Chapter 3
JOLIE
The heat sits heavier on the border today, pressing down into the metal and dust until everything feels like it’s holding its breath.
The fence hums louder than usual, a low electric vibration that crawls across my skin and settles behind my eyes, making it harder to ignore anything that feels even slightly off.
The air tastes like scorched grit and old plasma discharge, dry enough that it pulls at the inside of my throat every time I breathe.
And he’s already there.
Of course he is.
Hrask stands exactly where he wants to be, planted across from my approach point like he claimed the ground hours ago and never bothered to move.
The sunlight catches along the edges of his horns and shoulders, outlining him in sharp contrast against the hazy skyline behind him.
He isn’t pretending to patrol. He isn’t pretending to care.
He’s waiting.
For me.
I don’t slow down as I approach, but I don’t look anywhere else either.
My focus locks onto him the way it would lock onto a threat, measuring distance, posture, readiness.
My boots grind against the brittle dirt, each step deliberate, controlled, until I stop just short of the fence where the current prickles faintly through the air between us.
“Where is he?” I ask.
No preamble. No wasted time.
Hrask’s claws pause against his gauntlet, the faint tapping sound cutting off mid-rhythm before resuming slower, more deliberate than before. He tilts his head slightly, studying me like he’s trying to decide which version of this conversation he wants.
“That how you greet everyone?” he asks, his voice low, edged with something that almost sounds like amusement.
“Where is Tury?” I repeat, my tone tightening as I take a half step closer to the fence, ignoring the subtle increase in the current’s hum.
His gaze sharpens at the name, just for a fraction of a second, and then smooths over like it never happened.
“Rotation,” he says, rolling one broad shoulder as if the answer is too simple to deserve attention. “Happens all the time.”
“That’s not how this works,” I fire back immediately, my fingers settling more firmly against the grip of my weapon. “Not mid-cycle. Not without notice to both sides.”
He exhales slowly through his nose, watching me more closely now.
“Maybe your side doesn’t get notified,” he says.
“My side gets notified when it affects border consistency,” I reply, holding his gaze. “Which it does.”
The wind kicks up between us, dragging a thin veil of dust along the fence. It stings where it hits my face, but I don’t blink.
He studies me longer this time, like he’s recalibrating something he thought he understood.
“Maybe your command didn’t think it mattered,” he says finally.
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not playing anything.”
I take another step forward, close enough now that the hissing fence vibrates through the soles of my boots.
“You replaced him,” I say, my voice quieter but sharper. “That means you were briefed. So either you know where he is, or your command is hiding something.”
“Or,” he says, his voice lowering to match mine, “it means I don’t ask questions I don’t need answers to.”
“That’s convenient.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s suspicious.”
That earns me a faint smirk, slow and deliberate.
“You’re suspicious,” he counters. “I just got here.”
“Exactly,” I say, the word cutting through the space between us. “And he’s gone.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks, but the silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels loaded, stretched tight with everything neither of us is willing to say outright.
“You always get this worked up over Coalition soldiers?” he asks, his tone shifting slightly, less mocking and more focused.
“Only when they disappear without explanation.”
“Maybe he screwed up,” he says. “Maybe he got reassigned somewhere less sensitive.”
“Tury didn’t screw up,” I snap before I can stop myself.
The second the words leave my mouth, I feel it.
The shift.
His claws stop tapping entirely this time.
When they start again, the rhythm is different.
Slower.
Intentional.
“Didn’t think you cared,” he says, his voice quieter now, eyes narrowing just enough to catch every reaction I try to suppress.
“I don’t,” I say, forcing the words out flat and even. “I care about consistency on my line.”
“Sure you do.”
“Answer the question.”
“I did.”
“No, you deflected.”
He shifts his weight slightly, the movement subtle but grounding.
“You want a better answer?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I don’t have one.”
I search his face, watching for hesitation, for the smallest crack that might tell me he’s lying outright. What I see instead is something more frustrating—certainty in what he’s saying, even if it isn’t the truth I’m looking for.
“That’s a problem,” I say.
“Not mine.”
“It is if your side caused it.”
His expression tightens just enough to register.
“You’re reaching,” he says.
“And you’re dodging.”
The tension spikes again, sharper this time, less controlled.
“You should let it go,” he says.
“No.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”
Something changes in him then, something that strips away a layer of that easy swagger and leaves something more dangerous underneath.
“Careful,” he says, his voice dropping low. “You’re starting to sound like you think you have authority over me.”
“I don’t need authority to ask questions,” I reply. “I just need answers.”
“And I told you I don’t have them.”
“Then find them.”
His lips curl slightly, not quite a smile.
“You give orders to everyone like that?” he asks.
“Only the ones who waste my time.”
That almost pulls a laugh out of him, but it dies before it fully forms.
Instead, he leans in just enough to close the distance again, his presence filling the space like pressure.
“You don’t want to push this,” he says.
“Watch me.”
A sharp call from down the line cuts through the moment, breaking the tension just enough that he leans back again, rolling his shoulders as if nothing just happened.
“Do what you want, Lieutenant,” he says, his tone easing back into something more casual. “Just don’t expect me to clean up after you.”
“I wouldn’t trust you to,” I reply, already stepping away.
“Smart,” he says. “You’re learning.”
I don’t look back as I move down the line, but I can feel his attention follow me anyway.
And the question doesn’t go anywhere.
It sits there, heavy and wrong.
Where is he?
The answer doesn’t come at the fence, so I go looking for it somewhere else.
The supply corridors beneath the border carry the layered scents of machine oil, recycled filtration systems, and chemical sealants that cling to the back of my throat.
Overhead lights cast a steady white glow that flattens everything into sharp edges and long shadows, making it harder to read faces at a glance.
Voices echo ahead of me, sharp and overlapping.
“I’m telling you, that crate wasn’t logged—”
“It was logged when it left, don’t pin that on me—”
I round the corner and cut through it.
“Then both of you can explain it,” I say, my voice carrying just enough authority to snap their attention toward me.
They straighten immediately, the tension between them shifting into something more cautious.
“Yes, ma’am,” one of them says.
“Good,” I reply, stopping a few feet away. “Then we’re going to have a productive conversation.”
They exchange a quick glance.
“What do you need?” the other asks.
“Supply routes near the border,” I say. “Specifically areas with inconsistent surveillance coverage.”
The hesitation is immediate and obvious.
“That’s restricted,” the first one says, his voice tightening.
“So is me asking nicely,” I reply, holding his gaze. “Let’s not pretend that matters right now.”
He tilts, glancing toward the corridor behind me.
“There are gaps,” he admits finally. “There have to be. Too much infrastructure, not enough system integration.”
“Where?”
“Older maintenance corridors,” the second one says, lowering his voice. “Places where the grid doesn’t sync cleanly. Cameras drop for seconds at a time.”
“How close to the fence?”
“Closer than command likes,” the first one says. “Not enough to cause problems.”
I don’t respond to that.
Because I don’t believe it.
“Show me,” I say.
“We’re not authorized—”
“You are now,” I interrupt. “Or I start pulling logs and names until someone higher up decides to make this your problem.”
That lands.
They hesitate, then nod.
“Fine,” the second one says. “But this doesn’t leave this corridor.”
“Nothing does,” I reply.
By the time I make it back to the surface, the light has shifted and the heat has settled deeper into the ground. The fence hums the same, steady and constant, but everything else feels just slightly out of alignment.
And he’s still there.
I slow just enough to watch him before stepping fully into position.
He’s talking to another Coalition soldier, something broader and heavier, the posture tense in a way that suggests the conversation isn’t friendly. The other soldier gestures sharply, agitation clear in the movement, but Hrask doesn’t mirror it.
He doesn’t calm it either.
He just stands there, letting the tension build, his presence alone forcing the other soldier to adjust first.
Then he says something too low for me to hear.
The reaction is immediate.
The other soldier stiffens, then steps back, disengaging without another word.
Hrask doesn’t move.
He watches him go.
Then his gaze focuses.
Finds me.
Of course it does.
I step into place, folding my arms.
“You’re busy today,” I say.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s amused I noticed.
“Keeping things interesting,” he replies.
“That one didn’t look entertained.”
“He’s not you.”
“Lucky him.”
“Debatable.”
I study him openly now, watching the way he carries himself, the way he doesn’t pull back, doesn’t soften anything for the sake of keeping the peace.
“You don’t hold back,” I say.
“Why would I?”
“Because it keeps situations from escalating.”
“Escalation’s not always bad,” he says.
“It is here.”
“That sounds like a rule you like.”
“That sounds like a rule that keeps people alive.”
He considers that, his gaze drifting briefly past me before returning.
“Tury followed rules like that?” he asks.
The question lands deep enough that I feel it before I can shut it down.
“Yes,” I say.
“And look where that got him.”
Something cold settles in my chest.
“You don’t know where he is,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But neither do you.”
“That’s the problem.”
“Or maybe it’s just reality.”
I step closer again, ignoring the hum.
“You think this is normal,” I say.
“I think things happen,” he replies.
“Not like this.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Try me.”
He leans in slightly, his voice dropping.
“People disappear all the time,” he says. “You just don’t always notice.”
“I noticed,” I say.
“I can see that.”
“Then help me.”
The words come out before I can stop them, and the second they do, I feel the shift in him.
It’s subtle, but it’s there.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “You’re starting to sound like you trust me.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.”
“Then answer me anyway.”
“I told you,” he says. “I don’t have answers.”
“Then get them.”
He watches me for a long moment, something weighing behind his eyes.
“You don’t stop,” he says.
“No.”
“That’s going to get you in trouble.”
“Then I’ll deal with it.”
His gaze lingers, longer than it should.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “You probably will.”
I don’t like the way that sounds.
I don’t like him.
And I definitely don’t like that he might be the only one who isn’t lying to me outright.
“Stay out of my way,” I say.
His mouth curves into that same slow, deliberate smile.
“Not a chance.”
This time, when I turn away, it doesn’t feel like I’m leaving the conversation behind.
It feels like I just stepped deeper into it.