Chapter 8
HRASK
Iknow she’s going to push it again before she actually does.
It shows up in the way she moves along the line, not in anything obvious enough to flag in a report, but in the subtle tightening of her posture and the way her patrol route drifts just a fraction closer to the edge of where it’s supposed to be.
Jolie doesn’t rush into things blindly, and she doesn’t make mistakes that come from panic or lack of control.
What she does instead is far more dangerous, because she calculates exactly how far she can go before it becomes a problem and then decides that limit is negotiable.
That kind of thinking doesn’t get you reprimanded.
It gets you disappeared.
The heat presses down hard on the border, thick and relentless, turning the air into something that feels almost solid when I breathe it in.
Dust drags along the ground in uneven sheets, catching against my boots before slipping past again, and the fence hums steadily between us, the low vibration threading through everything like a warning that nobody listens to anymore.
I track her without looking like I’m tracking her, letting my posture stay loose, my weight shifting lazily from one foot to the other as if I’ve got nothing better to do than stand here and exist. Across from me, she moves with her familar precision, but there’s an edge to it now that wasn’t there before, something sharper under the surface that tells me her attention isn’t fully on the patrol anymore.
“Careful,” I call out, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry without drawing too much attention. I tilt my head slightly, watching her adjust without making it obvious. “You’re starting to look predictable.”
She doesn’t turn immediately, but I see the reaction anyway, the way her shoulders shift and her path corrects just enough to keep it from being obvious.
“Maybe you’re just paying too much attention,” she replies, her tone flat but edged.
“That’s kind of my job,” I say, letting a faint smirk pull at my mouth.
“Then do it on your side of the fence.”
“Hard to,” I reply, glancing past her like I’m checking something further down the line. “Yours keeps bleeding into mine.”
That gets her attention.
Her gaze snaps toward me, sharp and assessing, and for a moment the rest of the line fades out of focus as she locks onto me like I’m the only thing that matters.
“I’ve got it handled,” she says.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” I answer, letting just enough weight settle into the words to make them land.
She doesn’t respond to that, but she doesn’t move any closer to the blind zone either, which tells me she heard what I meant whether she wants to admit it or not.
Good.
Because what I found doesn’t leave room for mistakes.
I break from the fence after the next patrol shift cycles through, letting my movement blend into the rotation like I’m following standard procedure instead of stepping off it.
The deeper I move into Coalition territory, the more the air changes, losing the dry bite of the surface and taking on that familiar weight of machinery and enclosed space.
The scent of oil clings to everything, layered with the faint metallic tang of overheated systems, and the throb of power running through the walls settles into a low, constant pressure against my ears.
I follow the route I marked earlier, my pace steady, my attention split between where I’m going and everything around me. The corridors here don’t see much traffic, and what little there is moves through quickly, heads down, conversations kept low.
The unit I’m tracking rotated out of Tury’s sector without a clean trail.
That’s what the logs say.
The floor says something else.
I slow as I reach the junction where their path shifted, letting my gaze drift downward like I’m checking footing instead of scanning for inconsistencies.
The scuff marks are still there, faint but fresh enough to catch the light differently than the surrounding metal.
Something scraped across the surface here, not heavy enough to leave deep gouges, but not controlled either.
I crouch slightly, dragging my fingers along the edge of one of the marks. The texture is rough where it shouldn’t be, the surface disrupted just enough to confirm it wasn’t normal traffic.
Someone struggled.
“Looking for something?”
The voice comes from behind me, and I straighten slowly, turning just enough to bring the speaker into view without reacting like I’ve been caught.
A Coalition soldier stands a few meters back, his posture rigid in a way that doesn’t match casual patrol.
Watching.
“Just passing time,” I say, brushing my hand off against my thigh like I’ve picked up dust instead of evidence.
“Do it somewhere else.”
“Why?” I ask, tilting my head slightly as I take a step toward him. “This spot special?”
His gaze hardens, and the air between us thickens just enough to make it clear I’ve stepped closer to something I’m not supposed to.
“Move,” he says.
I hold his stare for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch before I give a small shrug and step back.
“Relax,” I say, turning away. “Didn’t realize this corridor had a personality.”
“It doesn’t,” he replies.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I walk off without rushing, letting my footsteps echo just enough to sound normal, but I don’t go far. The next corridor loops back, and I take it without hesitation, cutting through a darker stretch where the lighting dips and the vibration of the systems masks quieter movement.
When I come back around, I approach from a different angle, keeping low enough that I stay out of direct sight.
The soldier is still there, but his attention has shifted outward now, focused on the main corridor instead of the ground.
That gives me the opening I need.
I move closer, my gaze snapping back to the marks I saw earlier, following their direction this time instead of just confirming their existence.
That’s when I see it.
A smear along the base of the wall, darker than the surrounding metal, uneven in a way that doesn’t match anything mechanical.
I reach out, brushing my fingers lightly against it.
Dry.
Not oil.
Not rust.
Blood.
My jaw tightens as I follow the trail, my eyes tracking where it leads.
The smear stretches unevenly, broken in places where whatever—or whoever—was dragged shifted or resisted, the pattern messy in a way that confirms this wasn’t controlled.
It leads straight toward the restricted corridor.
Of course it does.
The same kind of reinforced door I saw earlier stands at the far end, guarded, sealed, and completely out of place in a section that’s supposed to be routine maintenance.
I don’t get closer.
I don’t need to.
Everything I need is already here.
Whatever happened to Tury—
It didn’t end clean.
I pull back before the guard has a reason to turn, retracing my steps with the same controlled pace I came in with, my mind already moving ahead of me.
Unauthorized contact.
Flagged.
Pulled from rotation.
And now blood on the floor leading to a door nobody wants to talk about.
That’s not reassignment.
That’s containment.
By the time I step back onto the surface, the heat feels sharper than before, like it’s trying to burn away what I just saw. The air scrapes against my throat, dry and unforgiving, and the fence hums steady, unchanged, like nothing underneath it is wrong.
She’s there.
Exactly where she should be.
I don’t wait this time.
I close the distance to the fence, the vibration intensifying as I step up to it.
“We’ve got a problem,” I say, my voice low but firm.
Her head turns immediately, her gaze locking onto mine with that same sharp focus.
“That’s not new,” she replies.
“This is,” I say, holding her attention.
She steps closer, reading something in my expression that I’m not bothering to hide.
“What happened?” she asks.
“I tracked one of the units from Tury’s sector,” I say. “Their route doesn’t match their logs.”
Her posture tightens.
“Explain.”
“I found signs of a struggle,” I continue, watching her reaction closely. “Fresh. Near a restricted corridor.”
Her eyes narrow, her focus sharpening.
“How fresh?”
“Recent enough that it hasn’t been cleaned properly,” I say.
“What kind of signs?” she presses.
I hold her gaze.
“Blood.”
The word lands heavy, and I see it hit her even though she tries to keep it contained. Her shoulders go rigid for a fraction of a second before she forces them back into place, her expression tightening instead of breaking.
“That doesn’t confirm anything,” she says, but her voice has an edge now.
“It confirms enough,” I reply. “He didn’t just disappear.”
Her gaze drops briefly, her mind working through it, then snaps back up.
“Location,” she says.
I give it to her, watching the way she maps it instantly, her stance shifting as she aligns it with what she already knows.
“That’s close to one of our blind zones,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Funny how that works.”
Silence stretches between us, but it’s not empty anymore.
It’s focused.
“You think they’re moving people through there,” she says.
“I think they’re removing problems,” I answer.
Her lips press together, the tension in her expression sharpening into something more personal now.
“This isn’t just Coalition,” she says. “We’ve got matching gaps on our side.”
“I figured.”
“You don’t know what that means yet,” she snaps.
“I know enough to know it’s bigger than one missing soldier,” I reply, stepping closer.
She exhales sharply, turning away for a moment before forcing herself back to me.
“You should’ve told me sooner,” she says.
“I just found it.”
“You waited.”
“I verified.”
Her eyes flash, and she steps closer, closing the space between us.
“That’s not your call,” she says.
“It is when it keeps us from walking blind into something worse,” I reply, my voice dropping.
She holds my gaze, searching for something behind the words.
“You’re taking this seriously,” she says.
“I told you I would.”
“This isn’t just curiosity anymore.”
“It never was.”
The tension between us tightens into something more focused, less about pushing and more about moving forward.
“We’re past observation,” she says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “We are.”
“And if we push further,” she continues, “there’s no walking it back.”
“I’m not planning to.”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods once.
“Alright,” she says. “We go deeper.”
I feel the shift when she says it.
Commitment.
“How?” I ask.
“We map the overlap points,” she says. “Your restricted zones, my blind spots. We find where they intersect.”
“And then?”
“And then we stop guessing.”
I let a faint grin pull at my mouth.
“That’s more like it.”
“This isn’t a game,” she snaps.
“I know.”
“Good.”
She steps back, but her focus doesn’t waver.
“We move carefully,” she says. “No improvising.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You’re talking to me.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She holds my gaze for another moment, then nods again.
“Next rotation,” she says. “We start mapping.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“I know you will.”
That lands differently than it should.
She turns and moves down the line, her posture snapping back into that same controlled precision.
I watch her go, the weight of everything settling into place.
This isn’t just about Tury anymore.
And neither of us is walking away from it.