Chapter 11
JOLIE
The neutral zones don’t belong to anyone.
That’s what they tell us.
What that actually means is nobody claims them out loud, which leaves them open to anyone willing to move quietly enough not to get caught.
The space between territories feels different the moment I step into it, like the ground itself has been abandoned by structure and replaced with something looser, something less predictable.
The air changes.
It loses that sharp, regulated dryness of the border and picks up a heavier, more stagnant weight, thick with dust that hasn’t been cleared and machinery that hasn’t been maintained.
The scent settles low, a mix of rust, old coolant, and something faintly organic that lingers just beneath the surface, like decay that never fully took hold but never left either.
I move through the underground route with measured steps, my boots barely making a sound against the worn metal flooring.
The corridor slopes unevenly in places, the panels warped just enough to remind me this space wasn’t built for long-term use.
It was carved out, expanded, abandoned, and then quietly reused by people who didn’t want to be seen.
Exactly what I need.
I keep my breathing slow, controlled, my senses stretched wide as I move deeper. Every sound carries differently here, echoes bending around corners and returning in ways that make it harder to pinpoint direction. It forces attention, forces patience.
At the next junction, I pause.
Not because I’m unsure.
Because I know he’s already here.
“You’re late,” Hrask’s voice comes from the shadows to my right, low and familiar in a way I don’t like acknowledging.
“I’m on time,” I reply, not turning immediately. “You’re early.”
“Same difference.”
I glance over then, my eyes adjusting to the dim light enough to pick him out where he leans against the wall like he owns the place. His posture is loose, one shoulder braced casually against the metal, but his gaze is sharp, tracking me the entire time.
“You picked a subtle meeting spot,” I say, stepping closer.
“You made it,” he replies. “So it worked.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s good.”
“It means it’s effective,” he counters.
I stop a few feet from him, close enough to speak without raising my voice, far enough to keep space between us.
“This stays clean,” I say. “No patterns. No repeats in timing.”
“I know how this works,” he says.
“Do you?” I ask, arching a brow. “Because you don’t exactly strike me as someone who plans ahead.”
He huffs a quiet breath, something close to amusement.
“Careful,” he says. “You’re starting to sound like you’ve got me figured out.”
“Not even close,” I reply.
His gaze lingers on me for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable shifting behind it, then he pushes off the wall.
“I’ve got someone,” he says.
“Already?” I ask.
“You think I’d show up empty-handed?” he replies.
“Yes,” I say flatly.
That earns a faint smirk.
“Low expectations,” he says.
“Accurate ones,” I shoot back.
He gestures down the corridor with a tilt of his head.
“Come on,” he says. “Before you start insulting my entire existence.”
“I’m pacing myself,” I reply, but I follow.
The corridor narrows as we move, the air growing thicker, the scent of rust and damp metal stronger the further we go. Somewhere deeper in the structure, water drips in uneven intervals, the sound echoing just enough to create a rhythm that’s almost distracting.
We stop outside a partially sealed access room, the door hanging slightly off its track like it’s been forced open more than once.
“He’s in there,” Hrask says.
“Who?” I ask.
“Supply runner,” he replies. “Works routes near Tury’s sector.”
“Works or worked?” I press.
He glances at me.
“Still breathing,” he says. “So far.”
I shoot him a look.
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
That lands heavier than I want it to.
I step past him and push the door open the rest of the way.
The room inside is dim, lit by a single flickering panel overhead that casts uneven shadows across the walls. The air is stale, thick enough that it feels like it hasn’t moved in hours.
The man inside flinches when I enter.
He’s slumped against the far wall, wrists bound in front of him with a length of cable that’s been pulled tight enough to leave marks. His breathing is shallow, uneven, and his eyes dart between me and Hrask like he’s trying to decide which of us is worse.
“Relax,” Hrask says from behind me. “If we wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” the man snaps, his voice hoarse.
“No,” Hrask replies. “Just accurate.”
I step closer, crouching down enough to bring myself level with him.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He hesitates, his gaze flicking to Hrask again.
“Answer her,” Hrask says, his tone shifting just enough to make the air feel tighter.
“Renn,” the man says quickly. “My name’s Renn.”
“Renn,” I repeat, nodding slightly. “You run supply routes near the border.”
“I just move crates,” he says. “That’s it.”
“You move them where you’re told,” I correct. “Which means you see things.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” I cut in, my voice steady. “And you’re going to tell me what you’ve seen.”
His breathing picks up slightly, panic edging into it.
“I don’t know anything,” he says.
Hrask lets out a quiet breath behind me.
“You want me to handle this?” he asks.
I don’t look back at him.
“No,” I say.
“Your call,” he replies.
I keep my focus on Renn.
“Listen to me,” I say, lowering my voice slightly. “We’re not here to hurt you. But whatever you’re caught up in already is.”
His eyes flicker, uncertainty breaking through the fear.
“I just do my job,” he says.
“And your job put you near restricted zones,” I reply. “Near blind spots. Near places you weren’t supposed to question.”
“I didn’t ask questions,” he says quickly.
“Good,” I say. “Then you just watched.”
He swallows hard.
“I didn’t see anything,” he insists.
Hrask moves behind me, the sound of his boots against the floor deliberate.
“That’s not going to work,” he says.
“I’m telling the truth—”
“No, you’re not,” Hrask cuts in, his tone calm in a way that’s more threatening than shouting. “You’re trying to stay alive. I respect that. But you’re doing it wrong.”
I glance back at him, irritation flickering.
“I said I’ve got it,” I say.
“And I’m letting you try,” he replies.
“Then stop interfering.”
“I’m not interfering,” he says. “I’m reminding him what happens if he keeps lying.”
“That’s not helping.”
“It is from my perspective.”
I straighten slightly, turning toward him fully now.
“We’re not doing this your way,” I say.
“And what way is that?” he asks, tilting his head.
“The part where you escalate until someone breaks,” I reply.
“That works,” he says.
“It also gets people killed.”
“So does asking nicely.”
Renn leans against the wall, his breathing uneven as his eyes dart between us.
“I told you, I don’t know anything,” he says, his voice cracking.
I turn back to him.
“You’re scared,” I say. “That means you do know something.”
“I don’t—”
“You do,” I press. “And whatever you’re afraid of is worse than us.”
That lands.
I see it in the way his expression falters, the way his gaze drops for a second before snapping back up.
Hrask steps closer, his presence filling the space behind me.
“She’s right,” he says. “And if you keep stalling, you’re going to run out of chances to prove it.”
I shoot him a look.
“That’s enough.”
“What?” he says. “I’m agreeing with you.”
“Don’t twist it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” he replies. “I’m just saying it in a way he understands.”
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair as I look back at Renn.
“What did you see?” I ask again, quieter now.
Renn hesitates.
Then—
“They move people,” he says.
The words come out fast, like he’s trying to get them out before he can stop himself.
“Through the blind zones,” he continues. “Between sectors. No records. No logs.”
My chest tightens.
“Where do they go?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I swear, I don’t. I just move the crates. Sometimes they’re heavier than they should be.”
“Alive?” I press.
He swallows hard.
“Sometimes,” he says.
Silence settles heavy in the room.
I feel Hrask shift behind me, the tension in his posture tightening.
“You ever see where they come from?” I ask.
Renn shakes his head quickly.
“No,” he says. “They’re already there when we get them. Near the restricted corridors.”
I glance back at Hrask, our eyes meeting.
Same conclusion.
Same direction.
“This isn’t random,” I say.
“No,” he replies. “It’s organized.”
I turn back to Renn.
“Who’s running it?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says, panic creeping back in. “I never saw—”
“Think,” Hrask cuts in, his voice sharper now. “Who gives the orders?”
“I don’t—”
Hrask takes another step forward, and I move slightly, putting myself between them without fully blocking him.
“That’s enough,” I say.
He stops.
Not because he has to.
Because he chooses to.
“You’re soft on this,” he says quietly.
“And you’re too comfortable with it,” I reply.
“Comfortable?” he repeats, something sharper slipping into his tone. “You think I like this?”
“I think you don’t hesitate,” I say.
“Neither do you,” he fires back.
“That’s different.”
“How?” he demands.
“Because I don’t default to violence,” I say.
He lets out a short, humorless breath.
“No,” he says. “You just pretend you’re above it.”
That hits.
Harder than I expect.
“That’s not what this is,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” he asks, his gaze locking onto mine. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re doing the same thing I am. You just don’t like how it looks.”
I step closer, my voice dropping.
“I don’t like unnecessary force.”
“And I don’t like wasted time,” he replies.
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
“They are when someone’s lying to your face.”
Renn presses himself further into the wall, eyes wide.
“I’m telling you everything I know,” he says quickly.
I hold his gaze for a second longer, then nod slightly.
“Then we verify,” I say.
Hrask watches me, something unreadable in his expression.
“You’re going to trust him?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “But I’m not going to break him either.”
He studies me for a long moment.
Then nods once.
“Fine,” he says. “For now.”
The tension doesn’t leave.
It just shifts.
I look back at Renn.
“If you’re lying,” I say, my voice steady, “we’ll know.”
“I’m not,” he insists.
“We’ll see.”
I stand, the weight of everything settling heavier now.
When I glance back at Hrask, he’s still watching me.
Not the suspect.
Me.
“You’re going to get burned doing it your way,” he says.
“Maybe,” I reply.
“But you’re not stopping.”
“No.”
Something flickers in his expression again, sharper, more focused.
“Good,” he says quietly.
The words shouldn’t land the way they do.
But they do.