The geolocation noise doesn't stop.
It's a broken radio buried deep in Li's skull—static on static. Not the low hum with direction. This is a knot of interference, and inside the knot there's stuff.
Numbers. Fragments. Place names.
"I–90… seven… exit…"
It comes in bursts, forced into his brain like a feed line you can't unplug.
Li stands in the open yard. Dawn is only beginning; the camp lights are still a sick, pale white. He shakes his head hard. It doesn't help. The noise stays—and his right ear suddenly goes dead, like a palm clamped over it. Only his left ear still catches the diesel generator's dull drone.
Heat blooms under his nose. He wipes—blood again.
"All personnel—listen up!"
Brian's voice slams out of the loudspeaker, sharp enough to sting Li's left ear.
Li looks over. Brian stands in front of the command tent with a list in hand. Marcus is at the front of the line, spine straight, fists clenched. Daniel shrinks his shoulders. Erin stands off to the side with a clipboard, her face empty of expression.
"Due to the recent rise in instability incidents," Brian says, voice cold and clean, "monitoring thresholds will be lowered again, effective immediately. All Resonance users—wristbands will be upgraded from monitoring to calibration."
He pauses. His gaze slides over the crowd and settles on Li.
"And now—publishing the candidate list for dedicated navigation assets."
Something tightens on Li's wrist.
Not physical pressure—rhythm. The green light pattern snaps. It had been irregular, private. Now it becomes… synchronized.
He looks down.
His band. Marcus's band. Daniel's band. Even the bands on a few soldiers farther back—every green light in view flares on in the same second and shuts off in the same second.
Like one shared heartbeat owns them.
"Li Kaine," Brian reads.
Li lifts his head.
"Spatial-perception profile. Preliminary classification: high-compatibility navigation asset." Brian's eyes stay on him. "Effective today, your operational priority shifts to calibration and verification. Recovery Team missions continue as normal, but your navigation decisions will be subordinate to Monitoring Center directives."
Marcus steps forward. "Sir—Li is Recovery Team. His calls decide whether we live. You want remote desk-jockeys to command him? They don't know anything about Thin-corridor fighting."
"Sergeant," Brian says without even looking at Marcus, "this is policy. Unstable is controlled. High-value is specialized. You object?"
"I do," Marcus's voice rises. "You want him as a compass? Then tell me—can your Monitoring Center hear Thin Point hum? Can they tell three seconds early when a wall is about to fold? No. So why do they get to override him?"
"Because efficiency." Brian finally turns his eyes to Marcus. "Because reducing unnecessary losses. Because maximizing scarce resources."
"Resources?" Marcus laughs once—ugly. "Is that all you've got? Resource. Asset. Efficiency. He's a person. His daughter is still on that goddamn transfer chain."
"Precisely why," Brian replies, calm as ever, "he requires calibration. Emotional volatility leads to bad decisions. Bad decisions interrupt leads. A stable navigation asset completes stable missions and produces stable results."
He finishes and flicks two fingers at a nearby soldier.
"Sweep the perimeter. Confiscate unregistered items. Seal suspicious crates. Camp enters Level Two control—no one leaves post without authorization."
Soldiers spread out. Tents get turned. Crates get opened. The air tightens everywhere at once.
Li stands there with the noise still drilling in his head. He hears I–90, hears Exit Seven, hears 03:40—and the fragments match the cigarette pack Rosanne shoved into his hand.
But he feels no panic.
No anger.
Marcus and Brian's argument is automatically translated in Li's mind into routes, times, probabilities. Marcus has low leverage; Brian has policy advantage. Prolonged conflict wastes time; wasted time misses the window.
He stands outside his own life, calculating it.
"Li Kaine."
Erin's voice pulls him back.
She steps in front of him with her clipboard open. "With me. Stability evaluation."
Li follows her into the medical tent.
Inside, the disinfectant stink is thick enough to drink.
Erin shuts the flap and points to a chair. "Sit."
Li sits.
Erin doesn't. She stands in front of him with her pen poised, eyes locked on his face.
"Answer my questions. Don't think—just speak." Her words come fast. "First time you heard the hum—when?"
"Day forty-seven," Li says. His voice is rough. "Afternoon."
"Directional sense—auditory or somatic?"
"Both. Like… ear pressure change plus sound."
"After you use the ability—define the emotional isolation."
Li pauses. "I can't feel fear. I can't feel… much of anything."
"When you think of your daughter—what do you feel?"
Li opens his mouth. He wants to say anxiety. Pain. A hollow split down the chest.
What comes out is: "I need to find her."
Erin writes quickly. Then she snaps into a different subject, cutting him off mid-breath.
"Yesterday's recovered crate—7–4–D. What color was the surface corrosion?"
Li blinks. "Gray-white. With a green tint."
"Estimated weight."
"Thirty kilos. One person can't lift it."
"When you watched Noah get taken—what did you think?"
"The window—" Li says before he can stop it. "Would the window be affected?"
The words hang.
Li himself stares at them like they came from someone else.
Erin's pen freezes. She looks up for two seconds, then lowers her gaze and crosses out several lines, rewriting.
"Your spike," she says softly, voice pressed low, "I altered it to 'residual radiation interference.' Band synchronization has a thirty-second blind spot—I logged in that gap."
Li looks at her.
"But Brian isn't stupid." Erin sets the pen down. "He's watching you. Next he'll peel you out of the team completely, lock you into a mobile cage for Monitoring Center. Every place you go—there'll be rifles pointing at your back."
"And my daughter—"
"Which is why you have to finish verification before he locks you." Erin pulls out a folded paper. She doesn't hand it over; she spreads it on the table for Li to see.
A rough sketch: I–90. Exit Seven. An X.
"Abandoned freight transfer yard. There should be an old relay cabinet still powered somewhere inside." Erin's voice is clipped, surgical. "You find it. You take that '7–4 prefix' data case you recovered last run, and you plug it into the cabinet once. The system will bounce back a coordinate—real-time location of the next transfer node."
She looks straight at Li. "One shot. Miss it and the line dies."
"What's the price?" Li asks.
"The moment you plug in, the noise will surge." Erin doesn't blink. "You may go temporarily deaf. Blind. Or enter a full-gray state—no emotion at all. If the band logs an abnormal peak during that surge, Brian will know instantly and freeze every lead."
She folds the paper back up. "So you have to be fast. Precise. Finish before the noise eats you."
"Why are you helping me?" Li asks.
Erin is quiet for a few seconds.
"I'm not helping you," she says finally. "I'm helping myself. You're the most stable sample on my record. If you're gone, my evaluation value is gone. In Brian's eyes, I become another replaceable number."
She turns and yanks the tent flap open. "Evaluation complete. Result: B-plus. Provisionally stable. Return to duty."
Li steps back out. The noise is still there.
Outside, Marcus and Brian are still arguing—but their voices have dropped. Daniel crouches near a stack of crates with a notebook, checking his band and scribbling.
Brian sees Li and walks over.
"Evaluation result?"
"B-plus. Provisionally stable," Li answers.
Brian studies him for two beats. "Tomorrow, a transport convoy heads west toward the Anchor edge. You'll go with them. Monitoring Center will receive you out there."
"Sir," Marcus cuts in. His tone is hard, but restrained now. "Li's navigation needs real terrain to function. You ship him to a new area, into a new team, under desk directives—efficiency becomes zero. I propose the next recovery target be assigned along I–90. Keep Li with us and verify his stability in-field. If he succeeds, current structure is justified. If he fails, you take him. Clean."
Brian narrows his eyes. "You're buying him time."
"I'm buying mission success." Marcus doesn't flinch. "You know the Anchor edge shifts daily. Without real-time navigation, we bleed bodies. Li's ability is here. The team is here. Why fracture a working unit and add risk?"
Brian doesn't answer immediately. He looks from Marcus to Li.
"Objective?" Brian asks.
"I–90, near Exit Seven. Abandoned transfer yard," Marcus says. "Old military comm hardware likely remains—fits recovery priority. Li can demonstrate Thin Point avoidance and route selection on-site."
"And if his band spikes?"
"Per policy—immediate isolation. You take him." Marcus's jaw tightens. "I'll sign responsibility."
Brian thinks for a few seconds.
"Accepted," he says. "But Sergeant—your signature covers more than his stability. It covers your entire team's standing in the system. If he fails, your whole unit enters high-risk management."
"Understood," Marcus says.
Brian turns away.
Marcus steps beside Li and lowers his voice. "This is all I could buy. When we get there—do what she said. Do it fast. Don't screw it up."
Li nods. He wants to say thank you. No sound comes.
The emotion is still gray.
At dusk, the camp lights all dip for a heartbeat.
Not out—just a hard dim, like a voltage drop, then full again.
At the same moment, every wristband flashes green—synchronized—one strong, clean blink.
In that blink, the noise in Li's skull detonates.
Fragments pour in—numbers, letters, place names—crushing into a single roar. But in the dead center of the chaos, one phrase punches through, crisp and brutal, and pins itself inside his mind:
I–90 / 7 / transfer yard / 03:40
Not tomorrow.
Tonight.