Felix couldn't feel his fingers anymore.
They had been typing for eight hours straight. Not the rhythmic coding he was used to — this was surgical. Every keystroke measured against the risk of tripping Silas's tripwires. One wrong packet, one timing hiccup, and the bridge they'd spent two days building would turn to smoke. His knuckles ached. His wrists burned. The coffee on his desk had gone cold three hours ago, and he hadn't touched it since.
He sat back and flexed his hands. The server room was cold, but his palms were sweating. That never happened.
"Switch," Dayo said.
