“Yeah,” he says. “They’re consistent.”
“Too consistent.”
I shift my weight slightly, my pulse ticking up as I track their movement.
“If I move in,” I say, keeping my tone neutral, “you can cover it?”
There’s a pause.
Not hesitation.
Calculation.
“I can make noise,” he says. “Draw eyes.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s what you’re getting.”
I exhale slowly.
“Fine,” I say. “Make it count.”
“Always do.”
I wait until the next patrol rotation begins, the shift subtle but noticeable if you’re watching for it. Our side adjusts first, pulling attention toward the far end of the line, while Coalition units reposition in response.
That’s the window.
I move.
Not fast.
Not obvious.
I let my patrol carry me closer to the edge of the blind zone, my steps measured, my posture unchanged. Anyone watching would see routine movement, nothing more.
The moment I cross into the gap, everything changes.
The weight of the cameras disappears.
The weight of observation lifts.
It’s quieter here.
Too quiet.
I keep moving, my senses sharpening as I follow the path the Coalition figures took earlier. The air feels different, heavier, like it’s holding onto something it shouldn’t.
Voices carry faintly from further ahead.
Low. Controlled.
Not patrol chatter.
I slow, pressing closer to the wall as I edge forward, my breathing steady despite the way my pulse has started to climb.
“You’re drifting,” a voice says behind me.
