Chapter 11
Chapter 11: The Weight of Touch
As the group scrambles into their security uniforms, Wila and the clone steal a moment of fragile intimacy, while Kay and Jay share a raw, unguarded conversation about family and loss. The mission presses closer, and a final text from Marcus changes everything.
The motel room erupted into controlled chaos. Kay snatched a uniform from Cynthia’s pile, already unbuttoning her jacket with the efficiency of someone who’d changed in worse places. J7 held his up like it might bite him, turning it over to examine the stitching as if it held classified intel. Jay bounced on his heels, tugging at the collar of his hoodie, and Wila found herself frozen in the middle of it all, the polyester blend of a security guard’s shirt rough against her fingers.
“Bathroom’s yours if you want privacy,” Cynthia said, not looking up from her tablet. “We don’t have long.”
Wila shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s just a uniform.” But it wasn’t just a uniform. It was a costume for a role she hadn’t auditioned for—infiltrator, rescuer, accomplice. She pulled the shirt over her head, the fabric smelling faintly of industrial detergent and someone else’s life.
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