Parker stood.
“You may have to leave through a service corridor.”
“No.”
“Mr. Hayes—”
“I walked into this terminal through the public entrance.”
“There is a crowd.”
“I’m not sneaking out.”
“This isn’t about appearances.”
“It is now.”
I held up a hand before she could respond.
“But I’m not leaving until this transfer finishes.”
42%.
My engineer’s voice came through the speaker.
“Marcus, we just lost throughput.”
I turned back.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough.”
The bar stopped moving.
Everyone in the room became still.
“What caused it?”
“Network congestion or shaping. I’m switching routes.”
“Can you?”
“Trying.”
I watched the number.
42%.
Still.
The terminal outside continued without us.
Rolling bags.
Departure announcements.
People buying coffee.
Somewhere, Flight 427 was climbing west.
Inside the conference room, the most important number in my life refused to move.
Then my engineer said, “I need you to make a decision.”
“What?”
“If I force the backup tunnel, we’ll get more bandwidth.”
“Do it.”
“There’s a catch.”
I closed my eyes for half a second.
“Of course there is.”
“The drive is still in heightened tamper state because of the physical intrusion event.”
“So?”
“If the tunnel switches while the authorization packet is writing, the controller could interpret the interruption as compromise.”
“Could wipe?”
“Yes.”
“How likely?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me something.”
“Low.”
“How low?”
“Not low enough for me to make the decision for you.”
I stared at 42%.
“How long if we stay on this route?”
“At current throughput?”
“Yes.”
“Three hours. Maybe more.”
Too late.
I looked at the drive.
Green indicator.
My grandfather’s watch ticked quietly against my wrist.
The obvious decision was to protect the data.
The necessary decision was to risk it.
If I did nothing, we lost anyway.
I looked at the screen.
“Switch.”
“Marcus—”
“Switch the tunnel.”
The engineer hesitated.
I heard typing.
The connection dropped.
The screen went black.
Claire whispered, “Oh, God.”
The drive indicator changed from green to amber.
Then blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
I could hear the ventilation system above us.
Nothing else.
The monitor refreshed.
The connection returned.
The indicator turned green.
The progress bar moved.
43%.
44%.
47%.
My engineer exhaled through the speakers.
“We’re back.”
Nobody cheered.
There was too much left.
But Lieutenant Parker looked at me differently after that.
Maybe she understood something Davies had never bothered to learn.
I had not refused to open the bag because I was hiding from risk.
I had refused because I understood exactly which risks were mine to take.
By 5:02, the upload reached one hundred percent.
Verification began immediately.
That should have felt like victory.
It did not.
Verification was where corrupted blocks, mismatched signatures, and security failures revealed themselves.
Upload meant the package had arrived.
Verification meant the system believed it.
My engineer estimated thirty-eight minutes.
Legal needed another few minutes to file.
The acquisition cutoff clock kept moving.
I stood and stretched for the first time in almost an hour.
My shoulders ached.
The marks from the restraints had darkened around my wrists.
Claire noticed.
“Do you want ice?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She nodded toward my wrist.
“Those look painful.”
“They’ll disappear.”
I looked at the Omega.
“Some things do.”
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
Again.
I answered.
“Hi.”
“Marcus.”
Her voice contained the special kind of anger mothers reserve for children who have become successful enough to forget they are still children.
“Why am I seeing you in handcuffs on television?”
“I’m fine.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Were you arrested?”
“No.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did you call a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am.”
A pause.
Then, softer, “You touch your grandfather’s watch?”
I looked down at it.
“Several times.”
“He’d tell you not to do anything stupid.”
“He usually did.”