“That’s restricted,” the first one says, his voice tightening.
“So is me asking nicely,” I reply, holding his gaze. “Let’s not pretend that matters right now.”
He tilts, glancing toward the corridor behind me.
“There are gaps,” he admits finally. “There have to be. Too much infrastructure, not enough system integration.”
“Where?”
“Older maintenance corridors,” the second one says, lowering his voice. “Places where the grid doesn’t sync cleanly. Cameras drop for seconds at a time.”
“How close to the fence?”
“Closer than command likes,” the first one says. “Not enough to cause problems.”
I don’t respond to that.
Because I don’t believe it.
“Show me,” I say.
“We’re not authorized?—”
“You are now,” I interrupt. “Or I start pulling logs and names until someone higher up decides to make this your problem.”
That lands.
They hesitate, then nod.
“Fine,” the second one says. “But this doesn’t leave this corridor.”
“Nothing does,” I reply.
By the time I make it back to the surface, the light has shifted and the heat has settled deeper into the ground. The fence hums the same, steady and constant, but everything else feels just slightly out of alignment.
And he’s still there.
I slow just enough to watch him before stepping fully into position.
He’s talking to another Coalition soldier, something broader and heavier, the posture tense in a way that suggests the conversation isn’t friendly. The other soldier gestures sharply, agitation clear in the movement, but Hrask doesn’t mirror it.
He doesn’t calm it either.
He just stands there, letting the tension build, his presence alone forcing the other soldier to adjust first.
Then he says something too low for me to hear.
The reaction is immediate.
The other soldier stiffens, then steps back, disengaging without another word.
Hrask doesn’t move.
He watches him go.
Then his gaze focuses.
Finds me.
