Page 139 of The Atom Between Us

I stay low, crawling forward, gun at the ready. Markus finishes the last one, drag-and-drop into the corner. Rosie checks the blast door: sealed, but with a manual override.

I’m breathing hard. My face is wet, but I don’t know if it’s sweat or blood.

“Nice job,” Rosie says, flicking the safety on her shotgun. “You hear that laugh, too?”

I nod.

She grins. “She’s still ahead of us.”

I look at the door, at the override panel.

“Not for long,” I say.

Markus strips the guards for ammo, Rosie reloads, and I press my palm to the panel. The lock disengages with a shudder, the door sliding back on ancient tracks.

Inside, the hum is deafening. The static in the air is so thick it feels like it’s charging my teeth. The corridor beyond is dark, but at the far end, I see a flicker of movement—a shadow, hair up, coat billowing.

I run.

I don’t feel the steps. I don’t hear Markus and Rosie behind me. I just run, every muscle burning, every breath a saw blade in my chest.

I make the end of the hall in seconds, slam through the next door, and find⁠—

Nothing.

She’s not here. Just another empty room with the same sterile walls, the same cold light. I’m about to turn back when I see her—just for a second—standing in the far corner. A flash of her profile, the curve of her neck, the way her hair falls across one eye. Then nothing.

My heart stutters. The spot where she stood pulls at me like a magnet, an invisible thread tugging behind my ribs.

Markus and Rosie catch up, both breathing heavy, faces streaked with grime.

“Dead end?” Markus asks, scanning the empty room.

I shake my head, moving toward the corner where I saw her. “This way.”

Rosie studies my face. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” The certainty settles in my gut, solid as stone.

We move, together, toward the next checkpoint.

Toward her.

The next sector is all wrong—too clean, too bright, too many cameras panned straight down the hall. Rosie slows at the threshold, and even Markus pulls back a pace, nose wrinkled at the taste of fresh bleach or maybe fear.

The junction chamber ahead is Authority textbook: four branching corridors, blast doors on every axis, ceiling high and mirrored to catch any hint of movement. It was built to channel riots or suppress uprisings, but tonight it’s just a trap waiting for us to set it off.

We pause in the dark, pressed flat against the metal ribs of the entryway. I watch the patrol patterns, count the boots. Two on the left, one pacing the far wall, another stationed at the junction node itself—a glass-paneled booth with its own override and independent air supply. I do the math, estimate how long before the guard cycle brings a pair right into our lap.

“Four,” I mouth, then flash the hand sign to Rosie. “One-two, hold, then three.”

She nods, jaw flexing, hand already ghosting along the edge of her blade.

Markus signs back: “On you.”

When the patrol turns the corner, we move.

Rosie is a shadow—slides up behind the first guard, covers the mouth, blade in and out at the carotid. She drops him slow, easing the body down so gently it looks like he’s just taking a nap. Markus sweeps left, coming up behind the second and wrenching his head in a quick, merciful twist. The neck pops, and the body goes limp, but Markus rides it down, cradling the helmet to keep it from clattering.