The click still echoed behind my ribs, louder in my memory than it had been in the air.
We waited. Listening.
No follow-up. No voice. No shadow.
But that sound—sharp, clean, mechanical—didn't come from the island.
It came from the world we'd been trying to escape.
"That's not one of mine," 3830 said, her voice as flat as dead tide.
She didn't lower her staff.
Neither did anyone else.
"Who?" I asked, throat dry.
Her eye stayed on the treeline. "Government Agents."
Camille drew a sharp breath. "You're sure?"
"I've heard that click before. That's a calibration reset. Some of their older recon gear. Lightweight, deployable, but too fragile in the rain. They never fixed it."
"Wonderful," Alexis muttered. "So what? They're tracking us now?"
"Not us," 3830 said. "Me."
She didn't sound surprised. Or scared.
Just tired.
"They send agents here sometimes. Not often. They don't like admitting I slipped containment. But when they think they can get away with it, they try."
