Chapter 35 #2
I cut through the side passage that smells like bleach and old smoke, my boots quiet on the polished floor. My heart is pounding hard enough to make my vision sharpen at the edges.
The Nun is busy above—always busy. Staff uniforms blend into a stream. Which is exactly why a disguised assassin would choose “staff.”
I reach the service corridor entrance and pause, pressing my back to the wall.
The air here is cooler, the lighting dimmer. I can smell food—garlic, oil, something fried—mixed with the sterile scent of cleaning solution.
Footsteps approach.
Soft. Controlled.
Not a rushed employee carrying trays. Too steady.
I glance at the security panel on the wall—Kaijen-coded, my code layered on top. My lockdown subroutine sits there like a sleeping animal.
I hear the cart wheels before I see them.
A service cart rolls around the corner, pushed by a staff member in a black-and-white uniform with their hair tucked under a cap. Their head is down, posture slightly hunched—submissive, harmless.
My body screams wrong.
They’re too close already. If I confront them openly, they can lunge.
So I do what I do.
I lie with systems.
I step out just enough for them to see me.
Their head snaps up.
And I see the eyes.
Not Nun-staff eyes. Not bored. Not tired.
Predatory.
Their hand moves—not toward a tray, but under the cart.
Weapon.
My blood turns to ice.
“Jordan—” Clint’s voice crackles in my ear, panicked. He followed faster than he should’ve.
I don’t answer.
I slam my palm onto the wall panel and trigger my lockdown code.
The corridor lights flare red.
LOCKDOWN INITIATED.
Metal shutters begin to drop at both ends of the corridor with a heavy, grinding sound. Door seals hiss. The air pressure shifts.
The assassin realizes what’s happening and lunges.
Fast.
They go for me first—because they know I’m the key.
I pivot sideways, catching the cart with my hip and shoving it hard into their path. Trays clatter. Hot oil splashes. The smell of fried food explodes into the air.
The assassin snarls—actual, animal sound—and swings the weapon up.
I grab the nearest thing—one of the metal serving trays—and slam it into their arm.
The weapon discharges.
A tight, suppressed crack and a hiss of energy.
The bolt scorches the wall, leaving a neat black crater inches from my shoulder. Heat grazes my skin.
I gasp, adrenaline surging.
Clint appears at the corridor entrance, eyes wild. “Jordan!”
“Back!” I shout.
He freezes, horror on his face.
The assassin tries to recover, stepping around the cart with practiced efficiency.
But the lockdown shutters are almost fully down now, narrowing the exits.
I don’t need to win a fight. I need to survive long enough for the Nun to respond.
I feint left, then slam my elbow into the assassin’s chest as they move. Their breath whooshes out, but they don’t go down. They’re trained. They twist, trying to hook my arm.
I feel the grip start to bite.
“Not today,” I snarl, and hit the wall panel again—secondary function.
A burst of localized stun current ripples through the corridor floor grid—Kaijen tech, meant to drop intruders without killing civilians.
The assassin convulses, muscles locking. Their weapon clatters to the floor.
I stumble back, chest heaving, and kick the weapon away, sending it skittering under the cart.
The shutters slam fully closed at both ends with a heavy clang.
We’re sealed in.
For a fraction of a second, the only sound is my breathing—loud, ragged—and the faint hum of the grid.
Then the assassin’s eyes refocus, furious, and they start to push against the stun lock.
Tougher than they should be.
Nine-grade.
Of course.
Clint stands frozen, shaking. “What do we do?”
I swallow hard, keeping my voice steady. “We wait three seconds for Kaijen response.”
And like the Nun is listening, boots thunder outside the shutter. Voices bark in Kaijen dialect.
A narrow access slit opens and a guard’s face appears. “Jordan!”
“Assassin,” I snap. “Stunned but not down. Get in here.”
The slit closes. Locks clank. The shutter rises halfway, just enough for Kaijen muscle to pour in like a flood.
They pin the assassin, strip weapons, rip off the cap, the uniform, the disguise. Underneath is a lean operative with a neutral face and eyes like dead glass.
They don’t speak.
They never do.
Not unless you make them.
I stand there shaking, tray still in my hand like a ridiculous shield, and my mouth tastes like burned oil and fear.
Clint stares at the scene, pale. “Inside the Nun,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “They’re getting bold.”
A laugh echoes from the comm speaker clipped to the wall.
Low.
Mocking.
We all go still.
Morazin’s channel.
Someone must have left it open on the operations net.
His voice slides through, delighted.
“You’re close enough to die for it now.”
My hands curl into fists.
I lean toward the speaker, teeth clenched. “Morazin—”
His laughter softens into a purr. “You think you’re building safety with transparency. But the closer you get to the lantern, the more heat you’ll feel.”
I swallow the urge to scream and instead let my voice go cold.
“Good,” I say. “Let it burn.”
The channel cuts—Lonari, probably, shutting it down from elsewhere.
The corridor smells like spilled food, ozone, and sweat.
My heart is still hammering.
But I’m alive.
And I’m not backing off.
I look at Clint. His eyes are wide, terrified, alive in a way bureaucracy never allowed.
“You saw the executive block,” I say quietly.
Clint nods, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”
“And you saw what happens when we get too close,” I add.
He swallows again. “Yeah.”
I lift my chin, voice steadying into something that feels like steel.
“Then we don’t stop,” I say. “We speed up.”
Clint’s expression flickers—fear, then determination.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Then we speed up.”
I glance down the corridor, where Kaijen guards drag the stunned assassin away.
Somewhere in this building, Morazin is strapped to a frame and shaking inside his own skin.
Somewhere in a High Command office, a redacted name just felt us tug the thread.
And somewhere out in Gur’s glittering lie of a city, the Nine is getting impatient.
Let them.
Because now I’m impatient too.