“Dadams doesn’t run anything down here without logging it,” I say quietly.
“No,” Hrask replies, his voice just as low. “He doesn’t.”
The silence that follows stretches tight, and I feel it settle between us, not empty, but loaded with the same conclusion neither of us needs to say out loud.
Someone came through here off-record.
I shift my weight subtly, pressing closer to the wall as I scan the corridor again, mapping exits, timing, lines of sight. The space feels too clean, too controlled, like it was built to hide things in plain view.
“Movement,” Hrask murmurs.
I catch it a second later, a flicker of shadow bending along the far wall, then?—
Voices.
Low.
Measured.
I move without thinking, flattening into the narrow recess just before the turn, my back pressing against the cool metal as I pull my profile out of the line of sight. Hrask steps in close immediately, angling his body slightly in front of mine to block the opening, his shoulder brushing mine as he leans just enough to listen.
“Don’t shift,” he says quietly, his voice barely above breath.
“I’m not,” I reply, though my pulse spikes anyway.
The voices grow clearer as they approach.
“…not supposed to escalate this far,” one of them says.
Driscoll.
The recognition hits instantly, and something in my chest tightens. His voice carries the same controlled authority italways does, but there’s strain beneath it now, something that wasn’t there before.
“It already has,” the second voice replies.
Dadams.
I angle my head slightly, catching their reflection in the polished wall across from us, distorted but clear enough to track their positions. They stand too close for formality, their postures rigid but not neutral, like both of them are holding ground instead of simply talking.
“This wasn’t the agreement,” Driscoll says, his hand flexing slightly at his side as if he’s restraining something.
“The agreement changed,” Dadams replies, his tone even, but his chin lifts just enough to signal control.
“That’s not how this works,” Driscoll presses, his voice tightening.
“That’s exactly how it works,” Dadams counters, his gaze steady and unblinking.
I feel my fingers curl slightly against the wall behind me, the metal cool against my skin, grounding me as the weight of the exchange settles in.
This isn’t coordination.
This is negotiation under pressure.
“Exposure risk is increasing,” Driscoll says, his voice lower now, his eyes narrowing. “Your containment measures are drawing attention.”
“And your personnel are asking questions,” Dadams replies, tilting his head slightly. “That’s the actual problem.”
They know.
