke through, sharp and urgent.
“Lil’lah! We’ve been trying to reach you—where have you been?”
There was no frustration in his tone, only the clipped efficiency of someone pressed for time. A clear signal—whatever was happening, it demanded immediate attention.
Lil’lah narrowed her eyes at the transmission, fingers tightening around the flight controls. “Who’s ‘we’?” she asked, the words edged with suspicion.
Roel’s voice crackled through the comms, his response swift, urgent. “Ka’eel and I—we’re closing in on Earth, following your trail. We’ve been right behind you.”
Lil’lah’s mind raced, but Roel didn’t wait for a response. “Did you check the log files?” His tone carried more weight than the question alone—something buried in it, pressing for attention.
“No,” she admitted, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I don’t have time to dig into them now.”
Her focus snapped back to the battlefield ahead, to the distant chaos unfolding below. “I found them—Noel and Nolan. They’re pinned down. And it’s not just them. We’ve got hostiles to deal with.”
Silence stretched on the line—brief, heavy. Then Roel exhaled sharply, as if bracing for the inevitable. “Understood.”
Ka’eel’s voice cut through the comms, steady, measured. “We could engage the fighters,” he suggested, the words carrying the weight of a soldier prepared to act.
Lil’lah responded without hesitation, her tone firm, resolute. “No. Redirect to the rooftop.” Her hands tightened around the flight controls as she recalibrated her course. “Noel and Nolan need extraction. The soldiers on the roof are sitting targets—get them out. Leave the aircraft alone. I’ll lead them away.”
Silence hung for only a breath before Roel answered. “Understood.”
Ka’eel followed, his acceptance swift and unquestioning. Without another word, the pair veered off, breaking formation, their vessels angling toward the rooftop as Lil’lah braced for what came next.
Lil’lah slipped into the airspace, the hum of her vessel a steady pulse against the void. Her spark guided her—an intangible force tethered to instinct, pulling her toward the familiar skyline rising beyond the haze. As she neared, the outlines sharpened, the garage rooftop coming into view through the flickering readouts of her display.
With a deliberate shift in trajectory, she angled her craft downward, skimming over the rooftops in a controlled pass. The city lights flickered below, casting fleeting reflections against the sleek curvature of her vessel. The motion was smooth, practiced—but not unnoticed.
Like a predator sensing movement in the underbrush, the fighters snapped to attention, their formations shifting as they locked onto her presence. Lil’lah knew the moment their sights adjusted—the weight of pursuit settling upon her shoulders.
#
A deafening supersonic boom split the air, rattling the foundations of the building with bone-shaking force. The impact sent a tremor through Noel’s frame, her breath catching as she instinctively flinched.
Before she could fully process the shock, a streak of brilliant blue tore across the sky—a blur so fast, so unnatural, it seemed to bend the very fabric of motion. The battlefield froze. The COA soldiers halted mid-step, locked in the eerie suspension of minds struggling to comprehend what their eyes had just witnessed.
Circling above, the alien craft maneuvered with an elegance far beyond human engineering—its movements fluid, calculated, predatory. The air hummed beneath its presence, tension unraveling into something colder, deeper. For the first time, the enemy’s aggression faltered. And in that fleeting moment, the fight was no longer just between soldiers.
It had become something else entirely.
Noel flinched as the alien craft streaked past, leaving behind a twisting veil of vivid blue energy. It shimmered against the skyline, unnatural yet mesmerizing, a fluid light trailing in its wake. She had never seen anything move like that—so precise, so fast, defying everything she understood about flight.
The COA soldiers stood stiff, their postures faltering. Their weapons remained drawn, but hesitation crept into their stance. They had come prepared for resistance, for familiar opposition, but this... this was something beyond expectation.
Noel didn’t know what the arrival meant, but she could feel the weight of uncertainty shift across the battlefield. The fight had changed. And no one was ready for it.
The COA pressed forward with renewed urgency, their focus locked onto Nolan—their primary target. Their movements quickened, the hesitation from moments prior dissolving as they closed in on Noel with sharp efficiency. Then, a sudden, violent shift in the air.
A loud whipping sound tore through the battlefield, cutting past the howl of wind and distant gunfire. Noel instinctively snapped her head toward the noise just as another vessel streaked into view—a brilliant blue shape, larger than the first, its angular form distinct yet foreign in design. It moved with fluid precision, sweeping down in a controlled descent and carving through the space between her and the advancing COA soldiers.
The air thrummed with the force of its arrival, kicking up dust and debris as its presence split the battlefield in two. The enemy stopped. Noel barely breathed. Everything had just changed. Again.
A storm of green lasers erupted from the alien craft, each burst slicing through the battlefield with precise, unrelenting force. The rapid-fire volleys tore through the COA ranks, sending bodies crumpling before they had time to react. The air thickened with the scent of scorched metal and ozone, the relentless assault ripping away any semblance of control the soldiers once had.
Then, with a sharp mechanical hiss, another door slid open on the opposite side of the vessel—this time facing Noel. A ramp extended, unfolding with seamless precision, its smooth metallic surface catching the dim light. From the shadows within, a figure emerged.
Tall. Slender. Blue. It moved with effortless grace, stepping forward with an air of certainty. Its gaze locked onto Noel, unreadable yet undeniably focused. Then, without hesitation, it extended a hand—long fingers reaching toward her in silent offering. The being spoke, its voice fluid, unfamiliar, carrying the tones of a language she couldn’t place. But even without understanding the words, she knew. It wasn’t her enemy. It was her way out.
She ignored the outstretched hand, instead jerking her chin toward Nolan. Without a word, she gripped the gurney’s frame and pushed forward, its wheels rattling against the uneven surface as she strained to maneuver it up the ramp.
The alien watched her—silent, composed—until she struggled to lift Nolan from the bed. Without hesitation, it moved, stepping forward with an almost unnatural fluidity. Long fingers wrapped around the Cyborg’s form, lifting him effortlessly as if he weighed nothing. Then it stilled.
Something unseen rippled through the air as the being paused, its gaze sharpening, its grip shifting as it felt it—his spark. A connection deeper than circuitry, more than metal and flesh. The pulse that tethered him to the Ba’urgeons. To the One Mind. The very reason for their mission.
With careful precision, the alien placed Nolan into one of the drop seats, securing the straps with a practiced ease before turning away. The ship thrummed beneath them, its ascent beginning. Noel, duffle slung across her shoulder, terminal at her feet, barely had time to brace herself before the world fell away, the sky swallowing them whole.
#
Roel sank into the seat beside Ka’eel, exhaling as the tension of the extraction settled into his frame. The hum of the ship’s controls thrummed beneath his fingertips as he reached for the transmitter. “Lil’lah, we have Noel and Nolan. Requesting orders.”
Her response was swift, clipped with urgency. “Hold position. Keep those COA at bay while I take the fighters.”
Roel acknowledged, already refocusing on the battlefield below. But then— A flash of movement. A shape cutting through the sky.
Lil’lah’s voice erupted through the channel, sharp, furious. “Who is that? That other ship! Disengage! Disengage! Who is that?!”
Her words hit like a shockwave, raw and demanding. Something was wrong. Something she hadn’t planned for. And now, everything hinged on the answer.
#
Jo’rah had no comms—only the sharp hum of Cly’yn’s starship vibrating through the cockpit, a low, steady pulse against the chaos outside. It had been a long time since he had flown a mission on-planet, longer still since those missions had been in a fighter. The atmosphere tugged at the vessel with unfamiliar force, and his movements lacked the precision of practiced hands.
He had gotten turned around, the planet’s pull a quiet adversary, but when his eyes locked on the unfolding pursuit ahead—Lil’lah’s interceptor cutting through the sky, hunted—everything else fell away.
His response was instinct.
Cly’yn’s starship lurched forward, the engines roaring against the drag of Earth’s gravity as he forced it into position. The adjustment was rough, the turns imperfect, but it didn’t matter. The moment the craft ducked in behind the fighters, the battle shifted.
His weapons came alive. Even sloppy piloting could still be deadly.
#
Noel’s mind reeled as she moved through the vessel, every surface, every detail an assault on her senses. This was beyond technology—it was artistry, something alive. The Ba’urgeons themselves stood like sentinels, their tall, striking forms both familiar and utterly alien. They had hair, like humans, but their features were refined, elongated. Their fingers stretched longer, more dexterous, built for something beyond human precision. But their eyes—those were what truly set them apart.
Brilliant. Unnatural. They burned like celestial bodies, hues so intense they seemed to swallow light, locking you in their gravity. She had seen beautiful things before, but nothing like this. Nothing that made her feel as if she were standing before something ancient and infinite.
She drifted through the corridors, tracing their smooth, seamless construction, following the distant hum of energy that pulsed through the ship’s core. The air was different here—not thick with recycled oxygen, but something finer, purer, charged with an underlying force she didn’t understand.
When she reached the cockpit, Roel and Ka’eel remained where she expected—seated, watching in silence as Cly’yn’s fighter tore through the Earth ships with lethal precision. The glow of the control panels flickered across their faces, casting a sharp contrast against their deep blue skin. Slowly, she approached. Roel caught sight of her first, his gaze shifting with a quiet intensity as she stepped closer. She hesitated, then let the words fall. “Thank you.”
He didn’t react at first. Just stared. Then, without breaking eye contact, he turned slightly, murmuring something to Ka’eel in their language—low, fluid, unreadable. She couldn’t grasp the words, but the meaning hovered in the air, just beyond comprehension. She understood enough. Uncertain, she reached out, fingers grazing Roel’s arm to get his attention. The moment she touched him, it hit.
A surge. Not like electricity, not like warmth, but something deeper—something that gripped her consciousness and pulled. Her breath left her in a sharp gasp, mind expanding, unraveling in a way she had never known before. Roel flinched, not from pain, but from recognition. He felt it too. Something had connected them. And it was far more than simple contact.
The moment their fingers touched, Noel felt it—a sudden, fluid unraveling of thought, as if her mind had been thrust into open air. It wasn’t just sensation. It was communication. A connection forged not by words, but by something deeper, something raw.
She jerked back instinctively, her breath catching, her mind racing to comprehend the impossible. Roel recoiled too, his sharp gaze flickering with the same stunned realization. Yet neither of them could ignore what had happened. Tentatively, almost hesitantly, they reached forward again. Their fingertips met. Noel’s thoughts stilled. A blank slate. A void waiting to be filled.
Then, a voice. Deep. Resonant. Not spoken, but manifested. “My name is Roel Mu-yah. You must be Noel.”
Her heart seized. How did he know her name? How could he possibly know her? A cold shudder rippled through her spine as she instinctively yanked her hand back, but Roel’s grip remained firm—not forceful, just steady.
“No. Don’t be afraid.”
But the words offered no comfort. If anything, they deepened the unease clawing at her chest.
Her mind raced in frantic loops, searching for an anchor, an explanation. How did they know her? Were they part of Caliber? Was this a trap?
Her thoughts spiraled, flitting to escape routes, possibilities, desperation. How could she break away now? And even if she did, where would she go? Where were her colleagues? Where had Jax gone? Was he on one of those choppers, or had he made it to the parking garage? Or was this how her story was going to end?
#
Roel’s mind surged with the flood of Noel’s thoughts, cascading like rapid-fire data streams, each carrying vivid recollections. He didn’t just hear them—he felt them, immersed in snapshots of her fear, her uncertainty, her desperate search for an anchor in the chaos.
One memory stood out. The parking structure. Smaller than this rooftop, but significant in her mind—a place that meant safety, that meant her people. If they were there, it was a gesture he couldn’t ignore. He let go.
Noel stumbled back from the force, nearly losing her footing, her breath sharp as she caught herself. Roel straightened in his chair, scanning the horizon, his expression taut with understanding.
“She’s terrified.” His voice was low, almost reflective. “I don’t blame her. I shouldn’t have said her name—I’d be freaked out too.” His gaze locked onto the distant structure, his hand lifting to point. “There. Her people are over there. Let her go to them.” Without hesitation, he picked up the transmitter, his voice steady as he relayed the update to Lil’lah. “The rescue’s complete—Nolan and Noel are secure. New priority: returning her to her team.” The mission wasn’t over yet. But the battlefield had shifted. Now, it was about something bigger than survival. It was about trust. And this was how it started.
