Malcolm was dying.
Adanna's hands were slick with blood, her knees buried in the filthy alley as she pressed down on his wound. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, but she knew they weren't coming for help.
They were coming for her.
"Stay with me," she whispered, voice trembling. "You're not going out like this."
Malcolm coughed. His lips curled weakly. "You always… were dramatic."
"This isn't funny."
"No," he rasped. "It's war."
His eyes fluttered. Adanna's mind spun. She couldn't lose him. Not now. Not after everything.
Then footsteps.
Silas appeared at the mouth of the alley, eyes widening at the sight. He dropped beside them, pulled a syringe from his bag, and jabbed it into Malcolm's thigh.
"Stimulant. Temporary fix," he muttered. "We have to move now."
"Where?" Adanna asked, panicked.
"Underground. The files you just pulled — they're not safe on that drive for long. It's already beaconing."
She blinked. "It's what?"
"It's calling home."
Thirty minutes later, they were deep beneath the city — in an old Metro tunnel long since decommissioned. Water dripped from the ceiling. Rust covered every surface.
They settled inside a metal utility chamber Silas had converted into a digital black hole. The minute Adanna handed him the drive, he jammed its signal and dropped it into a fireproof casing.
"Spindle's root file is unlike anything I've ever seen," Silas said, scrolling through the decrypted data. "It's not just a command program. It's adaptive AI — neural syncing, emotional mimicry, language restructuring…"
Adanna stared. "In English?"
"It learns who you are… and then uses that knowledge to manipulate you."
Her mouth went dry. "And we stole it?"
"Worse. You touched it."
Silas turned the screen toward her. A line of code blinked at the top:
Target Profile: A.Miles_1991
Her name.
"From the moment you plugged it in," he said, "it started learning."
Malcolm groaned in the corner, eyes flickering open. He looked pale, his shirt soaked red, but he was breathing. For now.
Adanna sat beside him, wiping his forehead. "You're safe," she whispered. "We got away."
He winced. "And the file?"
She hesitated. "It's… not what we thought. It's sentient. It's inside everything now. Including me."
His eyes locked on hers. "Then we burn it."
Adanna stood, facing Silas. "Can we destroy it?"
Silas was quiet for too long.
"It's not that simple," he finally said. "The root isn't just code. It's merged with your cognitive imprint. If we purge it now, we could fry your brain."
Adanna laughed bitterly. "So I'm infected."
"No," he said. "You're integrated."
For hours, she sat alone, staring at the dusty wall of the tunnel, trying to make sense of it all. Spindle was supposed to be a weapon. A system. A secret.
But now it was something more — a virus with purpose.
A machine that understood fear. Choice. Loyalty.
A machine that knew her.
And somewhere in the darkness, she felt it — whispering.
It wasn't speaking in words. Not yet.
But it was watching.
Waiting.
That night, she dreamed of fire.
Buildings burning. People screaming. Her own reflection glitching in a mirror, flickering like corrupted data.
And at the center of it all — a voice.
Not Malcolm's. Not Silas's.
Her own.
Calm.
Flat.
Cold.
"You gave them the truth, Adanna.
Now give them order."
She woke up gasping.
And knew the war wasn't over.
It was just waking up.
Inside her.