Private hangar, south side of Vandenberg. Three in the morning. Weak neons. Hale was waiting, seated on a crate, Glock flat on his thigh, calm as a Sunday.

"Doctor Kom. At last. I read every line of your thesis. Chapter seven, fourteen times. You are a genius a continent forgot. Sign with me. Chair at Georgetown, your name on the patents, the recognition they stole from you. And silence."

Kom stepped forward, hands open, voice low.

"Monsieur Hale, ma these no be pour vendre, na pour comprendre."

Behind Hale, a shadow. Elena, pistol raised. Kom pulled his phone, launched the counter protocol. The satellite was entering its shadow window. Twelve seconds. The channel inverted, dumping every transaction, every buyer, every wire, straight to the Pentagon inspectors general.

Hale pivoted. Gunshot. Elena took it in the arm, fired back, missed. Kom crashed into him, arm lock, throw, knee to the floor. The Glock skidded across the concrete.

Four eleven. MPs everywhere. Hale cuffed.

Kom lit the burner, brewed a thick, hot Choco Kom. Elena sat against him, shoulder pressed to his, bandage still damp. She drank slowly.

Passing, Hale whispered: "You think you've won. You've only seen the first node of the network."

Want to know how many nodes still hide in the dark? Message me on Messenger, I'll sketch the map before dawn. ☕