And now restricted sectors and patrols acting like parts of the map don’t exist.
That’s not coincidence.
That’s a cover.
The deeper I move back toward the surface routes, the more it shows.
Patrol units shift their paths just slightly when they approach certain corridors, their routes bending around areas that should be standard checkpoints. The adjustments are subtle enough that they could pass as routine variation, but they happen too consistently, too cleanly.
Avoidance.
Intentional.
I slow near one of the intersections, watching as a patrol unit approaches from the opposite direction. They move with purpose until they hit a certain point, then their formation shifts, angling away from a corridor that sits dark and quiet to the side.
No hesitation.
No acknowledgment.
Just a clean redirect like it was always part of the plan.
I glance down that corridor, noting the lack of traffic, the stillness that feels wrong compared to the rest of the sector.
Nobody goes that way.
Not by accident.
By the time I step back out onto the border line, the heat feels sharper, the air drier, like the surface is trying to burn away everything I just learned.
She’s already there.
Of course she is.
Jolie stands at her post, her attention scanning the line, but I can tell she’s not fully present in it. There’s a tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there before, a focus turned inward, like she’s still walking through something she saw earlier.
Good.
That means I’m not the only one.
I take my position across from her.
“You were right,” I say, my voice low.
Her gaze snaps to mine immediately.
“That’s twice now,” she says. “Careful, you’re building a pattern.”
I huff a quiet breath.
“Don’t get used to it,” I reply. “I found something.”
Her posture stiffens, just slightly.
“Talk,” she says.
I glance down the line, making sure no one is close enough to catch more than fragments.
“He got flagged,” I say.
