They found her in the remnants of an abandoned signal hub, soldering a neural interface with stolen parts and sheer defiance.
Two men in polished coats and calm smiles. Government liaisons—not soldiers, not assassins. Just suits and a pitch.
"You're brilliant," one said, setting a silver cube on the table. "Too brilliant to waste in hiding. You deserve resources. Freedom. Power."
She didn't flinch.
The cube lit up, projecting blueprints for a next-gen satellite array. She recognized it instantly—her father's latest target. The one that could cripple their encrypted comms if it launched.
"We want to build the future with you, not against you," the other man added. "Help us. No resistance, no blood. Just code."
She said nothing.
They shifted tactics. "Your mother works with us. You can too. Together again. A family, smarter than this war."
Her pulse spiked. She kept her eyes low.
Then they dropped the final card.
The cube pulsed again—this time projecting her father, standing beside a destroyed facility, grainy and framed like a criminal.
"We'll give you a new life. An identity beyond your father's name. Leave this rebellion behind. Or be erased with it."
She stood.
Walked to the edge of the room.
And without turning, she said, "Tell the regime this: You can't bribe a ghost. And I was born in the shadows."
With a single tap on her wrist module, she triggered a pulse—wiping the recording, the cube, and half the building's signal array.
By the time the agents recovered, she was gone.
Back underground, she found her father waiting.
"They offered you the future?" he asked.
She nodded. "I told them I'd rather build it myself."
He smiled—not proud, but understanding.
Because sometimes, the most dangerous offers come not from enemies—but from the parts of ourselves tempted by silence, comfort, and forgetting.