The red warning pulsed, a siren blaring in Kenza’s vision. *OVERRIDE REQUIRED BY CEO. INTRUDER DETECTED IN LOBBY.* Kitt. Boz. Exposed. Apex defense protocols, swift and merciless, would already be mobilizing. There was no time for a gentle exit. No time for tactical finesse. Only brute force. Dastan Moray stood a few paces away, mid-sentence about the sniper, oblivious, his back to the console. He hadn't seen the message. Kenza didn't hesitate. She launched herself across the penthouse office, a blur of motion. Moray barely had time to register her sudden fury before she slammed her elbow into his solar plexus, a jarring impact that emptied his lungs and sent him stumbling back, gasping. He gasped, stumbling against a marble display stand as she ripped the heavy plasteel plate from the wall beside the penthouse door, exposing the manual bypass wires. He recovered, lunging for her. “What in the—?!” Kenza ignored him, her fingers flying over the exposed conduit. She bypassed the standard biometric lock, a rapid sequence of cuts and reroutes, sparks showering from the raw wires. The heavy reinforced door, built to withstand orbital bombardment, shuddered, the elaborate interlocking mechanisms grinding open with a protesting groan. Before Dastan could reach her, she was through, slamming the manual release button on the other side. The door hissed shut, sealing him inside his gilded cage. “Kenza! You won’t get far!” his enraged shout barely penetrated the thick plasteel. She didn’t spare a glance back. The emergency stairwell was a sterile, unforgiving shaft of reinforced concrete. No cameras. No biometric scanners. Just a brutal, direct descent. She flew down the spiraling steps, her boots thudding against the metal treads, the sound echoing ominously in the confined space. Twenty floors. Thirty. Each level she cleared, the low, mechanical whine of patrol drones grew louder. The distinct *shing* of energy rifles charging. They were already moving. Her mind raced, calculating trajectories, engagement points, optimal cover. She could still make it. Could still get to them. Boz was reliable, but Kitt was a variable, a force of chaos. She had to assume the worst. She had to assume they were already cornered. Reaching the ground floor, she kicked open the final emergency door with a violent crack, bursting into the sprawling, neon-drenched lobby. Her weapon, a custom-modified ‘Vanguard’ pulse carbine, was already in her hands, safety off. She scanned the vast expanse of polished obsidian flooring, ready for an ambush. But there was no firefight. No screaming executives, no clatter of corporate guards. Just… quiet. And Dastan Moray. He stood in the center of the lobby, surrounded by the debris of overturned luxury coffee kiosks and a pair of disoriented automated sweepers circling aimlessly, his clothes rumpled from using an executive express lift. But Dastan wasn't looking at the chaos. He wasn't even looking at her. His attention remained fixed on a small figure perched on the edge of the central concierge workstation—a curved console beneath a wall displaying Moray Synthetics' crest in cyan light. Kitt. Her son, his small legs dangling, was humming a tuneless melody, entirely absorbed. A half-eaten lollipop stuck out from his mouth, occasionally making contact with the multi-billion credit display as he swiped and tapped. The hub, which typically required three-factor biometric clearance to even initialize, was now overrun by cascading pastel scripts and neon graphics—all of Kitt’s own design. He giggled, a pure, unrestrained sound that seemed impossibly loud in the suddenly silent lobby, as a new animation of a cartoon space kitten chasing a data-mouse exploded across the entire Moray logo. Dastan turned his head. He registered Kenza aiming her rifle, yet his focus snapped instantly back to Kitt, unblinking. Kenza raised her carbine, the muzzle settling on Dastan’s chest. “Let them go,” she commanded, her voice a low growl, strained with the effort to keep it steady. “Don’t move.” Dastan didn’t move. He didn’t even acknowledge the weapon. His eyes, an unusual mix of deep azure and molten gold, were locked on Kitt. Then, specifically, they locked onto Kitt’s eyes. One bright blue, the other a striking amber. He went rigid. That exact, mismatched pair of irises was unmistakable. It was his own. Dastan looked from the boy to Kenza. The timeline, the five years of ghosts, the missing pieces locked into place with absolute finality. Before Kenza could process the shift in his expression, a raw, primal roar tore from his throat – a sound of pure, concentrated fury. Not at Kenza, not at Kitt. But at the unseen threat. He spun, slamming his palm onto the concierge glass beside Kitt, ignoring the boy’s delighted squeak as the cartoon kitten vanished. His fingers flew across the input pad, not hacking, but commanding. His CEO-level credentials ripped through the system, overriding every protocol, every firewall. “The Viper signature,” he snarled, his eyes burning, fixed on the holographic display that flickered into existence before him. “Where is it?!” Kenza watched, stunned. The screen filled with a dizzying map of the global data streams. A pulsing red node, small but malignant, appeared on the outskirts of Korsav. The Viper’s tracking signal, locked onto Kitt’s digital breadcrumbs. Dastan’s face contorted with a cold, terrifying rage. His knuckles blanched as he hammered the commands. “Wipe it! All of it! Every trace! Incinerate the source code!” The red node imploded on the map, a flash of white, then nothing. Utter deletion. The Viper’s lead, gone. Kitt’s trail, erased. By Dastan. To protect him. The automated sentries descending the grand escalators halted and powered down, their red optical sensors going dark. Dastan’s shoulders slumped, the adrenaline draining from him. He slowly sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving Kitt, who, oblivious to the drama, was now trying to coax the space kitten back onto the screen. “You didn’t break in to steal my data,” Dastan whispered, his voice hoarse, raw with a dawning, terrible truth. “You broke in to hide my son.”

The Source Code