The Meridian Cross lies on her side in ninety meters of black water. She took three men Mara loved down with her. Now Mara hangs above the torn hull, her own breath bubbling against her helmet, the signed salvage claim folded against her chest. Two hundred meters off, the Vares team's dive lights swing toward her through the dark. They have no claim. They came anyway.

Mara drops fast toward the wreck before Vares can beat her to it. She slips through the torn gash in the hull and into the flooded cargo hold. Whatever they want down here, she will reach it first. Her light catches the edge of a steel crate, chained shut.

As Mara reaches for the crate, the hull groans and shifts above her. The whole wreck is settling deeper into the silt, and the gash she came through is bending shut. She has maybe a minute to choose: the crate, or the way out.

Mara lets the crate go and bolts for the exit. The hull slams shut on empty silt behind her as she breaks into open water. Her hands are empty, but her lungs are full. Some things aren't worth dying twice for.

On the boat, Mara peels off her hood and finally lets herself cry for the three men. Vares pulls away without a fight. They came for the crate too, and now it's buried for good under tons of steel. Nobody won. But Mara is still breathing, and tomorrow she will dive somewhere new.