Chapter 6
Chapter Six
It does not take long before the guard—now wearing a bright yellow jacket—steps out of the booth and meets an official-looking woman, a shifter, in a matching hi-vis vest. They exchange a few words, then both head for the car.
The border guard opens my door and steps aside as the woman speaks. “Mrs Emerson, would you please come with me for processing?”
I force a polite smile. “Yes, of course.”
As I go to leave my computer behind, she adds, “Please bring all your technology.”
Oh no. That doesn’t sound good. “Okay.” I grab the laptop bag, relieved I’ve pocketed my phone so I don’t have to rummage through my plastic bags in the car’s boot.
I’ve never been in trouble with the law, nor have I spoken to anyone in authority, so this entire situation is way out of my comfort zone. It’s intimidating—not because of the border’s size or its buildings, but because of what it represents. This is where people like me are pulled apart and inspected; every word, every document, every answer is weighed and judged.
Swallowing hard, I climb out of the car and shuffle behind her, my oversized blond bodyguard trailing behind like a silent shadow.
The border official strides confidently, her dark hair swinging in a high ponytail that bobs with each step. The sharp click of her heels on the pavement draws attention to her long, toned calves. I can’t help envying her effortless grace. Heels hurt my feet—they get squished and sore—so I stick to flat shoes. I glance down at my trainers and wiggle my toes, grateful for their cheap but blissfully comfortable support.
She leads us to a building off to the side. It’s basic and functional—a single-storey structure of the same grey concrete, with no decoration or sign of wear. The pavement leading to it is worn but clean, with weeds sprouting at the edges.
A single entrance looms ahead a heavy metal door with a plain sign reading main offices .
The guard stops at the door, nods curtly, and hurries back to his booth.
Inside, the building is as stark as the outside. Pale off-white walls, a thin grey carpet worn smooth in places but spotless, and fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A receptionist sits behind a long counter, her gaze fixed on her monitor. She doesn’t look up as we pass.
We round a corner with a digital display flashing red numbers corresponding to tickets clutched by fidgety people in stiff yellow-and-grey plastic chairs. We bypass them entirely and head straight to what must be the border official’s office.
She shrugs off her yellow vest, hangs it neatly on a peg, and gestures at a chair. “Please, take a seat.”
I do as instructed, perching on the edge of the chair she indicates. She moves with practised elegance, smoothing her skirt as she sits, pulling in her chair, and stacking the documents on her desk. She picks them up and flips through them with sharp efficiency.
“Let’s have a look, shall we?”
I don’t reply—it wasn’t really a question.
A silence stretches on as she clicks her tongue every so often while flipping through the pages.
I tuck my hands under my thighs to keep them still. Without my wedding and eternity rings to fiddle with, I keep catching myself twisting at nothing—an invisible band of absence around my finger. Maybe I should buy a few cheap silver rings?
At last, the border official looks up, her eyes shrewd but not hostile. “Everything seems to be in order.” She pushes back from the desk, swivels to her computer, and begins typing with quick precision. Each keystroke echoes like part of a private rhythm. “Your documents and passes should arrive shortly.”
Leaning back in her chair, she folds her hands in her lap and smiles—a pleasant but meaningless expression, the kind perfected in customer service.
I give her a polite smile in return.
Then we wait.
Five awkward minutes tick by before a knock breaks the silence. Another woman enters, dressed practically in trousers and sensible shoes. She’s human, carrying a folder of documents. Offering a polite smile, she hands them to the border official.
“Thank you. That’ll be all,” the official says.
The newcomer nods and slips out, shutting the door behind her.
The border official extracts a shiny blue metal card from the folder and sets it on the desk with a click. “Here we are. This is your new identification.” With two fingers, she slides it across the table.
I glance down. My name and photo stare back at me—an unflattering but familiar shot from my national ID. Below that is an address I recognise from the apartment brochure. The Greenholm Ironworks.
“And this is for your new bank account.” She places a sleek black metal bank card next to the ID, then an envelope. “Your account details are inside. A small deposit has been made for your initial expenses.”
I blink at the card. I bet it’s heavier than it looks. Fancy. My old debit card was flimsy plastic—this one looks capable of doubling as a weapon.
She flips through more papers, then meets my gaze. “Now, your electronics, please.”
“My… electronics?” My voice rises despite myself.
She wiggles her perfectly manicured nails expectantly. “Yes, your phone. For privacy and security reasons, unapproved technology isn’t permitted.”
Oh. That’s… concerning.
With a sinking feeling, I dig my phone out of my pocket, hesitating. What is it with shifters today wanting all my stuff? It does not matter. It’s just a phone. I’ve already backed up my data. But handing it over still feels like a strange betrayal. Her outstretched hand leaves no room for argument.
I turn the phone off, gripping it one last time, then reluctantly place it in her hand. She examines it like it might explode, then tosses it into a bin behind her.
Gone.
Surprisingly, I feel relieved. I didn’t expect it, but it’s almost freeing. It’s as if I’ve shed another weight tethering me to the past. I inhale deeply—the first truly unencumbered breath I’ve taken in days.
Letting go feels good.
“Now, your laptop,” the border official says briskly, as if requesting my laptop is perfectly normal.
And that’s where I draw the line. I clutch the bag’s strap, my fingers gripping tight. “Absolutely not,” I say, more sharply than intended. My cheeks heat, but I straighten my back. “I need my computer for work.”
Her eyes narrow, and for a tense moment we stare at each other.
Eventually, she sighs and flips through the papers once more. “It really shouldn’t be allowed. It’s policy. You VIP guests take such liberties.” She mutters the last part under her breath, then turns to her computer. Her fingers flit across the keyboard. “Let’s see… Hmm. It appears you have been granted permission. However, your home internet will be disabled for security reasons. You will only have access to your monitored work system.”
Her saccharine smile fails to hide the edge in her voice. “We take security very seriously, Mrs Emerson.”
“Of course,” I mutter, loosening my grip on the laptop strap.
I pocket the two heavy cards and slip the documents into my bag, nodding once.
She opens her bottom drawer and pulls out a small black clamshell phone—something straight out of the early 2000s. Sliding it across the desk, she says, “This will be your phone while you are here. It’s preprogrammed for essential calls and texts only.”
I fight back a grimace. So much for accessing the internet. “Thank you.” I drop it into my bag without a second glance.
“Remember,” she says, her voice cold and final, “no mistakes, no breaches.”
I take that as my cue to leave. “Thank you for your time.”
The big blond bodyguard holds the door for me. As I step out, I glance back at him, unable to hide my curiosity. “What did she mean by VIP?”
He gives me a blank look.
These shifters sure are a cheerful lot.
Normally, that would annoy me, but today I don’t have the energy to care. I just want out of here.
Soon enough, we’re back in the car, inching forward in another queue toward the heavily guarded road that leads through to the other side. The setup reminds me of a medieval drawbridge, with villagers nervously crossing under a raised portcullis toward a distant castle.
But beyond this wall, there are no knights—only shifters.
The guards come into view, dozens of them in slate-grey uniforms, radiating authority as they line the gates. They watch the cars roll past with unrelenting focus. Their every movement and subtle shift of stance speaks of controlled power. They are not just guards; they are predators, ready to act at the slightest provocation.
I know shifters are naturally strong, their bodies designed for combat. They already have claws, teeth, and muscles capable of tearing a person apart. Seeing them armed with military-grade rifles churns my stomach. These are the guns you see in action films, the ones capable of firing a hundred rounds a second.
It’s beyond unsettling—it’s overkill.
What really makes my skin crawl is the direction they are pointing. Every rifle faces us—towards the Human Sector—not the Enterprise Zone.
The wall’s true purpose becomes chillingly clear. It’s not just about keeping shifters in; it’s about keeping humans out. Or, I realise, perhaps the real threat lies beyond, and they have another army on the inside. A shiver crawls up my spine.
The closer we get, the more oppressive the air becomes. The more I feel the suffocating magic saturating the wall. The little hairs on my neck stand on end. That biting spell woven into the Ministry’s paperwork was unpleasant, but it’s nothing compared to whatever’s wrapped around this border.
I hiss involuntarily, my nails digging into my palms, and the big blond shifter in the front passenger seat finally turns to look at me. He smiles slowly, baring his teeth in a way that offers no comfort.
“It’s okay, Mrs Emerson,” he says, his tone almost amused. “It will only hurt a little bit.”
A little bit? Well, that’s all right if it only hurts a little bit. I roll my eyes.