Warcross (Warcross #1)(57)

It sounds like a solid plan. “What are you going to plant on me?”

Hideo smiles a little. His hand brushes my wrist, turning it over, and his thumb presses carefully against my pulse. A tingle runs through me at his warm touch. Then he moves his hand away from mine and makes a brief gesture in the air. My data appears between us, the text glowing a faint blue. I look on in fascination as he weaves my data into what we already have of Ren’s, an algorithm right before my eyes, fashioning it into the equivalent of a noose.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A snare. Grab his wrist at any point during the game. It will cut through his security and expose his data for you.” Then he takes my hand again and wraps the trap around my wrist like a bracelet, the web of data glittering against my skin for a moment before turning invisible. Something about the gesture feels nostalgic, and suddenly I can see my father hunched over the dining room table, humming cheerfully to himself as he measures strips of fabric against his wrist, a half-empty wine bottle nearby, the floor around him cluttered with sequins and reams of cloth.

I pull my hand away and into my lap, feeling momentarily vulnerable. “Will do,” I say.

Hideo’s expression wavers. He studies me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I shake my head, annoyed with myself for being so obvious. Just a memory, that’s all. And I’m about to say this to him in order to brush it away—but then I look up, meet his eyes, and this time, I feel my own walls lowering. “I was remembering my father,” I say instead, gesturing at my wrist. “He used to measure out short lengths of fabric by wrapping them around his wrist.”

Hideo must have caught the shift in my tone. “Used to?” he says softly.

I look down, concentrating on the table. “It’s been a while since he died.”

Hideo is quiet for a long moment. There’s a familiarity in his look, a beat of silence shared by everyone who has ever experienced loss. One of his hands tightens and loosens. I watch the bruises on his knuckles shift. “Your father was an artist,” he finally says.

I nod. “Dad used to shake his head and wonder where the hell I got my love for numbers from.”

“And your mother? What does she do?”

My mother. A faded memory flashes through my mind of Dad holding my tiny, chubby hand, the two of us looking on helplessly as she laced up her boots and adjusted her silk scarf. While Dad spoke to her in a low, sad voice, I stared up in awe at the silver handle of her suitcase, the perfection of her nails, the silky blackness of her hair. I can still feel her smooth, cool hand against my cheek, patting it once, twice, then pulling away without any reluctance. She’s so beautiful, I remember thinking. The door closed behind her without a sound. Not long afterward, Dad’s gambling habit started.

“She left,” I reply.

I can tell that Hideo is piecing something together about me. “I'm sorry,” he says gently.

I look down, annoyed at the ache in my chest. “After Dad passed away, I preoccupied myself at my foster group home by digging obsessively into your API. It helped me, you know . . . forget.”

There it is again, that brief moment of understanding on Hideo’s face, of old grief and dark history. “And are you able to forget?” he says after a while.

I search his gaze. “Do your bruised knuckles give you release?” I answer in a soft voice.

Hideo looks out toward the city. He doesn’t comment on why I asked him about the bruises, or how long I’ve been wondering about them. “I think we know the answer to both those questions,” he murmurs. And I find myself overwhelmed by another slew of thoughts crowding my mind, guesses of what might have happened to Hideo in his past.

We settle into a comfortable silence as we admire the shimmering lights of the city. The sky has turned fully dark now, the stars erased from view by the neon streets of Tokyo below. My eyes turn upward, instinctively, as I search for any hint of constellations. No use. We’re too far inside the city to see anything more than one or two dots in the sky.

It takes me a moment to notice that Hideo has leaned back in his chair and is watching me again, a small smile hovering on the edges of his lips. The darkness of his eyes shifts in the low light, catching hints of fairy light as well as the warmth from the heat lamps.

“You search the sky,” he says.

I turn my eyes down and laugh. “It’s just a habit. I’ve only seen the sky full of stars when Dad used to take me on road trips through the countryside. I’ve looked for the constellations ever since then.”

Hideo glances up, then moves his fingers in a single, subtle motion. A clear box appears, asking me to accept a shared view. I do. The virtual overlays in my view adjust—and suddenly, the true night sky appears overhead, a sheet of spring constellations against countless numbers of stars, silver and gold and sapphire and scarlet, so bright that the Milky Way band itself is visible. In this moment, it seems entirely possible that starlight could rain down upon us, dusting us in glitter.

“One of the first things I put on my personal, augmented reality view was an unobstructed night sky,” Hideo says. He looks at me. “Do you like it?”

I nod without saying a word, my breath still caught in my throat.

Hideo smiles at me, truly smiles, in a way that brightens his eyes. His gaze wanders across my face. He is so close now that, if he wanted, he could lean forward and kiss me—and I find myself leaning toward him, too, hoping that he’ll close the gap between us.