"Hand over the key," a voice ordered into the command room as alarms screamed. "Make me," Imelda said into the open mic and the sound of her boots on grated steel filled the brief silence. "You're not supposed to—" a guard's radio sputtered. "You're supposed to keep people alive," she cut in. "I'm supposed to be dead." "Move!" another guard barked. Footsteps closed. Cameras blinked red. She stepped into the camera's blind spot and the feed froze. One guard swung his baton. She hooked his wrist, twisted, and the baton knocked him cold against the rail. The other guard reached for his sidearm. Imelda's elbow struck his throat. He coughed, fell, and she used the butt of his gun to crack the back of his head. Two guards down. Quiet. "Two down, west corridor secure," Imelda reported in a low, steady voice. She let the satisfaction sit in the static of the radio for a beat. "Where's the key?" the commanding voice demanded. Rough, smug. Dieter Peters' voice had a gravel that always came with a smile. "You think I carry a thing that ends me like an accessory?" Imelda said. "You sold me. You're the key." Silence filled the comms long enough for a fly to become annoying. "You'll regret that," Dieter said. His tone was patient, theatrical. "I'll make it easy." "Which part of 'you tried to sell me' needs explaining?" she asked. She moved through the room