Chapter 17
JOLIE
The corridor outside Dadams’ sector feels wrong the second I step into it, and the difference presses against my skin before I can name it.
The air runs colder here, scrubbed clean of the usual grit and metallic tang, and the overhead lights burn steady and bright instead of flickering, casting sharp illumination that flattens depth and leaves nowhere for shadows to settle unless they are deliberately carved out.
My boots land softer against the polished flooring, the sound dampened in a way that feels engineered, and even my breathing seems louder than it should be.
I slow before the final turn, raising a hand slightly to signal Hrask without looking at him. My eyes track the corridor ahead, following the clean lines of the walls, the sealed access panel at the far end, the faint disturbance along its edge that shouldn’t be there.
“You see it?” I murmur, keeping my voice low as I lean just enough to catch the angle.
Hrask shuffles beside me, close enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushes mine as he adjusts his stance. He tilts his head slightly, narrowing his gaze toward the panel.
“Yeah,” he says under his breath, his tone flattening into focus. “Seal’s been disturbed. Recently.”
I nod once, keeping my movements minimal.
“Dadams doesn’t run anything down here without logging it,” I say quietly.
“No,” Hrask replies, his voice just as low. “He doesn’t.”
The silence that follows stretches tight, and I feel it settle between us, not empty, but loaded with the same conclusion neither of us needs to say out loud.
Someone came through here off-record.
I shift my weight subtly, pressing closer to the wall as I scan the corridor again, mapping exits, timing, lines of sight. The space feels too clean, too controlled, like it was built to hide things in plain view.
“Movement,” Hrask murmurs.
I catch it a second later, a flicker of shadow bending along the far wall, then—
Voices.
Low.
Measured.
I move without thinking, flattening into the narrow recess just before the turn, my back pressing against the cool metal as I pull my profile out of the line of sight.
Hrask steps in close immediately, angling his body slightly in front of mine to block the opening, his shoulder brushing mine as he leans just enough to listen.
“Don’t shift,” he says quietly, his voice barely above breath.
“I’m not,” I reply, though my pulse spikes anyway.
The voices grow clearer as they approach.
“…not supposed to escalate this far,” one of them says.
Driscoll.
The recognition hits instantly, and something in my chest tightens. His voice carries the same controlled authority it always does, but there’s strain beneath it now, something that wasn’t there before.
“It already has,” the second voice replies.
Dadams.
I angle my head slightly, catching their reflection in the polished wall across from us, distorted but clear enough to track their positions. They stand too close for formality, their postures rigid but not neutral, like both of them are holding ground instead of simply talking.
“This wasn’t the agreement,” Driscoll says, his hand flexing slightly at his side as if he’s restraining something.
“The agreement changed,” Dadams replies, his tone even, but his chin lifts just enough to signal control.
“That’s not how this works,” Driscoll presses, his voice tightening.
“That’s exactly how it works,” Dadams counters, his gaze steady and unblinking.
I feel my fingers curl slightly against the wall behind me, the metal cool against my skin, grounding me as the weight of the exchange settles in.
This isn’t coordination.
This is negotiation under pressure.
“Exposure risk is increasing,” Driscoll says, his voice lower now, his eyes narrowing. “Your containment measures are drawing attention.”
“And your personnel are asking questions,” Dadams replies, tilting his head slightly. “That’s the actual problem.”
They know.
They’ve known.
“This doesn’t stay contained if it escalates further,” Driscoll says, his shoulders stiffening.
“It will,” Dadams replies, his voice quiet but absolute. “Because it has to.”
Silence stretches between them, heavy and deliberate.
“You’re losing control,” he says.
Dadams exhales through his nose, a faint, humorless edge creeping into his expression.
“No,” he says. “I’m maintaining it.”
The words land like a blade sliding into place, precise and final.
Beside me, Hrask shifts slightly, not enough to give us away, but enough that I feel the tension tighten through him. I glance at him briefly, catching the sharper line of his focus, the way his eyes track every movement with controlled intensity.
“…movement continues tonight,” Dadams adds, his voice lowering further. “No deviations.”
Driscoll hesitates, and that hesitation is louder than anything else in the corridor.
“This is going too far,” he says, his tone dropping.
“It’s already past that point,” Dadams replies. “You don’t get to pull back now.”
Driscoll’s shoulders rise slightly with a controlled inhale, then settle.
“Fine,” he says.
Agreement.
Not resistance.
Agreement.
I pull back slightly as they separate, pressing fully into the recess as both men step away from each other and move down the corridor. Their footsteps pass within a few feet of us, measured and controlled, and neither of them turns their head.
Neither of them suspects.
When the sound fades, I push off the wall immediately, my breath sharper than I want it to be.
“That’s it,” I say, turning toward Hrask as my voice tightens. “That’s everything.”
Hrask doesn’t move right away. His gaze lingers on the corridor they disappeared down before he finally turns his attention back to me.
“That confirms involvement,” he says carefully, his tone measured.
“It confirms coordination,” I snap, stepping closer, my hands tightening at my sides. “That’s not speculation anymore. We expose this now.”
He lifts a hand slightly, not touching me, but signaling restraint.
“Slow down,” he says.
“No,” I fire back, shaking my head as I pace a half-step away and then back again. “We don’t slow down. We push this out before they bury it deeper.”
“You push this out without control,” he says, stepping forward to match me, his voice lowering but sharpening, “and you don’t expose it—you blow it apart.”
“Good,” I snap, my voice rising before I force it back down. “Maybe it needs to blow open.”
“And then what?” he demands, his eyes locking onto mine. “You think that ends clean?”
“I think it ends with the truth out,” I say, stepping into his space.
“And everything else collapsing with it,” he shoots back, his hand cutting slightly through the air in emphasis.
“That’s not a reason to bury it,” I say, my voice tightening.
“That’s a reason to handle it right,” he replies, his tone dropping, controlled but edged.
I step closer again, closing the gap until there’s barely space between us.
“They killed him,” I say, each word sharper than the last. “They’re moving people off-record, and you want to be careful?”
“I want to be smart,” he says, holding his ground.
“Careful isn’t smart when people are disappearing,” I snap.
“And reckless isn’t smart when it gets more people killed,” he fires back, his voice tightening.
The words hit, and I feel it.
“You think I’m being reckless?” I ask, my voice quieter now, but more dangerous.
He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face before dropping it.
“I think you’re reacting,” he says.
“I’m responding,” I counter, my chin lifting.
“To what?” he presses, his head tilting slightly. “Anger? Guilt?”
“To reality,” I say.
“Reality is bigger than what you saw in that corridor,” he replies, his tone steady but firm.
“And you think that makes it less important?” I ask.
“I think it makes it more dangerous than you’re accounting for,” he says.
The tension spikes again, sharper now.
“You’re hesitating,” I say.
“I’m thinking,” he replies.
“People like Tury don’t get time for that,” I snap.
“And neither will you if you push this wrong,” he says, his voice dropping lower.
I hold his gaze, something heavier settling in my chest.
“You’re not going to back me,” I say.
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes shift slightly, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t want to say out loud.
“I’m not going to rush this without a plan,” he says finally.
“That’s not the same thing,” I reply.
“No,” he says. “It’s not.”
The space between us tightens, but it doesn’t feel charged anymore.
It feels split.
“You said we do this together,” I say, my voice quieter now.
“We are,” he replies, his tone firm.
“No,” I shake my head, stepping back slightly. “We were.”
His face darkens, something sharper cutting through.
“That’s not fair,” he says.
“Neither is this,” I fire back.
Silence presses in, heavy and suffocating.
“You think I’m choosing against you,” he says, his voice lower now.
“I think you’re not choosing at all,” I reply.
That lands.
“You don’t get to question where I stand,” he says.
“I do when it affects this,” I counter.
“And what exactly do you want me to do?” he asks, his hands spreading slightly in frustration. “Walk in there and burn it down with you?”
“If that’s what it takes,” I say.
“That’s exactly the problem,” he replies.
I stare at him, the weight of it settling in fully now.
“You’re going to hesitate,” I say.
“I’m going to think,” he corrects.
“And people are going to keep disappearing while you do,” I snap.
“And more will if we do this wrong,” he fires back.
The silence that follows doesn’t shift.
It settles.
Final.
“You’re not on my side,” I say.
His expression tightens.
“That’s not true.”
“Then prove it,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t answer.
And in that silence—
I feel it.
He might not choose me.
The realization lands harder than anything else tonight, sharper than the confrontation, sharper than the truth we just uncovered.
He might not choose this.
And I don’t know what I do with that.