Chapter 14
HRASK
Paarson moves like a man who knows exactly how much trouble he’s in, and that kind of movement stands out more than panic ever could.
His pace stays controlled as he cuts through the undercity, his shoulders tight but not rigid, his steps measured instead of rushed.
The corridors around us twist and narrow, built from mismatched plates of aging metal, and the air carries a damp, metallic weight that clings to the throat with every breath.
Overhead lights flicker in irregular intervals, casting the space into shifting shadows that distort depth and make it easier to disappear if you know how to use them.
I let him think he’s getting away.
I stay three turns behind him, adjusting my pace to match his without closing the distance too quickly, watching for the small tells that give him away.
His head tilts just slightly at each intersection, his shoulders tightening when the corridor narrows, and once—just once—he glances back, fast enough that someone less focused would miss it entirely.
He knows.
He just doesn’t know how close I am.
The corridor ahead splits into two uneven paths, one sloping downward into darker infrastructure while the other opens into a broader maintenance junction.
Paarson hesitates just long enough to confirm he’s thinking, then chooses the lower route, disappearing into the tighter passage where the light dims and the air thickens.
That’s the wrong move.
I cut through a side corridor that intersects ahead of him, increasing my pace just enough to beat him to the next turn. My boots strike the metal floor with sharper impact now, but the sound is swallowed quickly by the tight structure and the low hum of the systems running through the walls.
When I reach the intersection, I stop.
Then I wait.
Paarson rounds the corner seconds later, his momentum carrying him forward before he registers that I’m standing there, blocking the path.
His reaction is immediate and controlled, his body shifting into a defensive posture without any wasted movement.
“Easy,” he says, lifting his hands slightly, his voice steady but tight. “Didn’t realize I had company.”
“You did,” I reply, pushing off the wall and stepping into his space. “That’s why you were running.”
“I wasn’t running,” he says quickly. “Just moving.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Away.”
His gaze flicks past me, measuring distance, exits, anything that might give him an opening.
There aren’t any.
“Look,” he says, lowering his voice as if that might make this easier. “If this is about something I said or—”
“This is about Tury,” I cut in.
The name hits him harder than anything else I could have said, and the reaction slips through before he can stop it. His shoulders tense, his breath catches for just a fraction of a second, and then he forces it back under control.
“I don’t know anything about that,” he says.
I step closer, closing the space between us until the tension becomes unavoidable.
“That’s not true,” I say quietly.
“I’m telling you—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice lowering further. “You’re trying not to get involved.”
“That’s because I’m not involved,” he snaps.
I tilt my head slightly, studying him.
“You work routes tied to his sector,” I say. “You move things that don’t get logged properly, and you expect me to believe you weren’t anywhere near this?”
His breathing shifts, subtle but noticeable.
“I don’t ask questions,” he says.
“That’s the problem,” I reply. “You should have.”
“I like being alive,” he shoots back.
“Yeah,” I say. “So did he.”
The words settle heavily between us, and for a moment, neither of us moves. Paarson looks away briefly, his face twisting into something that looks a lot like fear.
“You don’t understand what you’re stepping into,” he says.
“Then explain it,” I reply.
He shakes his head immediately.
“No,” he says. “I’m not getting pulled into this.”
“You’re already in it,” I say. “You just haven’t admitted it yet.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when people start dying,” I counter.
The silence that follows stretches longer this time, pressing in from all sides.
“You want to walk away from this?” I ask, my voice quieter now, more deliberate. “Then give me something real.”
Paarson exhales sharply, dragging a hand across his face before dropping it again.
“Tury messed with the wrong routes,” he says finally.
I don’t interrupt him.
I don’t need to.
“Keep going,” I say.
“He started tracking shipments,” Paarson continues, his voice lower now. “Not just noticing gaps—mapping them. Cross-referencing timing, movement, transfer points.”
“That’s what got him flagged,” I say.
“That’s what got him noticed,” Paarson corrects. “What got him killed is that he figured out what those routes were tied to.”
My chest tightens slightly as the pieces begin to align.
“And what’s that?” I ask.
Paarson hesitates, his gaze lifting to meet mine, something darker settling behind it.
“Smuggling,” he says.
“That’s not new,” I reply.
“No,” he agrees. “But this isn’t small-time. This is organized. Structured. Protected.”
“Protected by who?” I press.
“That’s the part you don’t want to know,” he says.
“I do,” I reply.
He shakes his head again, more firmly this time.
“You think you do,” he says. “But you don’t.”
I step closer, forcing his focus back onto me.
“Try me.”
Paarson swallows hard, his voice dropping even further.
“These routes don’t operate without oversight,” he says. “Not at this level. Not this consistently. This is coordinated from the top.”
The weight of that settles in immediately.
“How high?” I ask.
“High enough that people like me don’t ask,” he replies.
“And Tury did,” I say.
“Yeah,” Paarson says. “And he didn’t stop.”
I study him, letting the implications settle.
“This isn’t one-sided,” I say.
“No,” he replies. “It’s both.”
That lands harder than anything else he’s said.
“Why make it public?” I ask. “Why put him on the fence?”
Paarson exhales slowly.
“Message,” he says. “Control the narrative. Make it look like something simple. Something easy to close.”
“Defection,” I say.
“Or stupidity,” he replies.
I nod slowly.
“And it worked,” I say.
“Yeah,” he replies. “It did.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
“You’re in this now,” Paarson says. “You keep pushing, you won’t get a warning.”
“He didn’t get one,” I reply.
Paarson doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need to.
I step back, giving him just enough space to breathe again.
“You’re making a mistake,” he says.
“Probably,” I reply.
“Then stop.”
“No.”
He shakes his head, backing away.
“Then don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says.
I don’t respond.
I just watch him go.
Because he gave me enough.
—
The neutral zone feels different when I return, the air heavier and more oppressive, as if the corridors themselves are holding onto what I just learned. The hum of the systems presses harder against my ears, and every shadow seems deeper, more deliberate.
Jolie is already there when I arrive, standing near the junction with her posture set and her attention snapping to me the moment I step into view. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time with anything unnecessary.
“You found something,” she says.
I close the distance between us before answering, letting the space tighten into something more controlled.
“I found a problem,” I reply.
Her expression sharpens immediately, and she steps closer without hesitation.
“Explain.”
“Tury wasn’t just asking questions,” I say. “He was mapping routes—supply movement, transfer points, timing gaps.”
“That matches what I found,” she says.
“It gets worse,” I add.
“How?”
“He figured out those routes weren’t just logistics,” I say. “They’re tied to something bigger.”
“How big?” she asks.
I hold her gaze.
“Big enough that both sides are involved,” I reply.
The words land hard, and I see it in the way her posture stiffens as the implication settles in.
“That’s not possible,” she says.
“It is if nobody wants it exposed,” I reply.
She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping briefly before lifting again.
“Smuggling?” she asks.
“Organized,” I say. “Structured. Protected.”
“By who?”
“That’s the part nobody’s saying out loud,” I reply.
Silence stretches between us, but it isn’t empty.
“You’re thinking the same thing,” she says.
“Probably,” I reply. “You say it.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“Dadams,” she says.
I nod once.
“Yeah,” I say. “He shut it down too clean.”
“And controlled the narrative,” she adds.
“That’s not caution,” I say. “That’s control.”
Her expression tightens further as the conclusion settles in.
“He’s central,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply.
She studies me for a moment, her gaze searching mine in a way that feels different than before.
“You’re sure,” she says.
I step closer, closing the remaining distance.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I am.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment.
Then she nods.
“Then we move on him,” she says.
I arch a brow.
“You’re trusting me,” I say.
“I’m trusting the pattern,” she replies.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is right now.”
I watch her for a second longer, then nod.
“Alright,” I say. “Then we follow it.”
She nods once in return.
“We do it carefully,” she says.
“Always.”
“And we don’t get caught.”
I let a faint grin pull at my mouth.
“Never do.”
She doesn’t smile.
But she doesn’t step back either.