Page 57 of Override

Maeve moves again through the audio feed, footsteps pacing once across the bathroom tile before stopping abruptly.

Then finally—very quietly—“Who are you?”

The words barely make it through the mic.

Soft. Shaky. Terrified.

And somehow that hits infinitely harder than the crying did.

Because suddenly this isn’t theoretical anymore.

Something heavy settles low beneath my ribs while I stare blankly at the phone in my hand.

I should shut this down.

Delete the number. Pull back. Reestablish boundaries.

That would be the sane thing to do.

Instead I stand there in the middle of my apartment at nearly midnight listening to her breathe through a hidden microphone while my brain desperately tries to justify why sending that text felt less like a choice and more like reflex.

My fingers start tapping rapidly against my thigh again. One-two-three-four. Again. Again.

“She’s gonna think you’re insane,” I tell myself.

Which—fair. Honestly accurate.

The bathroom goes quiet for several long seconds before I hear her inhale slowly, unevenly, like she’s trying to calm herself down.

Then another tiny sound. Not crying this time.

A laugh. Small. Disbelieving. Completely overwhelmed.

And that completely wrecks me.

The bathroom goes quiet for several long seconds.

Too quiet.

I stare at the burner phone in my hand while every bad decision I’ve made in the last ten minutes replays in horrifying detail through my head.

Then the phone vibrates.

Unknown:

Who is this?

My pulse spikes instantly.

“Oh absolutely not.”

I'm pacing again before I've even decided to, one hand dragging through my hair while I stare at the message like it personally offended me.

Because now there’s a conversation.

Conversations are dangerous. Trackable. Emotional.

And somehow—despite all of that—my thumb still moves anyway.