I freeze for half a second before turning.
One of our patrol officers stands a few meters back, his gaze fixed on me, suspicion threading through his posture.
“Checking a fault in the line,” I reply, keeping my tone even as I straighten slightly.
“That’s not your sector.”
“It is now.”
He doesn’t buy it.
I can see it in the way his stance alters, the way his hand hovers just a fraction too close to his comm unit.
“Lieutenant—”
A sharp crash cuts him off.
Metal slamming against metal, loud enough to echo across the sector.
Both of us turn instinctively toward the source.
Across the fence, Hrask is in motion.
He’s got another Coalition soldier pinned halfway against a support post, their bodies colliding with enough force to send a jarring vibration through the structure. The other soldier shoves back, snarling something I can’t quite make out, and the two of them square off in a way that draws immediate attention from everyone nearby.
“What the hell—” my patrol officer mutters, his focus snapping away from me.
“That’s your problem,” I say, stepping back slightly, already moving away. “Handle it.”
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, torn between me and the escalating situation across the fence.
Then he turns and moves toward the commotion.
Just like that, I’m clear.
I don’t waste the opening.
I slip deeper into the blind zone, moving faster now but still controlled, following the path I tracked earlier. The corridor ahead opens into a narrow access point that leads closer to the fence than any standard route should allow.
And that’s where I see it.
A concealed transfer point.
Not marked.
Not logged.
Just a narrow gap in the infrastructure where something—or someone—could be moved between zones without ever appearing on official records.
My stomach tightens.
This is it.
This is what they’ve been hiding.
Voices approach from the far end of the corridor, and I pull back into the shadows, pressing myself against the wall as two figures move into view.
Coalition.
