Page 42 of Dozer

"Kenzi."

"Someone built a credential relay into the authentication layer and then hard-coded the fallback." I point at the screen even though he can't possibly see what I'm pointing at from where he's standing. "That's not even subtle. That's basically leaving a note that says, please catch me here."

"Kenzi."

"Ninety seconds."

"Kenzi." Something in the way he says my name makes me glance over my shoulder. He's looking at me with that expression again, the one I still can't quite catalog because it isn't the professional assessment I've gotten used to. It isn't annoyance, either. There's something warmer underneath it, something dangerously close to amusement.

"What?"

"Nothing." He pauses. "Keep going."

I narrow my eyes at him, because I'm allowing this man to distract me while someone is actively sitting inside our communications architecture, which feels like a personal failure on several levels. Then turn back to the laptop.

"Ninety seconds," I mutter. "Maybe less if you stop saying my name like that."

"Like what?"

"Like this is funny."

"It is a little funny."

I don't look up, but I feel the corner of my mouth betray me. "You're not supposed to have opinions about my methodology while I'm mid-hack."

"I'm not commenting on your methodology."

"You're commenting on something."

"I'm observing."

"That's the same thing with better PR."

I hear it then, not quite a laugh, Dozer doesn't really do laughs, at least not out loud, not yet, not that I've caught, but something adjacent to one, a low exhale that carries more warmth than air usually does. I file the sound away. I have been collecting these little pieces of him without meaning to. The joke about the cooler. The almost-smile in the truck. The vending machine run. The way he tells me I'm allowed to not be okay without trying to make me okay. The way he puts himself between me and danger as naturally as breathing.

Now this. A man who thinks watching me dismantle somebody else's security flaw is funny.

I like that more than I should.

I continue to stare at the screen before my brain can make that observation into something inconvenient.

"There you are," I say. The intrusion is sitting exactly where I expected it to be. I work through the relay, isolate the credential pathway, and start cutting pieces loose one at a time. Whoever built this wasn't stupid. That's the problem. They were smart enough to make the access persistent without making it obvious, which means they expected nobody to look closely enough to understand what they were seeing. Unfortunately for them, looking closely is basically my favorite thing.

"You're going to regret that firewall," I tell the screen.

"You're threatening the computer now?"

"I'm threatening the person who built it."

"Fair."

My fingers move faster. For several minutes, the only sounds in the room are keys clicking, the hum of equipment, and the occasional quiet shift of Dozer behind me. I know where he is without looking. I know when he's moved closer to the door. I know when he's checked the hallway. I know when he's watching me again. It's strange, realizing how quickly I've learned the language of his silence.

The backdoor closes under my hands with a clean, satisfying finality. I sit back.

"Done."

Dozer steps closer. "They're out?"