The line went dead.
The room dropped back into that thick, sealed quiet.
I set the paper back down on the table and pulled the chair out just enough for it to scrape against the concrete.
Then I sat, slow and controlled.
No shaking hands. No racing breath. Just stillness.
I picked the document back up and flipped through the pages again, this time slower.
They really believed this was going to work.
That part almost made me smile.
Almost.
I leaned back slightly and glanced at the door again.
Solid. Professional. Expensive.
This wasn’t some impulsive move.
They planned it, timed it, built the situation around control.
They just made one mistake.
They assumed I didn’t have any.
I set the document down and rolled up my sleeve.
The watch sat tight against my wrist. Matte black, no branding, no shine, just a clean surface with a dead screen. To anyone else, it looked like a standard military-issue smartwatch.
It wasn’t.
I tapped the side once.
The screen lit up instantly.
Minimal interface. No icons, no apps, just a locked prompt.
I entered the four-digit code without hesitation.
A soft vibration ran through the band.
Then the screen shifted.
Protocol 7 alpha initiated. T-minus 5:00.
I watched the timer start.
4:59. 4:58.
Good.
I adjusted the chair, pulling it a little closer to the table, then leaned forward with my elbows resting lightly on my knees.
No rush. No panic. Just timing.
Upstairs, they were probably pouring drinks by now. Jocelyn would be pacing, checking her reflection in whatever glass surface she could find. Trent would be watching the clock, trying to act like he wasn’t worried.
They thought five minutes down here would break me.
I exhaled slowly.
They really didn’t know me at all.
The watch gave another subtle vibration as the system progressed.
4:21.
I glanced around the room again, this time with a different lens. Angles, structure, signal bounce, possible relay points.
Everything was already mapped.
I didn’t need to move. I didn’t need to touch anything else.
The watch was doing the work.
I picked the document up one more time, holding it loosely in my hand.
Sign and walk out.
That’s what they said.
Simple. Clean. Predictable.
I let out a quiet breath, then set the paper back down like it didn’t matter.
Because it didn’t.
3:47.
The seconds kept ticking.
No sound from the intercom, no footsteps above, just silence and a countdown.
I leaned back in the chair, one ankle resting over the other, and let my head tilt slightly toward the ceiling.
They gave me five minutes.
That was generous.
3:02.
