"43..."
Zeke's fingers found the smooth surface of the vault door—not the biometric panel, not the edge seam, but the very center where the steel was flattest and coldest. He pressed his palm against it and closed his eyes.
"37..."
Cornelius Vance's smile had settled into its most comfortable position: the smile of a man watching the inevitable unfold on schedule. He straightened his cuffs, glanced at a reporter, and gave a small, satisfied nod, as if to say, *See? This is what always happens.*
"31..."
Sweat was forming at Zeke's temple—not from fear, or not only from fear, but from concentration. His lips were moving slightly, barely perceptibly, like he was counting something internal that had nothing to do with the countdown behind him.
"24..."
His left hand moved, found the lower-left quadrant of the panel, three fingers spaced precisely.
"20..."
Vance's smile flickered—just once, just for a half-second, the way a candle flickers before it steadies or before it goes out.
"17..."