Chapter 29: Lines That Don't Move
Kai didn't touch the device immediately.
It sat on the table between him and Jax, dark and ordinary-looking, the kind of thing you could mistake for junk if you didn't know better. That was the problem. Whatever it really was, people had already died over it—or come close enough that the difference didn't matter.
Jax leaned back on the chair, arms crossed. "You're thinking too loud."
Kai glanced up. "I'm thinking enough."
Silence settled. Not the awkward kind—this one had weight. Outside, the world kept moving, but in that room, everything felt paused, balanced on a thin edge.
"We don't know who else is involved," Jax continued, more serious now. "Which means every move we make pulls someone's attention."
Kai nodded once. That part was clear. Since the chase, since the first hit that didn't feel random, the pattern had started to show. Someone was testing him. Measuring how far he'd run. How fast he'd learn.
And whether he'd break.
Kai reached out and finally picked up the device. It was heavier than it looked. Not physically—mentally. Like it carried decisions inside it.
"This isn't about curiosity," he said. "It's leverage."
Jax's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"
"Meaning they didn't want it destroyed," Kai replied. "They wanted it moved. Passed around. Tracked."
That earned him a slow nod. "So keeping it is dangerous."
"Letting it go is worse."
Another pause.
Jax stood and walked toward the window, checking the street below out of habit. No one obvious. That didn't mean anything. The real threats never announced themselves.
"You still planning to walk straight into this?" Jax asked.
Kai didn't answer immediately. He thought of the near misses. The warnings disguised as accidents. The way every path he tried to avoid somehow curved back to the same point.
"Yes," he said at last. "But not blind."
He placed the device back down, turned it slightly so it faced both of them.
"This thing is bait," Kai continued. "So we stop reacting. We decide where it leads."
Jax exhaled through his nose, half a laugh without humor. "You're really doing this."
"I already am."
For the first time since everything started, Kai felt it clearly—not fear, not anger, but alignment. The sense that the lines were finally drawn, and stepping back would cost more than stepping forward.
Whatever this device represented, it wasn't just a target.
It was a boundary.
And Kai had reached the point where crossing it was no longer a choice—it was the only direction left.