Chapter Six
Amid the Chaos
Riley pressed her back against the cold concrete wall, her breath coming in shallow, measured gasps. The distant staccato of gunfire reverberated through the labyrinthine hallways of the building, each burst followed by muffled shouts and the occasional scream. Emergency alarms blared in disjointed intervals, their grating wail bouncing off the walls and making her already pounding head throb harder. Red emergency lights flickered sporadically, painting the scene in a disorienting, hellish glow that made the shadows dance like living things.
She adjusted her goggles, the faint hum of the HUD overlay a small comfort amidst the chaos. Her good hand tightened around the bone saw, its slick handle reminding her of how woefully unprepared she was for this. The tool might as well have been a twig against the cold steel of Flint's cybernetics, but it was all she had. Her father's voice echoed in her memory: "Sometimes the best weapon isn't the sharpest blade—it's the one you know how to use."
The air reeked of smoke and charred metal, undercut by the acrid tang of sweat and blood. Her stomach churned as memories of the operating room flashed through her mind—the cold table, the restraints, Malicor's clinical detachment as he'd prepared to strip away her humanity piece by piece. She pushed the thoughts down, focusing instead on the burning in her mangled thumb. The pain kept her present, kept her angry. And right now, anger was better than fear.
Somewhere nearby, a ganger was shouting orders. "Hold your ground! They're not getting out of here alive!" His voice cracked with desperation, a sharp contrast to the confident taunts she'd heard when they had her strapped to the table. The sound made her lips curl into a bitter smile. Let them feel what it was like to be hunted.
Riley let Chirp peek around the corner, her goggles highlighting faint heat signatures in the distance. She caught a glimpse of three gangers sprinting past the hallway intersection ahead, their silhouettes jagged and uneven. They were running scared, their movements panicked and uncoordinated. The sight stirred something dark and satisfying in her chest.
She darted forward, Chirp bobbing unsteadily by her shoulder, its damaged stabilizers whining with every movement. She stayed low and moved as quickly as her battered body would allow, each step a reminder of what they'd done to her. Her bare feet stung against the cold, uneven floor, but she ignored the pain. Every second mattered now. Flint was somewhere in this maze, and she wasn't leaving without finding him—without taking back what was hers.
The sound of heavy boots clattered nearby, and Riley's heart froze. She ducked into a shadowed alcove just as a group of gangers rushed past, their voices overlapping in panicked chatter. Their fear was palpable, thick enough to taste.
"They've breached the east wing!" one of them yelled, his voice cracking.
"Call for reinforcements!" another shouted, panic bleeding through his words. "We can't—"
A sharp explosion cut him off, shaking the walls and sending a fine mist of dust raining down from the ceiling. The gangers cursed and ran faster, their footsteps fading into the distance like thunder rolling away.
Riley exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay still as the debris settled. Her muscles screamed at her to move, to run, to fight—but she knew better. Her father had taught her that patience often meant the difference between life and death. Not yet. Wait for it.
When the hall was quiet again, she slipped out of her hiding spot. "Chirp?" The drone's light flickered weakly in response, and her chest tightened. The little machine had been through hell with her, taken more damage than it was ever meant to handle. But it was still trying, still fighting. Just like her.
The drone scanned for any lingering heat signatures, sending the data to her goggles. Clear. She moved cautiously, sticking close to the walls and avoiding the pools of blood and broken glass littering the floor. Each step was calculated, each breath measured. She couldn't afford mistakes. Not now.
She turned a corner and stumbled to a halt. The body of a ganger sprawled across the floor in front of her, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood seeped from a gaping wound in his chest, pooling beneath his tattered jacket. Riley's stomach churned, her breath catching in her throat. It wasn't the first dead body she'd seen—the Driftlands had cured her of that particular innocence long ago—but this was different. This was clinical, precise. Professional.
The scene was brutal, but it was also an opportunity.
Her goggles flickered as Chirp highlighted the weapons scattered near the corpse: a pistol lying just out of reach of his outstretched hand, and a combat knife still sheathed on his belt. Riley crouched down, her injured hand cradled close to her chest as she reached for the gun with trembling fingers.
She stopped herself.
Her fingers hovered over the pistol, hesitation twisting in her gut. She'd never used a firearm before, and with her mangled thumb and lack of training, it would be more of a liability than a lifeline. Worse, the sound of gunfire would draw every ganger in the building straight to her. Her father's voice whispered in her memory: "A loud weapon makes you a loud target."
Her gaze shifted to the knife. Carefully, she slid it free from its sheath. The blade was solid and practical, with a sharp edge made for efficient killing. It felt right in her grip—familiar, even, despite the tremble in her fingers. This was a weapon she understood, one that wouldn't give away her position with every use.
The bone saw in her other hand caught her eye. Its dull edge, clumsy weight, and improvised design had served her in desperation, but it wasn't a fighter's weapon. She crouched, setting it gently on the floor next to the ganger's body. For a moment, she stared at it, remembering how it had felt to drive it into Malicor's leg, to hear the screech of metal and bone.
The knife fit snugly in her good hand, the weight of it reassuring as she adjusted her grip. She straightened, wiping her bloody palm against the corpse’s clothes. Every step brought her closer to Flint, and this time, she felt something sharper than fear coursing through her veins. Something that felt dangerously close to purpose.
Riley crept through the dimly lit halls, her knife clenched tightly in her good hand while her injured one stayed close to her chest. The distant sounds of shouting and gunfire reverberated through the building, a chaotic symphony that sent her nerves into overdrive. Every corner she turned felt like a gamble, every shadow a potential threat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her breaths shallow as she tried to make herself as small and silent as possible.
The signs of carnage became more frequent. A bloodied hand print smeared across a wall. Shell casings scattered across the floor. Bodies—some slumped against the walls, others crumpled in pools of their own blood. The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and the metallic tang of death. Her goggles highlighted faint trails of movement—blood spatters, boot prints—guiding her closer to the main level.
A burst of static crackled through a discarded radio near one of the corpses. Riley froze, her ears straining to catch the distorted voice.
"North wing secure," a woman's voice said, calm and professional. Something about her tone sent a chill down Riley's spine—this wasn't the voice of a ganger.
"South stairwell's clear," another voice responded, this one gruffer, tinged with irritation. "Still sweeping for survivors."
Mercenaries. That much was clear. But who were they, and why were they here? Riley's mind raced with questions she had no answers for, but one thing was certain: they weren't part of the gang. The precise execution of the gangers she'd passed, the surgical efficiency of the attack—this wasn't some rival group of thugs looking to settle a score. These were professionals, and they had turned the building into a war zone.
Riley ducked into a side corridor as heavy footsteps approached from the direction she was heading. Her goggles adjusted to the low light, highlighting a squad of gangers rushing past, weapons clutched tightly as they sprinted toward the sound of distant gunfire. She pressed herself against the wall, holding her breath until their frantic footsteps faded.
Chirp let out a soft, warning beep, its damaged frame trembling with the effort of staying airborne. Riley reached out to steady it, her fingers brushing against its battered shell. "Just hold on," she whispered. "We're almost there." The drone had been her constant companion since her father's death, the closest thing to family she had left. She couldn't lose it. Not now.
Her path continued upward, each step bringing her closer to the main level. The walls grew wider, the hallways more populated with the aftermath of the attack. More blood. More bodies. The occasional whimper of a dying ganger was the only indication some were still clinging to life. She tried not to look too closely at their faces, tried not to think about how many of them might have watched while Flint strapped her to that table.
A sharp, metallic shriek echoed through the halls ahead, followed by panicked screams. Riley slowed her pace, sending Chirp cautiously around the corner. Her goggles locked onto movement—a flash of bright white slicing through the air, followed by a spray of blood. A ganger crumpled to the floor, his weapon clattering uselessly beside him. Another figure darted into view—a young woman with short hair and a large yellow jacket, moving with impossible speed.
The thermal blade in her hands glowed white-hot, carving effortlessly through the ganger's defenses. Her movements were fluid, almost dance-like, as she dispatched the last of the group with a sharp, decisive arc of her blade. The hallway fell silent except for the faint hum of the weapon.
Riley's breath hitched. She'd never seen anyone move like that—like violence was an art form, like death was just another step in a carefully choreographed performance. The woman paused briefly, tapping a finger to her earpiece.
"All clear here," the woman said, her voice light and almost playful despite the blood soaking the floor around her. "And before you ask—yes, I left some for you guys this time. You're welcome."
A faint, muffled response came through her comm, and the woman rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh, come on, Ward. I'm not hogging them! Maybe if you kept up—"
Another voice interrupted her, sharper and more authoritative. The woman sighed, shaking her head. "Yeah, yeah. North wing. Got it. I'm on my way. Try not to start the party without me."
She cleaned the blood from her blade with a flick of her wrist and darted down the hallway, disappearing into the chaos as quickly as she had arrived.
Riley remained frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs. She'd thought she knew violence—the Driftlands had taught her plenty about survival and brutality. But this was different. The way that woman moved, spoke—it was like she thrived in the chaos, like it was where she belonged. Like death was just another day at work.
Riley tightened her grip on the knife. As skilled as they were, she couldn't trust them. Not after what had just happened with Flint. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford anymore—not when betrayal wore such a friendly face.
She turned down another hallway, her focus sharpening. The chaos of the building was her only advantage. As long as the gangers were busy dealing with the mercenaries, she had a clear shot at her target. And this time, she wouldn't let her guard down. This time, she knew exactly what she was dealing with.
Flint wouldn't get away. Not with the Neurolink. Not after what he'd done.
The air in the hallways was suffocating, thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning electronics. Riley moved like a shadow, her bare feet silent on the cold floors as she followed the sounds of chaos. Gunfire rattled through the walls, punctuated by screams and the occasional concussive thud of an explosion. Somewhere, an automated alarm blared in fractured bursts, its rhythm glitching like the building itself was breaking apart.
She slipped past the body of a ganger slumped against the wall, his chest a bloody mess of bullet wounds. The warmth of the blood still spreading across the floor made her stomach twist, but she forced herself to step over it. Her focus remained on one thought: Flint. Every other concern—the mercenaries, the dying gangers, even her own injuries—felt distant, secondary to the burning need to find him.
Chirp let out a soft ping, breaking her thoughts. Her HUD flickered with a marker—movement ahead. Riley ducked behind a half-collapsed wall, holding her breath as their voices carried over the sound of gunfire.
"We gotta bail," one hissed, panic bleeding through his whisper. "This is—"
"And what?" the other cut in. "Boss finds us, we're dead. Mercs find us, we're dead. Pick your poison."
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A short silence followed, broken only by the faint hum of the building's failing lights.
"Then let's at least find Flint. He's got the creds—we could buy our way out."
Riley's blood went cold. Flint was close. She pressed her back against the wall, her knuckles whitening around the knife as she fought to steady her breathing. One of the gangers cursed under his breath, the sound of their footsteps receding down the hall. She waited until they disappeared, then slipped from her hiding spot, Chirp marking the trail of heat their bodies had left behind.
Every step brought her closer, the weight of the knife in her hand grounding her against the growing tide of rage boiling in her chest. The thought of Flint, smug and unbothered, while chaos raged around him—it made her grip the knife tighter. She thought of his easy smile, the way he'd acted like her friend, her protector. The way he'd pressed his injector to her neck, knowing exactly what would happen next.
She followed the heat trail down another hallway, her goggles flickering faintly as the lighting grew worse. The walls were scorched here, the remains of a firefight evident in the craters pockmarking the concrete. She turned a corner and froze.
Flint.
He stood at the end of the hallway, his back to her, a datapad glowing faintly in his cybernetic hand. His posture was tense, his head snapping up at the sound of distant gunfire. He muttered something under his breath, tapping at the screen like he was trying to find a way out. The sight of him—so casual, so unbothered—made something snap inside her.
Riley's vision tunneled, her focus narrowing to the man who had betrayed her. Her breaths came short and shallow as she stepped forward, her knife poised. He didn't see her, too distracted by the chaos around him. Too confident in his own safety.
"Come on, come on," Flint muttered, swiping at the datapad. "There's got to be—"
Riley lunged, her movements silent and swift. Flint barely had time to react before her shoulder slammed into his back, driving him forward into the wall. The datapad clattered to the ground, his cybernetic arm jerking as he twisted to face her.
"Riley?" The shock in his voice was almost satisfying. "How—"
The knife answered for her, slashing down through stale air. He jerked back at the last second, the blade catching his jacket instead of flesh.
"You crazy bit—" Flint's snarl cut short as Chirp slammed into his temple, sparks flying from the drone's damaged frame.
"Tell me," Riley's words shook with fury, "did you think about the price while you were strapping me down?"
A shadow of his old smirk flickered across his face. "Sweetheart, business is bus—"
Riley drove her shoulder into him again, cutting him off mid-sentence. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, Flint's datapad skidding out of reach. He grabbed for her wrist, his grip crushing, but her desperation gave her strength. She twisted free, the knife slicing across his shoulder, drawing a pained yell from him.
"Not personal?" she spat, straddling his chest as she pressed the knife point against his throat. The blade trembled with the force of her grip, her broken thumb screaming in protest. "You drugged me. Stripped me. Tried to sell me like—like—"
Flint struggled beneath her, his cybernetic arm whirring as he tried to shove her off. The sound of those mechanical joints—the same ones that had held her down while Malicor prepared his tools—made her press the blade harder. Blood welled beneath the knife's edge, trickling down his neck in thin rivulets.
"Riley," Flint gasped, his voice rasping now. The smug confidence was gone, replaced by something closer to fear. "Don't—"
She didn't listen. She couldn't listen. Not to that voice, not to those lies.
Riley screamed in furious defiance as she pushed down. The blade sank into his throat, her entire body trembling with the force of it. Flint's eyes widened in shock, his hands clawing weakly at her arms as blood bubbled from his lips. She stared down at him, her chest heaving as she watched the life drain from his eyes. In those final moments, she saw something there—recognition, maybe. Understanding. He knew exactly why this was happening.
For a moment, there was silence. Then the world rushed back in—a cacophony of alarms, gunfire, and the pounding of her own heart. Riley sat back on Flint's chest, the knife still clutched in her trembling hand, the blood staining her skin. She'd imagined this moment differently. In her mind, there had been satisfaction, triumph, maybe even joy. Instead, she felt nothing. No relief, no victory. Just emptiness.
She looked to the side and saw the battered remains of Chirp. Its shell was cracked open from the impact with Flint's head, and the light had faded from its lens. Either out of power or finally broken. Another casualty of Flint's betrayal.
And then she heard footsteps.
The footsteps were steady, purposeful, cutting through the chaos like the ominous ticking of a clock. Riley's head snapped up, her blood-streaked face turning toward the sound. She gripped the knife tighter, her knuckles white, the trembling in her hand worsening as adrenaline began to fade.
The figure stepped into view—a woman with sharp features and a chrome arm that gleamed faintly in the red hue of the emergency lights. She had long red hair, shaved along one side of her head, and she was dressed in heavy denim pants and a tactical vest. Her dark eyes swept over the scene, taking in the blood-soaked floor, Flint's lifeless body, and the knife still clutched in Riley's trembling hand.
"Whoa," the woman said, stopping a few paces away. Her voice was low, steady, and tinged with surprise. "What do we have here?"
Riley surged up, her bare feet slipping slightly on the blood-slick floor. She raised the knife, her teeth bared in a feral snarl. The movement sent fresh pain shooting through her broken thumb, but she ignored it. "Stay back!"
The woman held up her hands, one flesh and one metal, in a gesture of peace. "Easy, kid," she said, her tone calm but firm. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Riley's eyes darted to the hallway behind the woman, searching for an escape. Her vision blurred, her muscles trembling with exhaustion and pain. Her mind raced with possibilities—could she make it past her? Would the knife be enough if it came to a fight? Would this woman put her down like that other mercenary had done to the gangers?
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "What do you want?"
"I'm Sable," the woman said simply, lowering her hands slightly but keeping her movements slow. "And I'd say I'm here to help, but judging by the look on your face, you're not in a trusting mood."
Riley laughed bitterly, the sound edged with hysteria. "Help? Like he was going to help me?" She gestured toward Flint's body with the knife, the motion jerky and wild. "You're all the same."
Sable's gaze softened, but her voice stayed steady. "I don't know what he did to you, but I can guess" She gestured subtly to the comm device in her ear, her cybernetic fingers brushing against it. "My team's clearing this place out. Traffickers. Gangs. We're not on their side."
Riley's breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her hand ached from clutching the knife, the blade trembling slightly as she kept it trained on Sable. Every part of her wanted to run, to fight, to do anything but stand there listening to more promises of help. "Why should I believe you?"
Sable shrugged, the motion casual but not dismissive. "You don't have to. But take a look around, kid. If I was here to hurt you, do you think I'd be standing here, talking?"
The question lingered in the air, cutting through Riley's haze of fear and anger. She wavered, her legs threatening to give out beneath her as the last dregs of adrenaline drained away. Sable took a cautious step closer, her expression softening further as she caught sight of the raw cuffs around Riley's wrists, the blood smeared across her exposed skin, and her mangled thumb.
"Hey," she said gently, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "It's over now. Whatever he did, whoever hurt you—it's done. You're safe."
The words hit Riley like a sledgehammer. Her grip on the knife loosened, her arm dropping to her side as the last of her strength burned out. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor, the knife clattering away. Sable was beside her in an instant, catching her before she could hit the ground fully.
"No," Riley sobbed, her voice muffled against Sable's shoulder. The facade of strength crumbled completely, leaving only the raw, wounded core beneath. "It's not—it's not—"
"It is," Sable said firmly, holding her steady. One arm flesh, one metal, both equally gentle. "I've got you. You're safe."
Riley's sobs grew louder, the dam of her emotions finally breaking. The weight of everything—the betrayal, the fear, the pain, the killing—crashed over her, drowning her in a flood she could no longer hold back. Sable's arms tightened around her, steady and unyielding.
Through the haze of her tears, Riley barely registered the faint crackle of Sable's comm. "Ward," Sable said, her tone calm but urgent. "I've got someone here. A victim. Young, injured. She needs help."
The response was faint but clear: "Roger that. Hold tight. We're wrapping up."
Sable shifted slightly, adjusting her grip on Riley as she glanced toward the doorway. "You hear that, kid? We're getting you out of here."
Riley didn't respond. She couldn't. The fight had drained out of her completely, leaving her slumped against Sable like a rag doll. Sable didn't seem to mind. She just held her, her cybernetic hand brushing gently over Riley's matted hair.
"It's okay," Sable murmured, her voice soft now. "You're not alone anymore."
Another figure appeared in the doorway—a man with a cocky grin and an air of practiced ease. He wore a battered coat that hung open over his gear, revealing a tactical harness laden with ammo pouches and other essentials. A sleek SMG was slung loosely across his chest, its muzzle pointed down. His sharp, green eyes sparkled with curiosity beneath a tousled mop of sandy hair, and a neatly trimmed mustache curled above his grin.
"Still breathing?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at the scene. "Guess we're not completely too late."
The woman shot him a glare as she helped Riley sit up. "Back off, Ward. She's been through enough."
"Easy." Ward held up his hands, his grin widening slightly. "Just making sure she's not gonna shank us. Looks like you've got it covered, though."
Riley stiffened, her wide eyes flicking between the two strangers. Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. "Who... who are you people? Really?"
Ward tipped an imaginary hat. "Name's Ward. This here's my partner, Sable. We're mercenaries, hired to clear this place out." His gaze drifted to Flint's body, and his grin faded slightly. "Looks like you had your own little party before we got here."
Riley's hand groped weakly at the floor for the knife, but Sable placed a steadying hand on her wrist. "Relax," she said gently. "We're not gonna hurt you. We're on your side."
Riley's gaze darted to Flint's body, her voice trembling. "I just... I just need what's mine. Please."
Sable frowned. "What's yours?"
"The Neurolink," Riley rasped, motioning weakly to where Flint lay. "He took it. I need it back."
Ward's grin faded as his eyes swept the room, landing on Flint's body. He walked over, his movements careful, and crouched down to search the corpse. His brow furrowed as he pulled the gleaming device from Flint's jacket, recognition flashing across his face. "Well, now," he muttered, turning the N-77 over in his hand. "This is one hell of a prize."
Riley's voice cracked as she forced herself to stand, using Sable's arm for support. "It's mine. Give it back." Her legs trembled beneath her, but she kept her gaze steady on Ward. She wouldn't beg, wouldn't plead. Not again. Not after everything.
Ward glanced at her, then at Sable, who nodded silently. With a small shrug, he stepped forward and handed the Neurolink to Riley. "Fair enough. Yours to keep." There was something in his tone—respect, maybe, or understanding.
Riley clutched the N-77 tightly to her chest, her bloodied hands smearing its sleek surface. The familiar weight of it sent relief flooding through her system, making her legs wobble. Sable caught her before she could fall, steadying her with surprising gentleness.
"You're hurt," Sable said, her voice firm but kind. "We've got a trauma kit in the van. Let us help you." She offered Riley her hand, cybernetic fingers extended. When Riley hesitated, the woman added, "Look, you can barely stand. Let me help, or you'll pass out halfway up the stairs."
Reluctantly, Riley let her pull her to her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and she leaned heavily against the woman's arm. As they made their way out of the office, Riley stopped to scoop up Chirp from the floor. The drone's broken shell felt impossibly heavy in her arms.
Ward led the way, his SMG sweeping the corridor for any lingering threats. The building was eerily quiet now, the chaos fading as the last few gangers were taken down. The emergency lights cast long shadows, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and blood. Riley's knees buckled once, but Sable caught her, steadying her with surprising gentleness.
"You're tougher than you look, kid," Sable said as they reached the stairs. There was something in her voice—not quite admiration, but close.
Riley didn't respond. Her mind was too fogged with pain and exhaustion, her grip on the Neurolink and Chirp's shell her only anchors. She felt Sable's arm tighten around her shoulders, grounding her as they climbed toward the surface.
The night air was a shock when they finally stepped outside. The city loomed around them, its neon glow painting the sky in hues of blue and pink. The sounds of distant mag-rails and street vendors felt almost surreal after the violence and silence of the building. A black van sat nearby, its back doors open to reveal the faint glow of a console and rows of equipment.
Ward hopped up into the van, rummaging through a compartment before tossing a trauma kit to Sable. "Get her patched up," he said, his earlier joviality replaced with professional efficiency. "We've still got cleanup to do."
Shadows pooled in the van's corners, broken only by the soft glow of overhead lights. Riley pressed herself against the wall, arms wrapped protectively around the Neurolink in her lap. Chirp's broken shell lay beside her, a quiet reminder of everything she'd lost. Everything that had been taken from her.
Sable knelt on the floor, sorting through the trauma kit with mechanical precision. "This is going to hurt." No sugar-coating, just fact. Riley appreciated that more than any gentle lies.
She said nothing, just watched Sable's hands move through the kit. When the injector came out, gleaming in the dim light, her world imploded.
"No!" The word ripped from her throat like a physical thing. She slammed back against the wall, feet scrabbling against the bench. "Put it—keep it away!" Her mind flooded with memories of the table, of Flint's smug face as he pressed the needle to her neck.
Sable froze. Her eyes caught Riley's wild stare, then dropped to the injector. Understanding darkened her face. Without a word, she placed it on the floor and slid it away.
"Just bandages," Sable said, voice low and steady. She held her hands up, palms out. "Nothing else. I promise."
Riley's chest heaved. Her fingers dug into the Neurolink until they ached. "I can't—" The words strangled in her throat.
"I know." Sable settled onto the floor, deliberate in her stillness. After a moment, she unholstered her gun and placed it beside Riley. The gesture hung between them, heavy with meaning. A choice. Control.
Seconds stretched. Riley's breathing slowly steadied, though her grip on the Neurolink didn't loosen. "Why?"
"Because you need to know you have a choice." Sable's voice was matter-of-fact, but something softer lingered beneath the words. She gestured at Riley's wounds. "May I?"
Riley managed a small nod. Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "No needles."
"No needles," Sable agreed. She worked in silence, cleaning each wound with careful efficiency. When Riley flinched at the sting of antiseptic, Sable's hands remained steady. "Almost done."
"I killed him." The words spilled out before Riley could stop them, hanging raw in the air between them.
Sable's hands didn't pause as she wrapped a bandage around Riley's wrist. "Yes."
"I've never—" Riley swallowed hard. "I didn't mean to—"
"Yes, you did." Sable looked up, meeting Riley's gaze. No judgment in her eyes, just understanding. "And he deserved it."
Tears burned at the corners of Riley's eyes. She blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. "How do you know?"
"Because you're still holding that Neurolink like it's keeping you alive." Sable finished the bandage and sat back. "And because I've seen that look before. In the mirror."
The silence that followed felt different. Less brittle. Riley's grip on the Neurolink loosened, just slightly.
"There's a clinic," Sable said after a moment. "Good doctor. Doesn't ask questions she doesn't need answers to." She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "Your choice."
Riley looked down at her bandaged wrists, then at Chirp's broken shell. Her thumb throbbed dully, a constant reminder of what she'd survived. "Will you—" She stopped, re-calibrated. "Can I trust you?"
"No." Sable's honesty was almost gentle. "But I'll get you somewhere safe. That's not trust. That's a promise."
Riley nodded slowly, exhaustion finally seeping into her bones. "Okay."
Sable rose smoothly to her feet, retrieving her gun with practiced ease. "Try to rest. It's a long drive."
As Sable pulled the van doors shut, Riley let her eyes close. The Neurolink remained clutched in her lap, but her grip had loosened. Not trust, maybe. But something close enough to let her breathe. Something close enough to hope.