Chapter 16
HRASK
The corridor tightens around me as I step out of the alcove, and the shift feels immediate in more ways than one.
The overhead lights flicker in uneven pulses that cast jagged shadows along the metal walls, and the sound of the underlying systems vibrates through the soles of my boots in a low, persistent rhythm.
Warm air presses against my skin, thick with heat from overworked conduits, and somewhere deeper in the structure, water drips in irregular intervals that echo just enough to distort distance.
I roll my shoulders once, forcing tension out of them as I step forward, letting my breathing settle into something controlled.
My pulse still runs higher than it should, and the residual heat from that confined space clings to me in a way that has nothing to do with the environment.
I drag a hand across the back of my neck, grounding myself in the physical sensation of movement, then push forward into the corridor with deliberate steps.
“That was a bad call,” I mutter under my breath, though the words lack conviction.
The corridor opens slightly as I move deeper, branching into a series of angled intersections that force careful navigation.
I keep my pace steady, not fast enough to draw attention, not slow enough to suggest hesitation, and I let my posture loosen just enough to blend into the background of routine movement.
A pair of workers passes by ahead, their conversation low and distracted, and neither of them looks twice at me.
That tells me everything I need to know.
I remain invisible.
For now.
I take the lower junction toward the neutral meeting point, adjusting my route to avoid the main patrol lanes.
The air grows heavier the further I go, layered with the scent of heated metal and damp insulation, and the lighting dims into that familiar flicker that makes depth harder to judge.
Every step echoes differently here, bouncing off uneven surfaces and returning just slightly distorted.
The undercity never lets you forget where you are.
When I reach the junction, I slow, letting my senses stretch outward before I step fully into the open. The space sits quiet, but the stillness doesn’t read as empty.
It reads as watched.
“You going to make me stand here all day?” I say, keeping my voice low but letting it carry just enough to reach the edges.
“She says the same thing about you.”
Her voice comes from my left, controlled and steady, and I turn just enough to catch her stepping out from the shadow of a support column. The dim light catches along the edge of her profile, outlining the tension still held in her posture, even as she keeps it contained.
“You’re late,” she adds.
“I’m right on time,” I reply, closing the distance between us with measured steps.
“You’re never right on time.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It’s observational.”
A faint smirk pulls at my mouth as I stop just short of her space, letting the proximity settle without fully crossing it.
“Miss me?” I ask.
“No.”
“Liar.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t rise to it, and that tells me more than the answer itself.
“You said you found a problem,” she says. “Start talking.”
I shift my weight, letting my tone drop into something more focused.
“Tury didn’t just get curious,” I say. “He broke into something that was already running.”
Her expression tightens, her attention locking onto mine.
“Explain.”
“He mapped the routes,” I continue, keeping my voice low and controlled. “Supply movement, transfer points, timing overlaps. He wasn’t guessing. He was building a pattern.”
“That lines up,” she says.
“It should,” I reply. “Because it’s bigger than we thought.”
She scowls.
“How much bigger?”
I step closer, closing the gap enough that the conversation feels contained.
“Those routes aren’t just logistics,” I say. “They’re smuggling lanes.”
Her gaze sharpens immediately.
“Across sectors?”
“Across both sides,” I confirm.
She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping for a fraction of a second before lifting again.
“That requires coordination,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “And protection.”
“From who?”
“That’s the part nobody’s saying out loud,” I answer.
“That’s not good enough,” she says.
“It’s what I’ve got,” I reply. “But it points somewhere specific.”
Her eyes narrow further.
“Where?”
I hold her gaze.
“Think about who shut it down,” I say. “Fast. Clean. No investigation.”
Her expression hardens.
“Dadams.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“He controlled the report,” she continues, her tone sharpening as she works through it. “Closed it before anyone could question it.”
“That’s not caution,” I say. “That’s control.”
Silence settles between us, but it carries weight instead of emptiness.
“You’re sure,” she says.
I nod once.
“Yeah.”
She studies me, her gaze searching in a way that feels different than it used to. The immediate resistance I’ve gotten from her before isn’t there now, replaced by something more deliberate.
“You’re trusting my read,” I say.
“I’m trusting the pattern,” she replies.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is right now.”
I let that sit, something settling in my chest that I don’t push away.
“Alright,” I say. “Then we move on him.”
She nods once.
“We don’t go direct,” she says. “Not yet. We need confirmation.”
“Agreed.”
“And we assume he’s not alone.”
“He’s not,” I reply. “No way this runs without layers.”
Her posture changes slightly, tension sharpening into focus.
“Then we map those layers,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “We follow the routes back up.”
The silence that follows feels steadier, more controlled, like something has clicked into place between us.
I watch her for a moment, taking in the way she holds herself, the way her attention stays locked even when the space between us tightens.
“You’re not arguing,” I say.
“I don’t argue when you’re right,” she replies.
I raise an eyebrow.
“That’s new.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Her gaze flicks to mine.
“You’re distracted,” she says.
I tilt my head slightly.
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting,” I reply. “Because I was about to say the same thing about you.”
“I’m focused.”
“Yeah,” I say. “On the investigation.”
Her eyes narrow.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I step closer, deliberately closing the space.
“It means you’re not as unaffected as you want to be,” I say.
“That changes nothing.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
She exhales sharply, frustration flickering through her expression.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That,” she says, gesturing slightly. “Turn it into something it’s not.”
I study her for a moment, letting the silence stretch.
“You pulled away,” I say.
“Yes.”
“But not before you stepped in,” I reply.
Her gaze locks onto mine, sharp and steady.
“That was a mistake.”
“Then why didn’t you stop it?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away, and the silence that follows stretches longer than it should.
“That’s not relevant,” she says finally.
“It is if it changes how we work together,” I reply.
“It doesn’t.”
I step closer again, closing the remaining space between us.
“You keep saying that,” I say quietly.
“Because it’s true.”
“Or because you need it to be.”
Her breathing quickens, just slightly, and I catch it.
“I don’t need anything,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “That’s what worries me.”
She drags a hand through her hair, forcing her focus back into place.
“We’re getting off track,” she says.
“Then pull us back,” I reply.
She studies me for a moment, then nods.
“Dadams,” she says. “We start there.”
“Yeah.”
“We track his movements, his access points, his connections,” she continues.
“And we stay quiet,” I add.
“Exactly.”
The silence that follows holds steady, grounded in purpose now instead of tension.
She holds my gaze for a moment longer, then steps back slightly.
“Next shift,” she says. “We move.”
“I’ll be there,” I reply.
“I know you will.”
That lands differently than it used to.
She turns to leave, her posture snapping back into controlled precision as she moves down the corridor.
“Jolie,” I call.
She stops, her shoulders tightening slightly, but she doesn’t turn fully.
“What?” she asks.
I watch her for a moment, weighing the words before I let them go.
“You can keep saying it changes nothing,” I say, my voice low, “but you’re still here.”
Her posture stills for just a fraction of a second.
“That’s because we’re not done,” she replies.
“No,” I say. “We’re not.”