They know it.
I know it.
No one moves.
The corridor hums around us, the sound pressing in, filling the silence that stretches just a fraction too long.
“Request confirmation through command,” the first guard says, his voice steadier now, as if he has found solid ground again.
That is the edge.
If they call it in, the questions start.
If the questions start, I do not have answers that will hold.
I let the tension linger for a moment longer, then exhale slowly and shift my weight back, easing the pressure like I have already lost interest.
“Forget it,” I say, lifting a hand in a dismissive gesture. “If command wants it locked, they can keep it locked.”
Neither guard relaxes, but neither reaches for a comm unit.
That is enough.
I hold their gaze for a moment longer, then turn and walk away, my pace steady even as my pulse continues to climb.
I do not slow until I have put multiple turns between us, the corridors folding over themselves until the guarded door is nothing more than a memory behind me.
The pattern is clear now.
Blind spots placed with intention.
Security layered where it should not be.
Access controlled in ways that do not match the official structure.
This is not oversight.
This is design.
By the time I reach the surface, the heat hits me like a wall, dry and immediate, pulling moisture from my skin as if the corridors below never existed. The wind drags dust across the ground in thin, restless sheets, the particles catching against my uniform and settling there.
The fence hums steadily, unchanged.
He is already there.
Hrask stands across from my usual position, his posture loose in a way that looks careless until you look closer and see how deliberate it actually is. His gaze locks onto me the second I step into view, tracking me with a focus that does not waver.
I do not go to him immediately.
I make my patrol first, forcing myself through the motions, checking the line, scanning the horizon, letting routine anchor me long enough to think through what I am about to do.
By the time I circle back, the decision has already been made.
I stop across from him, close enough that the crackle of the fence settles between us like a constant reminder of where we stand.
“You were right,” I say, my voice low enough not to carry.
His head tilts slightly, interest sharpening in his expression.
