The magnetic clicks of the stasis cuffs locking around my wrists were the first notes in a new symphony. Not one of love or partnership, but of cold, hard war. The metal was frigid against my skin, a stark contrast to the burning fragment of the black box I still palmed in my right hand. The guards were tense, their movements efficient and impersonal. They saw a traitor. I saw a ticking clock.
As Marcus, the squad leader, turned to lead the way, I made my move. It wasn't dramatic. It was a small, desperate act of will, fueled by the last dregs of grief and the first taste of vengeance. Under the cover of my cuffed hands, I pressed the sharp, fractured edge of the black box’s core chip deep into the flesh of my palm. The pain was exquisite, a searing line of fire that cut through the numbn
