The words hit, sharp and deliberate.
I glance over my shoulder.
“Then I’ll make sure I do,” I reply.
His expression darkens, something almost like a challenge settling in.
“Sure you will,” he says.
I don’t answer.
I just walk.
CHAPTER 14
HRASK
Paarson moves like a man who knows exactly how much trouble he’s in, and that kind of movement stands out more than panic ever could. His pace stays controlled as he cuts through the undercity, his shoulders tight but not rigid, his steps measured instead of rushed. The corridors around us twist and narrow, built from mismatched plates of aging metal, and the air carries a damp, metallic weight that clings to the throat with every breath. Overhead lights flicker in irregular intervals, casting the space into shifting shadows that distort depth and make it easier to disappear if you know how to use them.
I let him think he’s getting away.
I stay three turns behind him, adjusting my pace to match his without closing the distance too quickly, watching for the small tells that give him away. His head tilts just slightly at each intersection, his shoulders tightening when the corridor narrows, and once—just once—he glances back, fast enough that someone less focused would miss it entirely.
He knows.
He just doesn’t know how close I am.
The corridor ahead splits into two uneven paths, one sloping downward into darker infrastructure while the other opens into a broader maintenance junction. Paarson hesitates just long enough to confirm he’s thinking, then chooses the lower route, disappearing into the tighter passage where the light dims and the air thickens.
That’s the wrong move.
I cut through a side corridor that intersects ahead of him, increasing my pace just enough to beat him to the next turn. My boots strike the metal floor with sharper impact now, but the sound is swallowed quickly by the tight structure and the low hum of the systems running through the walls.
When I reach the intersection, I stop.
Then I wait.
Paarson rounds the corner seconds later, his momentum carrying him forward before he registers that I’m standing there, blocking the path.
His reaction is immediate and controlled, his body shifting into a defensive posture without any wasted movement.
“Easy,” he says, lifting his hands slightly, his voice steady but tight. “Didn’t realize I had company.”
“You did,” I reply, pushing off the wall and stepping into his space. “That’s why you were running.”
“I wasn’t running,” he says quickly. “Just moving.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Away.”
His gaze flicks past me, measuring distance, exits, anything that might give him an opening.
There aren’t any.
“Look,” he says, lowering his voice as if that might make this easier. “If this is about something I said or?—”
“This is about Tury,” I cut in.
The name hits him harder than anything else I could have said, and the reaction slips through before he can stop it. Hisshoulders tense, his breath catches for just a fraction of a second, and then he forces it back under control.
