I adjust.
Pressure instead of impact.
Control instead of force.
He drops.
Unconscious.
Not dead.
I straighten, breathing harder now, the exertion hitting sharper than it should, and I roll my shoulders once, working the stiffness out as I glance at the door.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That got loud.”
The panel flashes.
Locked.
“Of course it is,” I say.
I move to it anyway, scanning the interface quickly.
“No time for subtle,” I mutter, pulling the same device I used earlier and jamming it into the access port.
The system resists.
Then flickers.
“Come on,” I murmur. “You’ve already had a bad day, let’s not make it worse.”
The lock clicks.
I push through.
The corridor beyond is already active, alarms threading through the hum now in sharper pulses, and movement echoes from multiple directions.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “That’s about right.”
I move anyway.
Fast.
Controlled.
Each step placed to minimize noise, each turn calculated based on the direction of incoming movement.
“Don’t fight the whole system,” I mutter. “Just slip through it.”
A patrol rounds the corner ahead.
I don’t slow.
I adjust.
Shift into their line.
Match their pace for three steps before breaking off into a side corridor just as their formation turns.
