I don’t look at them directly as I pass, but I listen.
Always.
The corridor opens into a wider junction where the air becomes cooler, less stagnant. That’s where I find the one I’m looking for.
Paarson.
He’s leaned back against a crate, one foot braced against the wall, like he’s got nothing better to do than exist in this exact spot. His eyes flick up when I approach, recognition settling in immediately.
“Didn’t expect to see you down here,” he says, pushing off the crate. His voice carries that same easy edge it always has, but there’s caution under it.
“Didn’t expect to be here,” I reply.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“Usually is.”
He studies me for a moment, then glances past me down the corridor, checking who might be within earshot.
“You’re not here for a chat,” he says.
“No,” I admit.
“What do you want?”
I step closer, lowering my voice just enough that it doesn’t carry.
“You hear anything about a reassignment recently?” I ask. “Name’s Tury.”
Paarson’s expression doesn’t change immediately, but I see it in his posture, the way his shoulders shift just slightly before he settles them again.
“That’s specific,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Why do you care?”
“I replaced him.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He exhales slowly, running a hand along the back of his neck as he looks away for a second.
“That name’s been floating around,” he says finally.
“Floating how?”
“Quiet,” he replies. “Too quiet.”
I watch him closely.
“Explain.”
Paarson hesitates, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice further.
“He got flagged,” he says.
