Chapter 9
JOLIE
Shift changes along the border never feel calm, no matter how routine they’re supposed to be.
The movement alone creates friction—boots grinding against packed grit, overlapping voices trading clipped updates, the low buzzing of the fence threading through it all like something alive beneath the noise.
The air hangs dry and metallic, thick with the residue of heat and old plasma discharge, and every breath drags that taste across the back of my tongue.
I’m already watching the transition when something breaks the pattern.
It doesn’t register all at once. At first, it’s just a distortion in the flow, a hitch in the movement that doesn’t match the rhythm I’ve spent weeks memorizing. My eyes track it instinctively, locking onto the disruption before my mind fully catches up.
A figure near the fence.
No—something on the fence.
My steps slow without me meaning them to, my focus narrowing until everything else falls away.
“What the hell—” someone starts nearby, their voice cutting off as recognition hits.
I don’t hear the rest.
I’m already moving.
The closer I get, the more the shape resolves into something my brain doesn’t want to accept.
The sound of the fence grows louder with each step, the vibration pressing against my skin, and then the smell hits me—burned flesh, sharp and metallic, layered over the dry, dust-choked air in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
“Tury,” I say, but the name feels wrong in my mouth, like it doesn’t belong to what I’m looking at.
He’s been driven through the fence.
Not tangled.
Not thrown.
Impaled.
The rods have punched clean through his torso, the current still arcing faintly where metal meets flesh, scorching the edges of the wounds into something dark and brittle. His body hangs forward, weight dragged down by gravity, head angled at a tilt that doesn’t follow any natural line of movement.
Someone behind me swears under their breath.
“Don’t touch him,” another voice snaps, sharper, closer.
I don’t reach for him.
But I step closer.
Close enough to see the details that matter.
“This wasn’t a fall,” I say, my voice steady in a way that surprises me, even as something cold settles into my chest.
“Lieutenant, step back,” one of the guards says, moving up beside me, his presence tense.
I don’t look at him.
“Look at the angle,” I say, gesturing toward the line of the impalement. “Center mass. Clean entry. No lateral deviation.”
“He could’ve slipped—”
“No,” I cut in, sharper now, turning just enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t slip into that. Not like this. There’s no scatter, no secondary impact points, no signs he hit anything else on the way in.”
I turn back to the body, forcing myself to keep looking.
Because I need to be sure.
Because I already am.
His arms hang at his sides, not twisted, not braced, not positioned the way they would be if he’d tried to catch himself. His legs follow the same unnatural stillness, no sign of scrambling, no instinctive reaction frozen into the muscle.
And then I see his wrists.
The discoloration is faint, almost lost beneath the burns and the damage from the current, but it’s there—irregular bands along the scales that don’t match the rest of the trauma.
Compression.
Restraint.
“He was held,” I say, quieter now, but more certain than before. “This was controlled placement.”
“That’s speculation,” a voice cuts in from behind me, clean and authoritative.
I turn.
Inspector Dadams moves through the gathered personnel with measured precision, his uniform untouched by the dust and heat that cling to the rest of us. His gaze flicks briefly to the body, taking it in with a glance that feels far too quick, then settles on me with something colder.
“Lieutenant Racine,” he says. “Step away from the scene.”
I hold my ground.
“With respect, sir—”
“That wasn’t a request.”
The interruption lands hard, sharp enough to cut through the noise around us.
I don’t step back.
“This isn’t accidental,” I say, forcing the words through the pressure building in my chest. “There are no indicators of uncontrolled movement. The positioning is deliberate, and there are signs of restraint consistent with—”
“That’s enough,” he says, his tone flattening.
“It’s not enough,” I fire back, my voice rising despite the effort to keep it contained. “If we log this as an accident, we’re ignoring clear—”
“We’re logging what the evidence supports,” he cuts in, stepping closer, his presence pushing into my space in a way that’s meant to assert control. “And what the evidence supports is an unauthorized approach to the fence resulting in fatal contact.”
“That’s not what this is,” I say, the words sharper now, harder. “You can see that.”
“I see a soldier who crossed a boundary,” he replies, his voice calm in a way that feels rehearsed. “And suffered the consequences.”
My hands curl at my sides, tension coiling tight through my arms.
“He didn’t cross anything,” I say. “He was put there.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” Dadams says, his gaze hardening. “One you’re not in a position to make.”
“I’m in a position to observe,” I shoot back. “And what I’m observing doesn’t match your conclusion.”
“And I’m in a position to tell you to stand down,” he replies, his voice dropping just enough to carry authority without raising volume.
The space around us tightens, the surrounding personnel going quiet in that way people do when they sense something they shouldn’t be witnessing.
“Lieutenant,” he adds, more quietly now, the edge still there beneath the control. “That’s an order.”
The words settle heavy.
For a moment, I consider pushing it further, letting everything I’m thinking come out exactly as it sits in my chest, consequences be damned.
Instead, I exhale slowly and step back.
Not because I agree.
Because this isn’t where I win this.
“Secure the area,” Dadams continues, already turning away like the matter is settled. “Document the incident. Cause of death: accidental contact with border barrier.”
The words feel wrong the second they’re spoken.
Like they don’t belong anywhere near what’s hanging in front of me.
“Yes, sir,” someone answers.
I don’t.
I stand there, watching as the process begins, cameras coming out, notes being taken, everything clean and procedural in a way that makes my stomach turn.
Across the fence, movement.
I don’t look immediately.
I feel it first.
When I finally lift my gaze, Hrask is already there.
Closer than usual.
Still in a way that isn’t casual anymore.
His eyes move over the scene with the same precision mine did, tracking angles, details, inconsistencies, and when his gaze meets mine, I don’t have to say anything.
He already knows.
He steps closer to the fence, his voice low enough to stay between us.
“They staged it,” he says.
I nod once, the motion small but firm.
“Execution,” I reply.
“Too clean,” he says.
“They want it to read like defection,” I add, my voice quieter now.
“Or incompetence,” he counters.
“Either way, same story,” I say.
Our attention shifts back to each other, the understanding settling into place without needing to be spoken out loud.
“They’re already writing it up,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “We would too.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t.”
Behind me, the documentation continues, voices low, controlled, already shaping the narrative into something it isn’t.
“They’re erasing him,” I say.
“They’re rewriting him,” Hrask replies.
That hits harder.
I look back at Tury, at the way he’s been positioned, displayed like something meant to be seen, meant to be interpreted a certain way.
My throat tightens.
“We were too late,” I say.
Hrask’s gaze changes, something darker settling behind it. The weight of that sits between us, heavier than anything else so far.
I straighten slightly, forcing my focus back into something usable.
“Then we don’t stop,” I say.
He studies me for a moment, then nods.
“No,” he says. “We don’t.”
Behind me, Dadams orders the body removed, his voice steady, already moving on.
I don’t look back at him.
I don’t need to.
Because I already know what he’s going to write.
And I already know it’s a lie.
When I turn back to Hrask, he’s still watching me.
“Careful,” he says quietly. “You push this too hard, you end up next to him.”
I hold his gaze, the weight of everything pressing in.
“Then we don’t get caught,” I reply.
Something alters in his expression, sharper now, more focused.
“Yeah,” he says. “We don’t.”
The fence hums between us, steady and unchanged.
Everything else isn’t.