Page 58 of Fractured Devotion
I run a hand down my jaw. “Pull the full loop. See if there’s a timing mismatch with the sensor grid. If someone’s hiding, they’re not doing it amateurishly. It could be admin-level interference.”
Mara nods and says, “I’ll flag it. Where no one will see it coming.”
When she leaves, I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling for a long time.
There’s an undeclared war happening beneath the surface here. One that we’re all dancing around without naming.
And Celeste… she’s in the middle of it. Or maybe she’s always been the target.
I don’t know yet. But I will.
I close the map, launch a new script to trace old neural session overlays, and set an alert for her ID.
Tomorrow, I won’t wait for coincidence.
Tomorrow, I’ll follow the patterns wherever they lead.
Even if it’s straight into the dark.
Chapter 20 - Kade - The Shape of Control
There’s a particular silence in the early hours just before Miramont stirs. Just after the ghosts of the previous night slip back into hiding. That’s when I like to watch her.
Celeste.
I sit in my apartment with the backup tablet angled perfectly, one leg propped on the coffee table, and my black coffee untouched on the windowsill. The screens flicker with soft light against my face. Her apartment fills every corner of my vision, live feeds from every room but the bathroom. It’s a decision I’ve both respected and regretted a hundred times over.
She’s sleeping on the couch again. She’s curled up with a blanket half-tangled around her legs, the book she’d started yesterday—some academic slog about neural inhibition—lying on the floor like it gave up trying to keep her awake.
I adjust the volume slightly. It’s still low, barely a whisper. Just enough to catch the occasional shift in fabric and the faint hum of her microwave when it cycles again.
It’s late morning, and she’s still home.
I don’t like that.
She’s never been this inconsistent, especially not since she restarted Trial 14.
I rewind the footage to the early hours. I watched her reheat leftover pasta, saw the way she slowly undressed in her bedroom, like every movement cost her something, and watched the steam rise from her bathroom when she slipped in for a shower. She emerged in nothing but a towel, her skin flushed, her damp hair sticking to her neck. My jaw tightened. I could almost feel the residual heat of the room on her.
She dressed in something loose and familiar. Not for seduction but for comfort. She wasn’t expecting company. She never does.
That’s what I’ve become.
A presence she doesn’t notice, but who’s always there.
And it isn’t enough.
I switch tabs and check the clinic logs. Her ID hasn’t pinged any major access points today. No labs, no diagnostics, no admin console. Just her own quarters. She’s gone quiet.
Or maybe she’s finally catching on.
I lean back, my fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the tablet’s edge.
Then I remember the van. And the bakery.
I remember that moment days ago when she lingered too long on the sidewalk. When she didn’t go straight home.
I replay the traffic feed again, my eyes scanning every inch of that static street shot. She’d walked into the bakery, her lips tight, her movements sharper than usual. Not startled. Not scared. Just… thinking.
