Chapter 5
JOLIE
The maintenance corridors beneath Myrza never feel like part of the city above, no matter how many times I move through them. Machine oil, overheated circuits, and recycled filtration settle into the space like they have nowhere else to go.
My boots strike the metal flooring with a hollow echo that carries farther than I would like, each step returning to me a fraction too late to feel comfortable.
The overhead lights cast a flat, sterile glow that sharpens edges and deepens shadows, turning every corridor into a place where depth is harder to judge and movement is easier to miss.
I keep my pace steady as I move deeper, forcing my posture into something relaxed, something that looks like routine rather than intent. Anyone watching would see an officer checking infrastructure, not someone stepping outside protocol with every footfall.
That distinction matters.
Until it doesn’t.
The first camera node comes into view at the bend ahead, mounted high along the seam where two panels meet.
I slow slightly as I approach, angling my head upward as if I am inspecting the integrity of the housing.
The indicator light burns steady, a constant green that should signal uninterrupted function.
It isn’t uninterrupted.
The lens moves in its rotation, smooth for a moment, then catches—just a fraction of a second where the motion stutters before correcting itself. The interruption is subtle enough that someone passing through without attention would never notice it, but once seen, it cannot be unseen.
I linger just long enough to confirm the pattern.
The stutter repeats.
Same interval.
Same correction.
My pulse tightens in my chest, but I force my breathing to remain even as I continue forward, my hand brushing lightly along the wall as though I am tracing structural seams rather than marking distance.
The second junction confirms it.
Another camera. Another stutter. Another perfectly timed lapse that exists for just long enough to matter.
The corridor feels different now, the sound louder, the air thicker, like the space itself is aware of what is happening within it and has chosen not to say anything.
These are not failures.
They are openings.
I round the next corner and slow as the corridor widens slightly, my attention snapping to the figures stationed ahead.
Two IHC guards stand at attention near a sealed access door that does not belong in this section of the corridor.
The plating is newer than everything around it, the seams cleaner, the locking mechanism updated in a way that stands out even under the flat overhead lighting.
One of the guards notices me immediately, his posture straightening further as I approach.
“Lieutenant,” he says, his tone respectful but cautious.
I do not stop until I am close enough to see the faint reflection of the corridor lights in the surface of the door.
“What’s this?” I ask, letting my gaze drift over the reinforced plating before settling back on him.
“Restricted access, ma’am,” he replies.
“Since when?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“Recent orders.”
“From who?”
The hesitation is immediate, and it answers more than his words ever will.
“Command,” he says finally.
I let my eyes move back to the door, taking in the finer details without making it obvious that I am cataloging them. The locking mechanism is newer than anything else in this corridor, the edges clean, the installation recent.
“What’s behind it?” I ask.
“Maintenance hub,” the second guard answers, though his tone lacks conviction.
“That doesn’t require this level of security,” I say, letting my attention return to them.
“Orders are orders,” the first one repeats, his voice tightening just enough to signal discomfort.
I shift my stance slightly, letting my hand rest near my side where it naturally falls close to my weapon. The gesture is subtle, but it changes the dynamic all the same.
“Open it,” I say.
Both guards go still, their posture locking in place as the request settles between us.
“Ma’am,” the second one says carefully, “we don’t have authorization—”
“I do,” I interrupt, holding his gaze.
The lie hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable.
They know it.
I know it.
No one moves.
The corridor hums around us, the sound pressing in, filling the silence that stretches just a fraction too long.
“Request confirmation through command,” the first guard says, his voice steadier now, as if he has found solid ground again.
That is the edge.
If they call it in, the questions start.
If the questions start, I do not have answers that will hold.
I let the tension linger for a moment longer, then exhale slowly and shift my weight back, easing the pressure like I have already lost interest.
“Forget it,” I say, lifting a hand in a dismissive gesture. “If command wants it locked, they can keep it locked.”
Neither guard relaxes, but neither reaches for a comm unit.
That is enough.
I hold their gaze for a moment longer, then turn and walk away, my pace steady even as my pulse continues to climb.
I do not slow until I have put multiple turns between us, the corridors folding over themselves until the guarded door is nothing more than a memory behind me.
The pattern is clear now.
Blind spots placed with intention.
Security layered where it should not be.
Access controlled in ways that do not match the official structure.
This is not oversight.
This is design.
By the time I reach the surface, the heat hits me like a wall, dry and immediate, pulling moisture from my skin as if the corridors below never existed. The wind drags dust across the ground in thin, restless sheets, the particles catching against my uniform and settling there.
The fence hums steadily, unchanged.
He is already there.
Hrask stands across from my usual position, his posture loose in a way that looks careless until you look closer and see how deliberate it actually is. His gaze locks onto me the second I step into view, tracking me with a focus that does not waver.
I do not go to him immediately.
I make my patrol first, forcing myself through the motions, checking the line, scanning the horizon, letting routine anchor me long enough to think through what I am about to do.
By the time I circle back, the decision has already been made.
I stop across from him, close enough that the crackle of the fence settles between us like a constant reminder of where we stand.
“You were right,” I say, my voice low enough not to carry.
His head tilts slightly, interest sharpening in his expression.
“That’s not something I hear often,” he replies.
“Don’t get used to it,” I say, stepping closer to the fence. “There are blind spots.”
His claws still against his gauntlet, the faint tapping cutting off completely.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head slightly. “Not random. They’re timed. Cameras stutter in intervals that repeat. Same gaps, same corrections.”
His expression changes, the easy edge pulling back just enough to reveal something more focused beneath it.
“That’s not sloppy,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s controlled.”
He glances past me briefly, scanning the line, then returns his attention to me.
“I saw new security on our side,” he says. “Locked sections where there shouldn’t be any.”
“That matches,” I say.
The words settle between us, heavier now, carrying more weight than they should.
“You didn’t tell me everything,” he says.
“Neither did you,” I reply.
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.
“Fair.”
I study him, weighing the risk again even though I have already stepped into it.
“We trade,” I say.
His gaze sharpens immediately.
“Information?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“That’s a bad idea,” he says, though there is no real resistance behind it.
“I know.”
“And you’re doing it anyway.”
“Yes.”
He watches me for a moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes as he considers it.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because no one else is asking the right questions,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “And whatever this is, it’s not small.”
He exhales slowly, his shoulders shifting as if he has already reached the same conclusion.
“Yeah,” he says. “I got that impression.”
“Then we don’t waste time,” I say. “You tell me what you’ve seen. I do the same.”
“And we trust each other?” he asks.
“No,” I reply immediately. “We verify.”
That pulls a sharper reaction from him, something that looks closer to approval than amusement.
“Smart,” he says.
“I don’t have the luxury of being anything else.”
He nods once, slow and deliberate.
“Alright,” he says. “We trade.”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, the weight of the decision settling fully into place.
This is the line.
And I am stepping across it.
“You go first,” he adds.
“Of course you’d say that,” I reply.
“Of course you’d argue.”
I exhale slowly, then begin, choosing my words carefully, giving him enough to matter without giving him everything.
And once I start talking, I do not stop.