Tessa jolted upright in bed, heart pounding like she'd been yanked out of the ocean.
Her dorm room was dark. Still. Cold.
She was still wearing her hoodie — the same one from the rooftop, still damp around the collar from sweat and wind. Her fingers were tangled in the blanket like she'd tried to strangle it in her sleep.
Something had woken her.
But not a nightmare.
A sound.
Faint. Sharp. Artificial.
She turned her head just in time to see the light flicker beneath her door — the slimmest pulse of digital blue, and then it was gone.
She slid out of bed in practiced silence. Bare feet kissed the floor. She crossed the room in five steps and crouched low.
A sliver of black plastic stuck halfway under the door.
A data shard.
She picked it up, holding it under the moonlight slicing through the slats of her blackout window. No markings. No serial. Just a sleek, thumb-sized rectangle — smooth on every side, like it was made to disappear.
