And she was relying on those blind spots.
“She’s going to hit a wall,” I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
The realization settles heavy in my chest, because I know what happens when someone hits that wall inside a system like this. They do not get redirected, and they do not get warned; they get contained.
I shift my weight again, tension pulling tight through my shoulders as I fight the instinct to move.
“You could still go,” the thought pushes again.
I ignore it, tightening my grip slightly as I force my attention forward.
“She made her call,” I murmur.
“And you made yours.”
The repetition does not make it easier.
It only makes it final.
The barrier hums louder for a moment as the system cycles, a ripple of energy traveling along its surface, and I watch it without really seeing it because my focus keeps dragging back to the same image.
Her walking away.
And me letting her.
I stand there, holding position, letting the weight of that decision settle deeper with every passing second, even as I keep my eyes forward and my posture steady, because if I move now, if I break from this line, then everything I chose back there stops meaning anything at all.
CHAPTER 21
JOLIE
The access corridor outside the IHC systems hub hums with a low, controlled vibration that travels through the soles of my boots and into my bones as I move through it, and the air carries a sterile chill that strips away the usual grit of the lower levels. The overhead lights burn in steady, unblinking rows, casting hard illumination that flattens depth and leaves nowhere for shadows to settle, while the polished floor dulls the sound of my steps until each footfall feels swallowed before it can echo.
I keep my pace even, letting my shoulders stay loose and my breathing measured, because anything sharper than routine would stand out in a place designed to notice deviation. The walls stretch smooth and seamless on either side of me, broken only by embedded access panels and sensor nodes that sit flush with the surface, and I feel the weight of those unseen systems tracking movement, logging presence, measuring every second I occupy this space.
“You don’t belong here,” I murmur under my breath, not as doubt but as acknowledgment, and I angle my body slightly as I reach the terminal so that my shoulder blocks the direct line of sight from the nearest sensor node.
My fingers press into the panel, feeling the faint current running beneath it, and I override the lock with adroit skill. The interface flickers once, then stabilizes into a cold glow that reflects back against my eyes, and I lean in just enough to shield the screen as my hands move.
“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” I say quietly.
The system responds immediately, faster than anything in the lower levels, and the speed alone tells me I have crossed into something deeper than I was meant to touch. Files expand across the display in layered branches, clean and organized in a way that feels deliberate, and I begin pulling them apart before the system can decide I should not be there.
Movement logs stack over authorization codes, transport manifests thread through restricted access records, and I isolate one sequence that does not fit the visible structure. My fingers move faster, dragging that fragment into focus, and the interface resists for a fraction of a second before giving way.
“There you are,” I murmur, narrowing my eyes as the data resolves.
The transport entries align with the breach patterns, not directly, but through timing that only makes sense when the layers are pulled together. I overlay patrol rotations, then clearance overrides, and the structure tightens into something unmistakable. My pulse picks up, not from panic, but from recognition.
“You’re moving them off-grid,” I say quietly, my voice tightening as I trace the route.
The destination field expands.
Deadlands perimeter.
The implication settles deeper than anything I have seen so far. The system does not label these as transfers or relocations, and it does not assign return routes or follow-up logs.
“You’re not transferring them,” I murmur, my fingers moving faster as I begin copying the data. “You’re erasing them.”
