Chapter 17: The Den's Shadow
July 9–10, 2147, Phnom Penh Slums
Selika's POV
The neural den reeked of sweat and scorched circuits, its walls throbbing with bootleg holo-feeds. A faint hum pulsed beneath the chaos of the Phnom Penh slums, threading like a lifeline through neon decay. Selika Maris Delgado slumped against a crate, bronze skin slick with monsoon damp, her neck glyphs shimmering with pale violet light under her holo-lens.
Inanna's voice clawed her mind—a seductive hiss, ever since Angkor Wat's shard. A relic meant to rewrite the Veil, the neural web shackling human thought. The shard had bled into her dreams. Now, her mind bled back.
She wiped a trail of blood from her upper lip, hand trembling. The nosebleeds were getting worse. Across from her, Reyan crouched low, back to the wall, pulse-knife in hand. The flicker of the holo cast shadows across his war-scarred face, deepening the hollows carved by Peru and Mosul. His eyes scanned every corner, never resting. His distrust cut deeper than Inanna's whispers.
Selika focused on the hum. Not noise—rhythm. Like Angkor's lotus throb days ago, when the shard called. She exhaled slowly. The fishy spice of scavenged noodles still lingered, grounding her.
Then came the vision.
Enlil's shadow—monolithic, crawling with code. His voice thundered, "Serve, or burn."
The Veil contracted like a noose. Minds screamed. Hers among them.
She gasped and doubled over. Blood streamed from her nose again, rig clutched tight.
Reyan's voice cut through. Sharp.
"You're slipping."
His eyes—hard, but faltering—locked with hers.
"I'm fighting," she snapped, raw. "She wants the shard, Reyan. I won't let her."
Her glyphs flared, the violet glow pulsing brighter. Inanna's hiss faded, but Selika's hands still shook. She hated how much she wanted his trust again—his touch. Before Peru. Before the rift that never fully healed.
A sudden burst of static. Mara's holo cracked to life—her shaved head slick with sweat, eyes burning.
"Stonehenge is next. The shard points there. Silas's drones are closing in. Move."
Selika nodded. But then—Give me the key, child.
Inanna's voice, intimate and monstrous. Selika flinched, blood trickling anew.
Reyan's POV
The hum of the den was faint, but familiar. It echoed Angkor's lotus rhythm, grounding Reyan Al-Mehdi in the moment. He gripped his pulse-knife tighter.
His scars itched beneath his jacket. Mosul's ghosts stirred—burning drone fire, crumbled mosques, cries swallowed by ash.
Selika bled again. Her glyphs surged with chaotic light. She was breaking, and Inanna was winning.
In Peru, he'd seen her whisper to Enlil. She hadn't noticed—but he had. The memory gnawed at him. Could he still trust her?
The Veil. Once a myth. Now a digital cage, strangling humanity. And somehow, their blood, their pain, held a key to unravel it. Or detonate it.
He tore into cold noodles. Spice stabbed his tongue. A distraction. A pause.
She looked up, her gaze dark but steady. Inanna still crouched behind her eyes, but he saw the fight burning through. The woman he'd trusted once—loved, maybe—before silence fractured them.
Then she gasped again, seizing from another vision.
"You're slipping," he said, hating how fear warped his voice.
"I'm fighting," she spat. Fierce.
That defiance—gods, it mirrored his own. It shook something loose inside him.
Mara's holo flared again:
"Stonehenge. Move, or Silas wins."
Reyan nodded, already rising, but Selika flinched hard—blood streaking her cheek.
He stepped closer. Their knees brushed. Warmth pierced the chill between them.
"Stay with me," he murmured. Not a plea. A vow.
Her fingers grazed his. Her glyphs steadied. Not love—not yet—but a fragile tether sparked.
Then came the whine. A drone. Close.
Silas's sigils glowed through the smog. Reyan's blade sliced wire, sparks flying. The drone collapsed, smoking.
Selika spun, her lens flashing. Another drone sparked, then dropped like a dying bird. But Inanna's weight slowed her—choking her focus.
"Run!" Mara's voice roared through static.
They bolted, sprinting through alleyways thick with riot smoke and neural snare fields. The slums blurred—wires, ash, firelight.
A Cult agent lunged from shadow—robed, glyphs etched into flesh.
Reyan blocked, pulse-blade grazing his arm. Neural pain exploded, glyphs stinging.
Selika struck, her knife flashing, slicing deep. Blood sprayed the alley wall.
Above, Mara's drones clashed with the cult's. Seconds bought. Just seconds.
They crashed into the rubble of a burned-out market. Both panting. Their rigs smoked, the hum of the den now a ghost.
Riot fire cracked nearby. Screams echoed. But Selika's gaze—steady, fierce—held Reyan fast.
They shared cold noodles from a cracked bowl, fingers brushing, breath slowing.
He slept three hours on concrete. Dreamed of Mosul, of burning, of her glyphs glowing in the dark.
She slept near him. Nosebleed dried. Rift softening.
Above, Silas's drones circled.
Ahead, Stonehenge loomed.
And somewhere beneath it, the Veil trembled.