Same interval.
Same correction.
My pulse tightens in my chest, but I force my breathing to remain even as I continue forward, my hand brushing lightly along the wall as though I am tracing structural seams rather than marking distance.
The second junction confirms it.
Another camera. Another stutter. Another perfectly timed lapse that exists for just long enough to matter.
The corridor feels different now, the sound louder, the air thicker, like the space itself is aware of what is happening within it and has chosen not to say anything.
These are not failures.
They are openings.
I round the next corner and slow as the corridor widens slightly, my attention snapping to the figures stationed ahead. Two IHC guards stand at attention near a sealed access door that does not belong in this section of the corridor. The plating is newer than everything around it, the seams cleaner, the locking mechanism updated in a way that stands out even under the flat overhead lighting.
One of the guards notices me immediately, his posture straightening further as I approach.
“Lieutenant,” he says, his tone respectful but cautious.
I do not stop until I am close enough to see the faint reflection of the corridor lights in the surface of the door.
“What’s this?” I ask, letting my gaze drift over the reinforced plating before settling back on him.
“Restricted access, ma’am,” he replies.
“Since when?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“Recent orders.”
“From who?”
The hesitation is immediate, and it answers more than his words ever will.
“Command,” he says finally.
I let my eyes move back to the door, taking in the finer details without making it obvious that I am cataloging them. The locking mechanism is newer than anything else in this corridor, the edges clean, the installation recent.
“What’s behind it?” I ask.
“Maintenance hub,” the second guard answers, though his tone lacks conviction.
“That doesn’t require this level of security,” I say, letting my attention return to them.
“Orders are orders,” the first one repeats, his voice tightening just enough to signal discomfort.
I shift my stance slightly, letting my hand rest near my side where it naturally falls close to my weapon. The gesture is subtle, but it changes the dynamic all the same.
“Open it,” I say.
Both guards go still, their posture locking in place as the request settles between us.
“Ma’am,” the second one says carefully, “we don’t have authorization?—”
“I do,” I interrupt, holding his gaze.
The lie hangs in the air, heavy and undeniable.
