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She let out a slow breath. “Possibly everyone.”

“Yes.”

She sighed, the sound weary as she leaned back against the seat. “You know, I miss when my biggest problem was mislabeled samples.”

I looked at her then, really looked. The tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers worried the strap of her bag.

“That was never your biggest problem,” I said.

Her gaze dropped. “No. But I didn’t know that yet.”

Fair.

The transport slowed. I waited until the doors opened before moving.

Talia followed.

We crossed into an industrial transfer hall filled with cargo workers, medical shipments, and automated freight units moving beneath suspended routing rails.

The air smelled like metal, antiseptic, and overheated machinery. Busy enough to disappear inside.

I led her toward a maintenance corridor marked for restricted transport service.

She read the sign. “We’re not authorized.”

“No.”

“Just checking.”

I opened the panel beside the door.

Old encryption. Obsolete. Useful.

Talia leaned closer. “What is this?”

“Ghost transit protocol.”

Her expression tightened, a flicker of unease crossing her features. “Still active?” she asked, her voice low.

“Possibly.”

She shook her head, a short, sharp motion. “That does not inspire confidence.”

“It was designed to survive system updates,” I said, my fingers already moving toward the panel.

“For dead people,” she countered flatly.

“For covert operatives.”

“Who were officially dead.”

“Yes.”

She gave me a look, her mouth a thin line. “Dead people,” she repeated, as if tasting the absurdity of it.

I entered the first sequence. The panel flashed amber, then green. The door slid open with a soft hydraulic hiss.

Talia stared, her body going still. “That should not have worked,” she whispered, more to herself than to me.