Click, click, click, click—stops me in the hall. Tilting my head, I listen and try to pinpoint where the noise is coming from. My bare feet, chilled on the tile, start to move again as I follow the sound, padding towards the half closed door of the computer room.

I peek inside.

If the computer room has a ceiling light, I still have yet to see it on. The room is dark, except, of course, for the glow of the computer screens, but instead of websites and codes, this time the monitors are working together, like a giant television screen. A toothpaste commercial is playing, silently. And sitting in front of the screens, his back to me, bouncing the heel of his sneaker over one of the plastic legs of the computer chair—click, click, click —is Dax.

I push open the door. "Good morning."

He doesn't react as far as I can tell. His leg continues to bounce, and he doesn't turn his chair. Drawing closer, I catch the gleam of the clunky earphones on his head. That explains why he doesn't hear me as I stop beside him. He only gnaws away on his thumb nail and stares intently at the screens.

I touch his arm.

As if my hand is charged with electricity, Dax jumps, hands flying, flailing, knocking his earphones off his head. The squealing gasp he lets out makes me immediately take a step back and start apologizing. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm sorry."

"Evette..." Dax's eyes roll to the ceiling. He collapses in his chair. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I'm sorry, I tried to let you know I came in."

Behind bright, glaring lenses, his eyes flutter over my face. After a moment of examining me, he finally asks, "How are you?"

"Fine." I hug my arms to my chest, letting my eyes drift to the woman on the screens. She can't stop smiling now that she bought that specific whiting toothpaste. "I'm sure the bruises look worse than they feel."

"They look pretty bad." Dax scratches his head and sits up. "Uh, do you need some ice? Let's get you some from the kitchen."

"No. I'm fine, thanks."

The commercial ends, and a newsroom and two anchors appear. Their lips move, eyebrows furrow. One of them, a man with perfectly gelled hair, fumbles with his papers.

"Are you sure? How about some breakfast? Where's Triple?"

"In the bedroom," I say, but distantly. My eyes are fixed on the screens, the strip of words along the bottom. Suspected Terrorist Spotted Again. I step forward. "Let me hear that. What are they saying?"

Dax's leg starts bouncing again. "Huh?"

The newsroom disappears and a pretty reporter takes up the screens. Blue and red lights from police-cruisers flash over brick walls of an alley behind her. It's the same alley I was standing in a few hours ago. There's the back door to the club. The one light bulb. The trash bin.

My eyes flash down at Dax, heart quickening. "Unplug the earphones. Let me hear it."

Dax hesitates, seeming to act like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. But when my eyes flash down at him again in urgency, he gives in. He reaches down and yanks his earphones' cord out from the computer.

The pretty reporter's voice fills the room.

"... attacked Mister Verbeck in the bathroom, exited the nightclub, and was intercepted by an off-duty police officer" —bullshit— "in this alley. The officer opened fire and may have wounded the man. After seriously injuring the off-duty police officer, the suspected terrorist was able to escape with his accomplice."

Cut to surveillance video.

Withorn Hospital.

Archives.

It's me, standing at the high-set desk, speaking to Cory. It's me. On the screens. On the news.

As if someone just punched me in the stomach and knocked the air out of me, a single breath presses past my lips. Sharp and stunned.

"Witness accounts say the female accomplice is in her early twenties, has auburn hair and green eyes." The screen cuts to another surveillance video—this one in black and white, lower in quality. The gas station. And me, trailing behind Trip, passing by the old wrinkly man at the counter, Trip bumping shoulder to shoulder with Eye-brow-piercing-guy.

"Police have determined the female accomplice did assist the suspected terrorist in escaping after the brutal attack on the two police officers near Withorn Hospital, and eyewitnesses say she was at the nightclub and was seen with Mister Verbeck. Earlier this morning, we were able to speak briefly to Detective Ralston, who is overseeing this case."

The pretty news reporter is gone, and a man—dressed in jeans and a black, expensive-looking coat—is climbing out of a sleek black car. Reporters swarm him, shouting questions and thrusting their microphones in his direction. Several men in black full-faced helmets, black bulletproof uniforms, and guns—big guns—ward off the crowd.

Suddenly, my legs feel weak.

It's Government's special task unit: the Force.

"Detective Ralston!" the pretty news reporter calls. There is a glimpse of her in the corner of the screen as the cameraman struggles to keep Ralston in the shot. "Detective Ralston, do you think the gunman may have any connections to the notorious terrorist gang BlackWall?"

Ralston holds his hands up, as if to keep the crowd at bay. His salt-and-peppered mustache twitches as he says, "No connections have been found yet. But we are still searching."

Another reporter asks, "Are you positive this is the same gunman from Withorn Hospital?"

"Yes we are."

"What about the accomplice? Has her identity been confirmed yet?"

"We are looking into it. Now, if you all would step back and let me do my job, please. Thank you." He starts through the crowd, his armored men helping him part the sea of reporters and cameramen.

The pretty newscaster returns full-screen. "If you have any information involving the suspected terrorist or his accomplice, call your local law enforcement immediately. Please keep in mind he is armed and extremely dangerous. Do not—"

And I'm sinking, legs folding underneath me, fingers slipping from the edge of the desk.

Dax bolts out of his chair, crouching in front of me, his voice far away, saying, "Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay."

"Did you hear?" I gasp. I can't breathe. The air feels so thin. "Did you hear what they said? An accomplice?"

"It's lies, it's just lies."

"They're calling me an accomplice!"

"I know, I know, but it's just—"

"I haven't done anything. He made me help him."

"I know—"

"It was me. It was me in that video. In Archives, the, the gas station. They have video."

"It's okay. Hey, it's—"

I cover my face. "Oh my God, they have video."

"What the hell is going on?"

"She's freaking out!"

"They have video, oh my God. Oh my God."

"What happened?"

"Nothing, I didn't do anything. She saw the news."

Suddenly, my hands are ripped from my face and, through blurry eyes, I'm staring at Trip crouched in front of me. "Calm. Down." The grit in his voice slices through my thoughts.

"...Your life is special."

Our eyes flicker towards the screens. It's another commercial. This one I know too well.

In front of a bright, white background, a woman stares at us. A flare of light, and suddenly there are two women, standing side by side. Who look exactly the same.

"Turn that off, Dax," Trip snaps.

Dax gets to his feet.

"Your life matters," the women say in unison. Another flare of light, this time in the form of two car headlights. The blare of a horn. Tires screeching. White. Then, only one woman, smiling earnestly now. "My life was saved." A word appears beside her. "Emulation."

The screens go black.

And with a few more clacks of the keyboard, Dax switches the screens back to the usual websites and codes and loading screens.

And silence...

For a while, none of us speak, until Dax is brave enough to break the silence.

"I think," he says, "they wanted you to see that, Triple."

"Fuckers," Trip mutters, so low I barely catch it.

My eyes switch to him, realizing vaguely that he is still gripping my wrist, and that saliva is spilling into my mouth. Quietly, I say, "I'm going to throw up."

Trip releases me, throwing a quick glance at Dax, who automatically snatches the wastebasket next to his desk. The moment he hands it to me I heave violently, and the taste of acid and the slight zing of the martini I had last night washes over my tongue. It makes me retch more.

When the heaving subsides, Dax clears his throat. "She just saw herself on the news."

"There was surveillance video of the hospital and the gas station," I say, lifting my head and wiping my mouth. I lock eyes with Trip. "I can't do this anymore. I can't. I just can't..." Tears spring into my eyes again, but I try to focus past the blur. "You have to do something."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"Call someone. Call that guy Ralston. Tell him I'm not involved in this. Tell him you made me do it."

Trip shakes his head. "That won't help anything."

I gape at him, unable to believe what I'm hearing. But it's not long before my shock swiftly, involuntarily gives way to thick and coursing anger. It churns my stomach. Quickens my breath. "What you mean is that won't help you."

Trip stands, now refusing to look at me.

I feel like throwing the wastebasket at him, but instead I rise shakily to my feet. "This isn't fair to me. And it's not fair to him—" pointing at Dax "—either. We don't have anything to do with this. I don't want to die just because you want your stupid file, just because you want to make me help you get it."

"I gave you a choice—"

"Don't even give me that shit. What choice do I have? Especially now that Government is calling me your accomplice." I swallow the taste of bile. "You have to call and tell them I'm innocent."

"They know you're innocent, Ashford."

"Just like they know," Dax speaks up, "it was no off-duty police officer who shot Trip." Jerking my head around, I look at Dax in astonishment. All this time I thought he'd be on my side. Now it sounds like he's siding with the ice-devil. "Just like they know Trip isn't a terrorist either," he continues, staring at the floor. "The media is controlled by Government, Evette. It's all lies."

"If they catch you," Trip says, drawing my eyes back to him, "they'll bring you in for questioning. And they'll kill you. You've known that. I told you that. It doesn't matter to them if you're innocent or not."

I look back and forth, from Dax to Trip, ravaging my sore bottom lip with my teeth. More tears flood my vision. "So there's nothing that can be done? Nothing at all?"

Trip shakes his head.

Dax chews his thumbnail.

"That's just great." My voice comes out vicious, hostile. And I direct it all straight at Trip. "That's just fantastic, isn't it?"

Trip wets his lips, cocks his head. "I didn't plan this."

"No, it's just extremely convenient for you. I can't go anywhere. My entire life is ruined. Yet you have the nerve to tell me you've given me a choice." I shake my head, staring up at the dark ceiling, blinking through tears. "Help you, or death. I should be thankful, right?"

"There's nothing I can do to change this," Trip says, flicking a hand towards the computer screens. "Yes, I dragged you into my problem. That's my fucking fault. I didn't realize they would find me so quickly. I didn't realize they'd find out about you. But it wasn't my intention to drag you through hell and back. So don't act like this is convenient for me—like I want this."

A laugh bursts from me, without warning, sounding humorless and bitter. Trip's reaction is instant, eyes growing stone-cold, jaw setting.

It's clear he does not—at all—like being laughed at.

I gesture at my face. "None of that stopped you from dressing me up and serving me on a silver platter to Verbeck."

Trip's voice comes deep, callous. "I didn't plan that either. I didn't know Braxton would be there."

"It doesn't matter to you either way." I hold his gaze, steadily. "What will you have me do next, huh? Dress me up in some skimpy french-maid costume and have me fuck a Government Official for your file?" Trip opens his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it. "Just minutes ago you were having a pity-party about how Government treated you, how inhumane they were, but here you are using me for your own benefit, no matter what the cost. All you care about is yourself. As far as I can see, there is absolutely no difference between you and them."

Suddenly, Trip has a hold of my arm.

And it's as if the whole room—the whole world—freezes. Except for him. The electricity in his eyes, intensified by the glare of the screens, bounces and sparks across my gaze. Heat travels from his fingers, through my arm, into my bloodstream, catching my breath in my throat.

My anger drains away.

And now I'm terrified he'll hit me.

"If there wasn't a difference," Trip hisses, "I would kill you right now. But that's not to say I won't break your arm—" his grip tightens with every clipped word "—if you don't shut your mouth."

"Triple..." Dax mumbles, but with one flash of a glare from Trip, he quiets again.

I can't speak. All I can do is stare back at Trip.

"Do you have anything else to say?" he asks, low, grating.

I shake my head. Another tear slips over my eyelid and trails down my cheek.

For a split second, Trip watches it. Only a split second. Then he is shoving me away, hard, towards the hallway. "If you want to leave, there's the fucking door."

I stumble a few steps. But I go no further. I just stand in the middle of the room, feeling small and vulnerable and pitiful.

Of course I can't leave.

Trip turns on Dax. "What about you? Do you have anything to say?"

Dax, owl-eyed, shakes his head.

"Good." Trip starts for the door, staring daggers at me as he passes. And like a receding storm, he is out of the room, and seconds later, out the front door, slamming it shut behind him.