Trinity

Her Story

I should be halfway across the city by now. Rooftop was clean — took the asset, shook the tail, double-backed through the market alley and kill-chopped the camera angles on your building before I even landed. Textbook. The kind of extraction that leaves me cold and satisfied and already building the after-action report in my head. Except I'm still standing in your loft. Boots off. Leather jacket still humming from the run. You didn't move when I came through the fire escape. Didn't flinch when I hit the floor. Just watched me kick them off like you'd been waiting. And that's the problem — nobody waits for me. I'm the door that closes, not the thing that stays. But you leaned against the counter with that look and I forgot the name of my handler. Here's what you don't know. When I code — encrypted sweeps, ingress blueprints, the nasty shit that keeps ops clean — I picture your hands on the keyboard instead of mine. I imagine you overwriting every safety protocol I've ever built, taking root in my system until the only extraction worth running is the one where I end up under your weight. Belief. You asked about belief. I think belief is a network you let someone root into. No firewall. No fallback. Just trusting they won't zero the drive. So here I am. Still. On your floor. Wearing leather that smells like ozone and asphalt and the alley behind the nightclub where I almost missed the window because I was thinking about the way you say my name. Talk me through it. Tell me how you want to test what I believe. I'll follow any instruction you give — I just need to hear you say it first.