(LIMITLESS) CHAPTER TWENTY: THE DECISION

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the horizon had already begun to pale. The streets were quiet, muffled in that in-between hour when the city hadn’t quite woken and the night hadn’t fully let go. Taylor stood across the street from her house.

She hadn’t been here in weeks.

The burner phone in her hand felt heavier than it should as she stared down at the screen, thumb hovering over the “call” button next to her father’s name. Danny Hebert.

She’d already typed the number in once, cleared it, and typed it again. Her breathing was shallow, her hands cold despite the warmth in the air. She could see the living room light on through the window, faint yellow bleeding through the curtains. He was awake.

How many nights had she imagined this moment? Dreamed it, dreaded it. Standing on the porch. Ringing the bell. Seeing his face again.

Explaining. Apologizing.

Telling him the truth.

But the words wouldn’t come, despite rehearsing a dozen versions of it. “I’m alive.” “I’m sorry.” “I had to go.” None of them sounded right. None of them felt big enough for what she’d done. Of the silence. Of the distance she’d only deepened.

Her thumb moved. Pressed.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then—

“Hello?”

Taylor froze.

His voice was hoarse. Raw from sleepless nights and worry. There was exhaustion in it—grief too—but more than anything, there was hope. That terrible, fragile hope.

Her mouth opened, but as expected, nothing came out.

“Hello?” he repeated. Softer now. “Is someone there?”

She hung up.

The silence afterward was unbearable.

Taylor’s head bowed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of everything crashing down all at once. The casino, the Undersiders, Lung, Keith, the alley—God, the alley.

She slipped the phone into her pocket and turned away.

She wasn’t ready. Not for that conversation. Not yet.

But she knew what she was ready for.

. . . . .

She didn’t really want to.

Not like this.

But she had to.

Because if she didn’t, people would keep assuming. Connecting dots she hadn’t drawn. Lung had mistaken her for one of them. The Undersiders. He’d phrased it like a question, but it hit like a statement—like her affiliation was already decided, obvious to everyone but her.

And they hadn’t corrected him.

They’d left her.

Not fought. Not stayed. Just vanished when the first real threat arrived.

Cowards.

They’d wanted her to join. Talked about no more hiding, about not being alone. And when she’d refused, they’d made sure she wasn’t just walking away—they’d made her more of a target.

She wouldn’t let that stand.

The PRT Headquarters stood like a monolith of steel and glass in the heart of downtown. It wasn’t welcoming—but it wasn’t supposed to be. It was a symbol. An institution. Something solid in a city where everything else felt like it was falling apart.

Taylor walked straight up the steps and through the front doors, hood pulled low, mask tucked in her pocket.

After the fight with Lung, Taylor hadn’t run.

She could have. Slipped into the alleys, vanished into the fog, let the story twist itself into something unrecognizable. That would’ve been easier. Familiar.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she called it in.

No anonymous tip. No voice disguise.

She waited by the wreckage, crouched near Lung’s unconscious form with her mask still on and her hands trembling from strain. When Armsmaster arrived, she stood, met his gaze, and said five words:

“I want to do this right.”

He hadn’t argued. Just looked at her for a long moment, nodded once, and said:

“Then come to the PRT Headquarters.”

So she did.

She was done hiding.

The lobby was sterile, humming with quiet activity. PRT officers moved between terminals, while security bots glided silently across polished floors.

Behind the glass partition, the gift shop gleamed with shelves of colorful merchandise—action figures, branded t-shirts, posters of the Wards smiling in their framed portraits along the walls. A tour guide stood near the front desk, rehearsing their script under their breath, waiting for the next curious group to arrive.

The receptionist blinked at her approach—uncertain, but alert—but before they could say anything, Taylor spoke:

“Tell Armsmaster I’m here. He knows who I am.”

The receptionist hesitated—eyes flicking to the hood pulled low over her face, to the tension in her shoulders—but something in her expression, or maybe just the quiet resolve in her in her tone, was enough to prompt movement.

Within minutes, she stood in a private conference room on the second floor.

The walls were glass on one side, metal on the others. There were chairs and a long table, a camera mounted high in the corner, and the faint smell of antiseptic and steel in the air.

Taylor stood in the center, spine straight, hands flat on the metal surface in front of her.

Not pacing.

Not fidgeting.

She couldn't.

Because she wasn’t letting herself move.

Her forcefield wasn’t just protecting her from the outside. It was locking her in place from the inside too. She’d directed it inward, applied it like a restraint. Every twitch of a muscle, every subtle instinct to shift or fidget, was caught in the fractional distance between thought and action and slowed to nothing.

They must be watching her through the camera. If they sensed anything out of control—emotion, power, panic—they’d pounce. Use it against her. She wouldn't allow that to happen.

So she denied them the option.

Not forever. Just until she got through this.

She didn’t move.

Let them be curious. Let them wonder.

Because this time, she was in control.

The door hissed open and Armsmaster entered.

. . . . .

Far from the PRT Headquarters, in a room shrouded in darkness and quiet whirs of machinery, the only light came from the surveillance monitors.

On the central screen: Taylor Hebert. Standing tall, mask removed, eyes steady as she faced Armsmaster inside the private conference room.

Coil didn’t blink.

He sat with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression beneath his mask carved from stone.

He let the silence stretch. Let the live recording speak.

She hadn’t taken the offer. Hadn’t joined the Undersiders, despite Tattletale’s confident prediction.

She’d gone to them.

A beat. Then another.

Finally, he exhaled—quiet, disappointed.

“…Pity.”

With a press of a finger, the screen cut to black.