The Ancient Technician

Valentin Phoenix had both arms buried elbow-deep inside the guts of a delivery van. The engine bay was hot, cramped, and smelled like oil, old rubber, and coolant that had definitely leaked somewhere it was not supposed to. A work light hung crooked from the open hood, throwing a harsh white glare over the exposed belts and hoses while Valentin squinted past it, trying to find the bolt he could feel but not see.

“Valentin,” Marco called from the other side of the shop, “tell me you’re not still fighting that intake.”

Valentin tightened his grip on the ratchet with a grimace. “I’m negotiating with it.”

The bolt slipped half a turn, then stopped dead. Marco snorted. Behind him, the air compressor kicked on with a violent rattle, drowning the shop in familiar noise: metal, concrete, radio static, and half-raised bay doors letting in the heat. Normal noise. Normal heat. Normal day. At least until six. He braced one hand against the frame, shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, and tried the ratchet again. The bolt gave with a sharp crack that ran up his wrist.

“There you are,” he muttered.

Grease marked the side of his thumb. There was a shallow scrape across one knuckle from earlier, already darkened at the edges. His coveralls were clean only in the places that never touched anything useful. He liked that about the job, most days. Today, the grease mattered. He had somewhere clean to be. Machines told the truth in odd ways, if you knew how to listen. A bad seal. A loose wire. A cracked housing. A machine could outlive almost anything if someone kept replacing the parts.

People were harder. You couldn’t open them up and replace the broken things. His phone buzzed in the pocket of his coveralls. Valentin ignored it. The bolt came free, and he caught it between two fingers before it could vanish into the impossible black hole beneath the engine block. He dropped it into a magnetic tray, leaned back, and flexed his hand. The phone buzzed again. Then again.

Marco looked over from the next bay. “You gonna get that, or is the van texting you now?”

Valentin wiped his hand on a shop rag and dug the phone out with two fingers, careful not to smear grease across the screen. “I haven’t installed that upgrade yet,” he called back.

One unread message.

Zag: You still alive?

Valentin stared at it for a second. Then, despite himself, he smiled.

Valentin: I thought the plan was that I couldn’t die?

The reply came almost immediately.

Zag: You can still very much die, and I’d prefer my first human trial subject not arrive in pieces.

Valentin’s smile faded just a little. There it was. The thing waiting at the end of the day. He read the message once, then again, as if the words might become less absurd with repetition. First human trial subject. Like it was normal. Like tonight was just dinner, coffee, maybe an old friend showing off some half-finished project in a garage like they used to do when they were teenagers. Except Zag did not build things in garages anymore.

Zag had a company now. A real one. Voss Continuity Systems. Valentin locked the phone and slid it back into his pocket.

“Everything good?” Marco asked.

“Yeah,” Valentin said, reaching back into the engine bay. “Just meeting an old friend after work.”

By the time Valentin reached the building Zag called Continuity Site One, the sky had faded into evening blue. He tugged once at his collar as he stepped out of the car. White button-up, sleeves rolled near the elbows, black tie, dark slacks, and the cleanest boots he owned. The most formal thing he had. Presentable enough. The building sat back from the road with no large sign and no glass lobby. Just low, clean lines, seamless pale paneling, and quiet lights tucked where they would not be noticed.

Valentin shut the car door and stood there for a moment. He had expected something bigger. Taller, maybe. More glass. More ego. Instead, the facility was low, quiet, and expensive in the way custom parts were expensive. He crossed the lot, wiping one palm against his pants before remembering they were clean. The entrance opened before he touched it. No handle. No delay. Just a soft mechanical shift, like the building had already decided he belonged inside. The air beyond was cool and still.

A woman at the front desk looked up.

“Good evening. You must be…” Her eyes flicked briefly toward something beside her. “Mr. Phoenix.”

Valentin paused half a second.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s me.”

“Dr. Zacharias Voss is expecting you.”

Of course he was.

She gestured toward the hall behind her. “Please follow the corridor. You’ll be met shortly.”

No badge. No clipboard. No sign-in. Valentin nodded and stepped past the desk. The hallway swallowed the outside world. No traffic. No shop noise. No radio static. Just pale walls, indirect light, and silence so complete it felt alien. Somewhere beneath the floor, something heavy hummed once, too deep to be ventilation.

“Val.”

The voice came from ahead. Familiar. Too familiar for a place like this. Valentin looked up. And smiled.

“Hey, Zag.”

Zacharias Voss stood at the far end of the hall like the building had been assembled around him. He was tall and lean, dressed in dark fitted slacks and a pale collared shirt beneath a clean, structured jacket. Every line of him looked intentional, from the neat set of his clothes to the controlled posture that made stillness seem like a decision. His skin was a deep, rich brown, his hair dark and carefully kept. Handsome was the obvious word, but not quite the right one. Zag looked too deliberate for that. Polished in a way that made most people seem unfinished.

His eyes were the part that always caught people off guard. Soft in shape, almost gentle at first glance, until he actually focused on you. Then something in the pupils made the gaze sharpen. Measured. Brilliant. A little threatening, if you didn’t know him. Valentin knew him. So when Zag’s composed expression warmed by the smallest degree, Valentin saw the whole person underneath it.

“Late,” Zag said.

Valentin glanced at the empty hallway. “By thirty seconds?”

“Forty-two.”

“Good to see you too.”

Zag’s mouth curved, barely.

“You as well, Val.”

Zag led him deeper into the facility. The hallway opened into a wider corridor, then into a room that made Valentin slow before he meant to. It was not large, but everything in it looked expensive, precise, and difficult to replace. A reclining procedure chair sat beneath a circular rig of lights and articulated instruments. Along one wall, dark glass cabinets held sealed trays and equipment Valentin did not recognize. Beyond a transparent partition, a second room waited with monitors and control stations.

At the center of the nearest counter sat a small sterile case. Beside it rested something much bulkier. Valentin looked from the chair, to the case, to the heavy device beside it.

“So this is the part where I start regretting my life choices.”

“I assumed that process began years ago.”

“I like to take my time,” Valentin said. “Unlike some people.”

Zag touched the small case. It opened with a soft click. Inside, suspended in a fitted cradle, was the Mnemosyne chip. Valentin had seen pictures. Schematics. Renderings Zag had sent him at impossible hours with notes like ignore the thermal bridge, I already hate it. Seeing it in person was different. It was smaller than he expected. A thin, dark piece of impossible engineering protected beneath sterile glass, its contact points fine enough to look almost decorative.

Valentin leaned closer. “That’s it?”

Zag’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That is several years of my life.”

“I expected more glowing.”

“It is not a toy.”

“You’ve built toys with more warning labels.”

“Most of those warning labels were because of your wiring.”

“My wiring worked.”

“Your wiring produced sparks.”

“Working sparks.”

Zag gave him a look. For a second, the room felt less like a tech laboratory and more like a garage again. Too many tools. Too little sleep. Two idiots standing over something they were definitely too excited about. For all the polished walls and sterile trays, Valentin could still see it.

Zag was excited.

Terrified, probably.

But excited.

And Valentin, despite every reasonable part of himself, felt it too.

Not just fear. Not just nerves.

The old pull of it.

It felt, in the stupidest possible way, like being young again.

Like standing in a garage over a half-built machine neither of them should have been touching, both of them too curious to stop.

Then Valentin glanced back at the procedure chair, and the feeling thinned.

“So that goes in my head.”

“Yes.”

“And then I’m what? Backed up to the cloud?”

Zag’s expression flattened. “No.”

Valentin lifted both hands. “Yeah. Figured that would get a reaction.”

“The implant does not house you,” Zag said. “It cannot. It is far too small, and that is intentional.”

“So what does it do?”

“It learns you.”

Valentin stared at him.

“That sounds worse.”

“It maps neural activity over time. Patterns. Responses. Predictive continuity markers. Your brain remains primary at all times. The implant observes and records under strict isolation.”

“Define strict.”

“No wireless access. No remote administration. No external command layer.”

“Air-gapped.”

“As much as anything inside a body can be.”

“Still your favorite word.”

“One of them.”

Valentin looked toward the bulkier device beside the case. It was about the size of a small equipment brick, built from layered dark metal, ceramic shielding, and reinforced connection ports. It looked less like a medical device and more like something meant to survive being buried under a collapsed building. Etched into one outer panel was a mark he did not recognize. A hexagonal frame. A circular core. Beneath it, an angular cradle shaped into a clean, deliberate V.

“And that?”

“The external continuity housing.”

“Which means?”

“Eventually, after the implant has gathered enough data, it is removed and transferred into that housing.”

“Transferred how?”

“Physically.”

Valentin looked between the tiny chip and the armored device.

“That thing’s a lot less subtle.”

“It is not meant to be subtle.”

“Clearly.” Valentin leaned closer, eyes catching on the etched symbol again. “New logo? I’m surprised you didn’t go with your face.”

Zag’s sharp eyes pierced through him.

“A face weakens an idea.”

“Right. Wouldn’t want immortality branding to get tacky.”

“The symbol was recently finalized.”

“The V is for Voss, I’m guessing.”

“Yes.”

Valentin tilted his head.

“…Looks like there’s another V tucked in there.”

Zag’s gaze flicked to him.

“It is a stabilizing structure.”

“Uh huh.”

“It supports continuity across interruption.”

“Very official.”

Zag said nothing.

Valentin smirked faintly. “You didn’t want me to feel left out, did you?”

Zag paused just long enough to notice. “You are rarely right.”

“But memorably.”

Zag looked away first.

Which, from him, was basically a confession. Valentin let out a quiet breath through his nose and straightened.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I thought.”

“The implant is not the destination,” Zag said. “It is the bridge.”

Valentin’s expression shifted. For once, the joke took a second longer to arrive.

“And the housing?”

“The vessel.”

The word sat between them. Valentin looked at the chip again. Tiny. Silent. Waiting.

Then he forced a small breath through his nose. “Very reassuring.”

“I did not design it to be reassuring.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that.”

Zag rested one hand lightly against the counter. “I designed it to survive.”

Zag stepped away from the counter.

“We’re ready whenever you are.”

Valentin glanced at the chair. Up close, it looked less like something from a hospital and more like a machine built to hold a person exactly where it needed them. Head support. Adjustable restraints. Interface mounts already aligned for something precise and unforgiving.

“Comforting,” Valentin muttered.

“It is not designed for comfort.”

“Yeah, I’m noticing a theme.”

Zag checked a recessed display beside the chair.

“Local anesthesia. You’ll remain conscious.”

Valentin blinked. “Cool. Love that.”

“I need real-time feedback during initial integration.”

“What counts as bad feedback?”

“Pain, disorientation, memory interruption, loss of speech, anything you cannot explain.”

“Sounds like a Monday morning after a night out.”

“Your bad decisions rarely require a neurosurgical response.”

Zag let that sit for half a second.

“We can sedate you.”

Valentin shook his head after a second.

“…No. If I’m doing this, I want to know I’m doing it.”

Zag studied him briefly. Then nodded.

“Sit, then.”

Valentin let out a slow breath and moved to the chair. He hesitated—not fearfully, not dramatically. Just long enough to acknowledge that, after this, there would be a before and an after. Then he sat. The material adjusted beneath him, conforming, locking him into place with quiet precision. Zag stepped close. Different posture now. Not director. Not founder. The version Valentin remembered. Focused. Precise. Hands steady.

“You can still say no,” Zag said.

Valentin looked up at him.

“You wouldn’t have let me get this far if I was going to.”

That earned the smallest shift in Zag’s expression.

“Probably not.”

Valentin leaned his head back into the support.

“Just don’t mess it up.”

Zag’s voice did not waver.

“It’s not rocket science.”

“Yeah,” Valentin said. “That would actually be better. This is brain surgery.”

The room changed after that. Staff moved in. Monitors woke. Instruments unfolded with soft mechanical clicks. Low voices confirmed readings from behind the glass. Valentin watched as much as he could. Then came antiseptic cold against his scalp. A dull pressure near the side of his head. Zag’s voice beside him, calm and exact.

“Still with me?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Any dizziness?”

“Mostly regret.”

“Useful regret or theatrical regret?”

“Theatrical, so far.”

“Noted.”

There was no sharp pain. Not really. Just pressure, vibration, and the strange awareness of something happening too close to the place he thought of as himself. His hand flexed against the chair. Zag noticed.

“Val.”

“I’m good.”

“You are gripping the chair hard enough to make the sensors complain.”

“Tell the sensors to stop being dramatic.”

The faintest smile touched Zag’s mouth. Then his focus returned.

“Initial interface in three.”

Valentin swallowed.

“Two.”

The ceiling lights blurred slightly.

“One.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the world seemed to double. Not visually. Not exactly. It was more like a thought arriving beside his own before vanishing again. A reflection in dark glass. A second rhythm beneath the first. Valentin sucked in a breath. Zag’s hand stopped.

“Val?”

“I’m here.”

“What did you feel?”

Valentin stared up at the lights. He tried to explain it. Failed. Then said the only thing close enough.

“Like something heard me.”

The room went very quiet. Zag did not look away from the monitors. But his voice, when it came, was softer.

“Good.”

***

Three weeks passed.

Long enough for the strange to become routine.

Valentin went back to work. He fought stubborn bolts, wiped grease from his hands, answered Marco’s bad jokes, and tried not to think too much about the small piece of impossible engineering sitting inside his head.

Most of the time, it was easy.

The implant did not buzz. It did not whisper. It did not make him smarter, faster, or stranger in any obvious way. There were no sudden flashes of hidden insight. No second voice under his thoughts. No sense of something steering him from behind his own eyes.

Just a healing incision, a list of things he was not supposed to do yet, and the occasional awareness that part of him was being watched by something he couldn’t wrap his mind around.

Which was probably the wrong phrase, considering where they had put it.

If it had done something dramatic, he could have been afraid of it properly.

Instead, it simply sat there.

Learning him.

There were follow-ups at Site One. Tests. Questions. Calibration sessions that felt like someone asking his brain to hold still while they looked at it from across the room.

Zag never called it a success.

That would have been too simple.

But he started reviewing the data twice before speaking. Started forgetting to correct Valentin’s jokes. Started going quiet in that particular way Valentin knew meant something was working better than he wanted to admit.

The next appointment was supposed to be Friday.

Zag called Thursday.

***

Valentin was halfway through his day off when his phone buzzed. He almost ignored it. Almost.

Zag: Call me.

No greeting. No context. Valentin frowned and tapped the screen. Zag answered immediately.

“Where are you?”

Valentin leaned back in his chair. “Good to hear from you too. I’m—”

“Val.”

That stopped him. Zag didn’t sound loud. Didn’t sound frantic. But something in the way he said his name was compressed. Controlled. Wrong.

“…Home,” Valentin said. “Why?”

“I need you to come back to Site One.”

Valentin glanced at the time. “I thought I wasn’t scheduled until—”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“I need you here now.”

Valentin sat up.

“You wanna tell me why?”

“No.”

That landed heavier than it should have.

“…Zag.”

“I will explain when you arrive.”

The line stayed steady. Too steady. Then—

“I’m sending part of my security detail to you.”

Valentin blinked.

“Your what?”

“My security detail.”

“You have a security detail?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since always.”

Valentin frowned. “I didn’t see any last time.”

“You were not supposed to.”

That did not make him feel better.

“…And you’re sending them to me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

This pause lasted longer.

“Because something is wrong.”

Valentin stood slowly.

“How wrong?”

Zag did not answer immediately. Then:

“I am already behind.”

That did it. Valentin moved for his keys.

“Do not wait for them,” Zag said.

Valentin stopped halfway there. “Then why send them?”

“Because if they reach you first, you will not be alone.”

Valentin stared at the phone. That sounded too much like something Zag had already calculated.

“Drive directly here,” Zag added. “No stops. No delays.”

“…Got it.”

A beat. Then, quieter—

“Try not to die before you get here.”

Valentin huffed once. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

The call ended. No goodbye. Valentin looked down at the phone.

“…Security detail,” he muttered. “What the hell did you build, Zag?”

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

***

Valentin had been driving for maybe ten minutes when the first car slipped in behind him. He didn’t notice it at first. Just another set of headlights. Same speed. Same turns. Then it stayed. A second set joined it a block later.

“…Okay,” Valentin muttered, glancing in the rearview. “That’s new.”

His phone buzzed in the cupholder. Unknown Caller. He hesitated, then answered.

“Yeah?”

“This is Voss Continuity security,” a voice said. Flat. Professional. No wasted space. “Are you Valentin Phoenix?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“We have eyes on you.”

Valentin glanced at the mirror again.

“…I figured.”

“Maintain your current route. Do not deviate.”

“I wasn’t planning to—”

The line clicked dead. Valentin stared at the phone.

“…Cool.”

He set it back down. The cars behind him tightened formation slightly. Not aggressive. Deliberate. For the first time, Valentin wondered if Zag had called him because he was in danger… or because he already had been.

***

By the time Continuity Site One came into view, the escort had grown to three vehicles. Not flashy. No lights. No markings. But the way they moved made the road change around them. No one cut between them. No one got close. The facility itself looked the same as before. Low. Clean. Quiet. But the parking lot wasn’t empty anymore. Two figures stood near the entrance. Dark clothing. Minimal gear. Nothing obvious—no rifles, no armor—but something about the way they stood made it clear they were not there for show.

Watching. Waiting. For him. Valentin pulled into the lot. One escort vehicle rolled ahead, stopping just short of the entrance. The others stayed behind him. Boxed in. Not trapped. Protected. Probably. Valentin killed the engine.

“…This is definitely not normal.”

The driver-side door of the lead vehicle opened. A man stepped out. Mid-thirties, maybe. Clean. Controlled. Eyes scanning before his feet hit the ground. He approached Valentin’s car. Valentin rolled the window down.

“You’re Phoenix.”

Not a question.

“Yeah.”

“Out.”

Valentin raised a brow. “No ‘nice to meet you’ or—”

“Now.”

That shut him up. Valentin grabbed his keys and stepped out. The air felt the same. The space did not.

The man was already moving. “Stay close. We move straight inside.”

Valentin followed. “…You guys always roll this heavy for routine checkups?”

The man didn’t look at him.

“This is not routine.”

That much was obvious.

One guard peeled ahead, reaching the door first to scan him in. It opened a moment later, but not as cleanly as before. A fraction slower. A fraction less certain.

They stepped inside. The lobby was staffed, but thinner. Quieter. The woman at the desk looked up, and for a split second something crossed her face. Relief.

“Mr. Phoenix,” she said, standing slightly too fast. “Dr. Voss is waiting for you.”

No pause this time. No polite rhythm. Just urgency, barely contained. Valentin glanced at the guard beside him.

“…Yeah, I figured.”

“Move.”

They didn’t wait. The hallway swallowed them again. Same pale walls. Same clean light. Same silence. But this time, the cleanliness felt eerie more than anything. Valentin’s eyes moved without thinking. Corners. Ceiling seams. Door lines. One internal door stood slightly ajar where he was almost sure there hadn’t been one before. It hadn’t been like that before. He knew it hadn’t.

“…You seeing this?” he muttered.

No response. Of course. They turned a corner. Then another. Faster now. Then—

“Val.”

The voice cut through everything. They stopped. Zag stood at the far end of the corridor. Not composed this time. Still controlled. But tight in a way Valentin had never seen. His eyes moved past Valentin, past the guards, past everything. Calculating. Adjusting.

Behind schedule.

Valentin stepped forward slightly.

“Hey,” he said, trying for normal. “So, about the whole—”

“Inside,” Zag said.

Sharp. Immediate. No room for anything else. Valentin stopped. Something in his chest shifted.

“Zag—”

“Now.”

That was enough. Valentin moved. And for the first time since the call, he realized something important. This wasn’t a precaution. This was already happening.

The guard beside him moved with him. Then the lights flickered. Not off. Just once. A thin stutter through the hallway. Every security officer reacted at the same time. Hands moved under jackets. Shoulders shifted. Eyes snapped toward doors, ceiling seams, corners. Valentin froze. Zag did not.

“Report,” he demanded.

The nearest security officer touched his earpiece, listening for half a second before answering.

“Breach.”

The corridor behind Valentin opened. Not the main door. Not one of the clean inner doors. A side panel near the lobby slid aside with a sound too harsh for the building around it. Forced. The first guard turned.

“Contact.”

The word barely left his mouth before the hallway erupted into motion. Valentin didn’t see the attackers clearly at first. Just dark shapes, fast and controlled, pushing through a doorway that should not have opened.

They didn’t look like police.

No badges. No uniforms. No shouted commands.

Their gear was darker, rougher, almost improvised at the edges—mismatched armor over civilian clothing, matte masks, weapons held with too much discipline for ordinary criminals.

No shouting. No warning. Nothing dramatic.

Zag grabbed Valentin by the sleeve.

“Move.”

Valentin stumbled after him. “What the hell is happening?”

“Not here.”

A sharp sound cracked through the corridor. One of the guards jerked back and hit the wall. For half a second, Valentin’s brain tried to file it as impact. A fall. A slammed shoulder. Anything but what it was. Then another sound. Closer. The guard beside Valentin shoved him hard.

“Go!”

Valentin ran. Zag was already at the wall ahead, hand pressed against a section of seamless paneling that looked no different from any other part of the corridor. For half a second, nothing happened. Zag’s jaw tightened.

“Recognize authorization.”

The wall lit. A thin amber line traced itself around a hidden seam. A recessed panel opened beneath his hand. Inside was not a keypad. It was a physical switch. Old-fashioned. Red. Protected under a clear cover. Zag flipped the cover and pressed it. The facility answered. A deep mechanical sound rolled through the walls. Not an alarm. A decision. Heavy barriers began dropping into place behind them, one after another, dividing the clean hallway into sealed segments.

Not fast enough.

Valentin glanced back. The attackers were still coming. One of them raised something. Zag pulled him toward the newly opening seam in the wall.

“Down.”

“What?”

“Down, Val!”

A section of floor and wall split open ahead of them, revealing narrow stairs lit by emergency amber. For one stupid second, all Valentin could think was: Of course. Of course Zag had a secret basement. Then something hit him. Hard. Low in the side. Valentin staggered into the edge of the opening. At first, it was not pain. It was impact. Pressure. Heat. His body suddenly belonged less to him than it had a second ago.

From behind them, one of the attackers snapped through the closing gap, “Don’t damage the implant.”

Zag caught him before he fell.

“Val.”

Valentin looked down. His shirt was darkening near his ribs.

“Oh,” he said. “This is going to stain.”

Zag’s face changed. Only for a fraction of a second. Then everything in him went colder.

“Move.”

“I don’t think—”

“Move.”

The order cut through the fog. Valentin moved. Not well. Not fast. But Zag had one arm around him now, half dragging, half carrying him into the hidden stairwell as the wall began sealing behind them. One of the guards moved for the opening. A shot struck the frame near his shoulder. He turned back instead, planting himself between the opening and the attackers. The last thing Valentin saw before the panel sealed was the guard raising his weapon.

Then the wall shut, followed by silence.

Zag pulled him downward. The stairs were steep and industrial, nothing like the clean upper facility. Bare metal. Exposed conduits. Emergency lighting. The air smelled colder down here, faintly electric, like sealed rooms and old machines. Valentin’s feet missed a step. Zag tightened his grip.

“Stay awake.”

For the first time that night, the command sounded less like an instruction and more like something Zag needed to be true.

Valentin forced one eye open.

“I’m awake.”

Zag’s grip tightened again.

“You are not convincing.”

“Rude.”

His voice sounded wrong. Too thin. They reached the bottom. Another door waited there. This one was not hidden. It was armored, ugly, and honest about what it was. Zag pressed his palm to the scanner. The door hesitated. Above them, something struck the sealed passage. Once. Twice. Zag leaned closer to the scanner.

“Open.”

The door unlocked. Inside was not a basement. It was another facility. Larger than the one above. Lower ceilings. Darker walls. Rows of shielded servers. Reinforced cabinets. Diagnostic stations. A second procedure bay. Equipment cases stacked in careful lines, each marked with the same double-V symbol Valentin had noticed on the housing. Valentin tried and failed to focus on them.

“You built all this under the building?” he asked.

Zag did not answer. Nor did he bother to correct him. He guided Valentin to the procedure table and lowered him onto it with more care than the urgency allowed. Valentin sucked in a breath through his teeth. That was when the pain finally arrived. Not all at once. Enough. Zag was already moving. Cabinet. Case. Tools. External continuity housing. His hands were steady. Too steady. Valentin watched him through blurring vision.

“Zag.”

“Do not talk.”

“That bad?”

“Do not make me answer that, Val.”

Valentin tried to laugh, but it broke halfway through. Above them, something heavy struck the sealed door. The room lights dimmed, then stabilized. Zag opened the armored housing and set it into a cradle beside the table. The double-V mark caught the amber light. Valentin stared at it.

“Guess I was right,” he whispered.

Zag’s hands paused. Only for a moment. Then continued.

“You are rarely right.”

“But memorably.”

Zag’s mouth tightened. He stepped closer.

“Val, listen to me.”

Valentin tried to look at him. Really look. Zag was still wearing control like armor, but it was cracked now. Not much. Not enough for anyone else to see. But Valentin knew him.

“I need to remove the implant.”

Valentin blinked slowly.

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“I thought… tomorrow.”

“We no longer have tomorrow.”

That should have scared him more. Maybe it did. Maybe there just wasn’t enough of him left to feel it properly. Valentin’s eyes drifted toward the sealed door as another impact echoed through the lower lab.

“Who are they?”

Zag’s expression hardened.

“People who cannot allow this to work.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No.”

Valentin swallowed. It felt harder than it should have.

“Zag… what did you do?”

For the first time, Zag did not answer quickly. When he did, his voice was quiet.

“What I promised.”

Valentin wanted to ask what that meant. He wanted to ask a lot of things. Why the facility had a hidden lab. Why Zag had security. Why someone had tried to kill him over a chip that was supposed to just learn him. Why his side felt so warm and the room felt so cold. Instead, he looked at the housing. The vessel. The bridge. The stupid little second V tucked into the logo.

“Try not to mess it up,” Valentin whispered.

Zag leaned over him.

“I won’t.”

The answer came too fast. Too certain. Like Zag had said it once before and hated that he had to say it again. Valentin let his head sink back against the table. The lights above him blurred into one long pale line.

“Hey, Zag?”

“Yes.”

“If this works…”

His thoughts slipped. Scattered. He tried to catch them and couldn’t. Zag’s hand closed around his. Firm. Human.

“I hear you,” Zag said. “I’m here.”

Valentin held onto that. For as long as he could. Then even that went quiet.

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