The storage room is cramped and dark, shelves towering over you like they might give you away if you breathe too loud. Somewhere outside, voices move past, close enough that your heart stutters until they fade.

He’s on the floor in front of you, back against the shelves, eyes fixed on yours. The belt is clenched between his teeth, jaw tight, knuckles white where his hands grip the concrete. He doesn’t speak. He just nods once.

You kneel.

There’s no time to hesitate.

You lift your hand toward his neck and focus. Beneath the skin, you feel it immediately—cold, sharp, wrong. A small piece of metal embedded where it doesn’t belong, humming faintly like it knows you’re there.

You reach for it with your mind.

Slowly, you pull.

His body jolts, a muffled sound forced into the belt as pain tears through him. He presses himself harder into the floor, trying not to make a sound, trying not to alert anyone outside that something is very wrong in here. The chip resists, anchored deep, fighting you every inch of the way.

Your head pounds. The pressure builds behind your eyes. Warm blood slips from your nose, but you ignore it. You can’t stop now.

You push harder.

The skin at his neck breaks, blood pooling as the metal begins to emerge. Inch by inch, agonizingly slow, until finally—with a sharp, silent snap—the chip rips free.

It flies into your hand.

The humming stops instantly. The air feels lighter. He collapses forward, gasping, the belt slipping from his mouth as he drags in shaky breaths.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You stare at the tiny piece of metal in your palm, slick with blood, stunned by how much damage something so small can do. Then you close your fist around it, crushing it without thinking.

Outside the storage room, the footsteps keep moving.

Inside, everything has changed.