The safe house was gone.
Burnt down to its bones. Smoke still climbed in the distance. The night air reeked of ash and gasoline. Lila stood at the edge of the scorched tree line, jaw clenched, arms folded tight across her chest.
Alexander didn't say a word.
He couldn't. Not yet.
Because standing in the dirt beside him, holding what was left of Barrett's watch in her hands, was Riven. Her face was blank. Not because she didn't feel anything—because she couldn't afford to. That was the only way to keep moving.
"They planned this," she muttered.
Lila nodded. "They wanted us to see it. Wanted to remind us who owns the game."
But Alexander wasn't looking at the fire anymore.
He was looking at the device in his hand. The final drive. The only one Vale hadn't touched yet. The one Barrett gave them before he died.
A backup of everything.
And now… it was time to use it.
They didn't sleep that night. Again.
Instead, they found a tiny motel two towns over, half the neon letters flickering, carpets stained with history. They paid cash. Didn't speak much. Just locked the door, blocked the windows, set up the gear.
The walls were thin. They always were. But Alexander didn't care.
Because if they were listening, he wanted them to hear every damn key he pressed.
By dawn, he'd cracked it open.
Not just the files. But something deeper.
A list. Names. Dozens.
Project GRAIL wasn't just a theory.
It had participants.
Victims.
And the worst part—some of them weren't adults. Weren't volunteers. Some had been taken. Bought. Disappeared.
The truth was worse than they imagined.
Lila leaned over his shoulder, reading line after line, name after name, and then her hand flew to her mouth.
"Wait. This one—Noah Ellison. That's… that's my cousin's name."
Alexander turned sharply. "You sure?"
"He vanished two years ago. We thought he ran away."
Her voice cracked.
She backed away from the screen like it burned her. Because maybe it did.
Alexander stood. Walked over. Put his hands on her arms.
"We're stopping this."
She nodded. Swallowed hard. "All of it."
They packed the drive and set up a meeting with Echo's contacts. The Mire Collective wasn't dead. Scattered, yes. Hurt, yes. But not gone. Because people like Echo didn't go out quiet. They left legacies behind.
One of them was Dev.
Young. Wild eyes. Wired on caffeine and rage. He met them at a diner that smelled like old grease and newer lies.
"You two caused a lot of noise," he said, sliding into the booth.
"Good," Alexander replied.
Dev cracked a grin. "I like noise."
They gave him the drive. He gave them a list of active leaks in progress.
"We're not the only ones waking up," Dev said. "After Vale took down half the grid, people started asking questions."
Alexander leaned in. "We're not just asking anymore. We're answering."
And so the plan changed.
They wouldn't just drop everything at once.
They'd bleed it.
Daily. Hourly. File by file. Each one sharper than the last.
Death by truth.
It worked.
Vale's empire didn't collapse. Not immediately.
But it shook.
The media got brave again. A few whistleblowers stepped forward. Protests started. Quiet ones. But they grew louder by the day.
Then came the retaliation.
Riven was taken.
One minute she was outside grabbing coffee.
Next minute—gone.
No note. No sound. Just silence.
Lila found her shoe near the bus stop.
And that's when everything inside Alexander snapped.
No more hiding.
No more waiting.
He called Vale.
Her voice was like ice melting slow.
"I wondered when you'd call."
"You have one chance," he said. "Let her go."
She laughed. Soft. Poisonous.
"You think you're still in control, Alexander? You think fire scares me?"
"No," he said. "I think it blinds
you. And I plan to make you burn so bright, even your shadows won't hide you."
Then he hung up.
And everything after that was war.