In the tent, Li doesn't sleep at all.
The ringing in his ears comes like surf—one wave never fully recedes before the next slaps in. The nosebleeds come and go; he wipes them away and a few minutes later feels warmth slipping down again.
Worst of all is the hum.
It hasn't vanished.
Even back at the barbed-wire "edge of safety," it still ambushes him—passing a stretch of fence and suddenly the wall feels thinner; staring at the distant watchtower and the light looks like something takes a bite out of it for a heartbeat.
Li sits on his cot, thumb and forefinger pinching Erin's scrap of paper. The tiny line on the back—"A–47… (Adaptive sequence)"—burns like a brand.
This isn't a price you pay and sleep off. It's pulling him somewhere, dragging him toward a state he can't even see clearly yet.
The tent flap snaps open.
Marcus stands outside in the gray pre-dawn. His face is flat.
"Out," Marcus says. "Line up. Brian's talking."
Li tries to rise. The world blacks out for a second. He grabs the cot frame until the dark clears.
Marcus steps in, studies him for two beats. "You look like a corpse." A pause. "Don't run a mission today. Rest."
Li shakes his head. He opens his mouth, but only a ragged hiss of air slips out. He points outside, then points at himself.
"You want to go?" Marcus frowns. "Like this? You'll walk in and never walk out."
Li shakes his head again—no, not want. Not choice. He pulls out the note and taps the "A–47."
Marcus goes quiet. He understands.
"Fine." Marcus turns away. "But don't die where I have to watch it."
The yard already holds a dozen people. Daniel hugs an equipment case and yawns. Sophia leans against an armored truck; her arm is rewrapped with fresh bandage. Noah stands at the back, his gaze drifting—when his name is called, he reacts half a beat late.
Brian steps out of the command tent with a clipboard.
He doesn't look at anyone. He just speaks.
"New rules, starting today." Brian's voice is low, but it cuts clean. "First: leaving formation without authorization is desertion. On-site disposal."
"Second: concealing Resonance reactions—headache, tinnitus, hallucinations, aphasia, any abnormality—must be reported immediately. If you hide it, you're classified as unstable."
"Third"—his eyes rake the line and land on Li—"all Resonance users on the observation list will wear a monitoring wristband. Refusal is also classified as unstable."
A thin ripple of unease moves through the group.
"What happens if you're classified 'unstable'?" Daniel asks under his breath.
Brian looks at him. "Isolation," he says. "Until you're confirmed stable. Or confirmed useless."
Noah goes even paler.
"We're here to work, not to be prisoners," Marcus steps forward, voice hard as rebar. "Sir—without living people, how do you complete missions? With rules that cold?"
Brian looks at Marcus like he's looking at a tool.
"Rules aren't meant to keep you alive," Brian says. "Rules are meant to complete the mission. Personnel—" he pauses "—are replaceable serial numbers."
Marcus's fist tightens.
Brian doesn't give him another glance. "Reassign. Li Kaine—step out."
Li walks forward.
A soldier approaches with a black wristband. It looks like a thick watch, with a tiny indicator light on the side.
"Put it on," the soldier says.
Li doesn't move.
"Put it on," Brian repeats.
Li turns his head toward Erin. She stands slightly behind Brian with a tablet in hand, face unreadable.
Erin gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Li extends his arm. The band clicks shut with a soft ka-tak. The side light blooms a dim green.
At the exact same moment, the hum inside Li's ears needles him—sharp, quick—like a pin driven in and yanked out.
His fingers tremble.
"Good." Brian says. "The rest of you—move. One hour. Second batch of equipment arrives. Receive and inventory."
The group breaks. Marcus shoots Brian a look that could cut steel and turns to check ammunition crates. Noah drops his eyes and hurries away.
Sophia drifts closer, eyes catching on the band as if it sparks a memory. She seems about to speak, but Li has already turned toward the medical tent.
He knows Erin will be there.
Inside, the disinfectant smell is thick enough to taste.
Erin sits behind a folding table. Forms are spread out like a spill of dead leaves.
"Sit," she says.
Li sits.
No pleasantries. Erin goes straight in. "Tinnitus ongoing? Nosebleed frequency? Any improvement in aphasia?"
Li shakes his head, then nods, then points at his throat—frustration with no sound to carry it.
Erin pushes a notebook and pen across to him. "Write."
Li takes the pen and writes: I want information about my daughter.
Erin glances at it. "Information has a price. Yesterday was your first bite. If you want the second, you prove you're worth investing in."
Li writes: How?
"You're on the observation list. That's step one." Erin taps his wrist. "The band logs physiological metrics and position data. Next, you accept an embedded recorder—me. I go with your team on missions, observe your responses, and evaluate your stability."
Li writes: If I refuse?
Erin lifts her eyes. "Then yesterday's note is all you ever get. Your daughter's batch ID, her transfer window, every follow-up lead—frozen permanently."
Her voice stays even, like she's reading weather. "Li, I'm not negotiating. I'm telling you how the system works. If you want something from it, you follow its rules."
Li watches her. He can't feel anger. He only has a cold, hard clarity now. He writes: My daughter—A–47—what is it?
Erin is silent for a few seconds.
"A–47 is a batch designation," she says at last. "An 'Adaptive Subject' series. The next supply-and-transfer window is within forty-eight hours. The location—" she pauses "—an outpost near the edge of Anchorpoint Seven."
Li's fingers clamp around the pen until it hurts.
Erin continues. "To get the exact coordinates and transfer roster, you participate in the next recovery run. The target is near that outpost."
She closes her tablet. "It'll be more dangerous. Closer to the Anchorpoint. You go or you don't—that part is yours."
Li doesn't pick.
He only has one road left.
He writes: I'm going.
Erin nods and scribbles something down. "Emotional isolation significant. Decision logic clear. Stability rating—provisional B-plus." She looks up. "You can go. Don't remove the band. If it detects an abnormality, or you're classified unstable, the transaction ends automatically."
Li stands and reaches the tent flap.
"Li," Erin calls.
He turns.
"Don't die," Erin says. "If you die, your daughter truly has no one left looking."
Li doesn't answer. He lifts the flap and steps out.
Outside, military trucks roll in, unloading cargo. Metal crates come down one by one, stamped with serial numbers. Li stands off to the side watching soldiers inventory them.
Then the hum spikes again.
But this time it isn't the distant, foggy buzz. It's sharp—close—resonant. The source is one of the metal crates being carried off the truck.
It looks like all the others. But the hum points at it like wire scraping across his eardrum.
Li can't help stepping forward.
A soldier blocks him immediately. "Back off."
Li points at the crate.
"Not your business." The soldier shoves him once. "Move."
Li stumbles back, but his eyes catch the crate's marking: 7–4–D.
The same prefix as the data case he brought back yesterday.
"What're you staring at?" Daniel sidles in, following Li's gaze. "Oh. Those? Heard they're 'priority items.' Worth more than we are."
Li says nothing.
On his wrist, the band's indicator light flickers—once.
By evening, it isn't fully dark yet.
Li sits in his tent listening to the camp: the diesel generator's steady roar, distant voices, the warning lights rotating along the wire fence.
Then he hears something else.
Soft. The sound of plastic rubbing—kree—kree—
Like the wristband scraping against rough fabric.
Like a strap tightening.
Like… the sound from long ago, the day his daughter was taken—other people's wristbands brushing each other as they moved.
Li jerks to his feet.
At the same instant, the hum in his ears spikes into a blade.
Sharp as fingernails on glass.
He bursts out of the tent.
Beyond the fence, the gray fog looks thicker. The watchtower beam stutters—as if something bites a chunk out of it.
No alarm sounds. But the air changes.
Brian strides out of the command tent, face set like stone.
"Form up!" he shouts. "We move early—now!"
Marcus is already snapping the line into place. Daniel scrambles for gear. Noah runs up, nearly dropping his rifle.
Erin steps close to Li, voice low enough to be swallowed by engine noise.
"Remember," she says, "the moment you're classified unstable, your daughter's information is gone. Forever."
Li looks down at the wristband glowing green.
A noose.
Already tightening.
The second mission isn't a choice.
It's the only channel left to buy his daughter back.
Truck engines rise into a heavy roar.