Withdrawal.
Reset.
Then it starts again.
“They’re pacing it,” I mutter, my voice low as I track the repetition across multiple sectors. “They’re not reacting to conflict—they’re setting it.”
The realization settles in layers, each one heavier than the last, until the full shape of it locks into place.
This isn’t smuggling.
This is pressure.
Deliberate.
Maintained.
Weaponized.
I lean back slowly, dragging a hand down my face as the stale heat of the room presses closer, thicker, harder to ignore.
“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “That doesn’t blow open clean.”
I shut the terminal down with more force than necessary, the screen snapping dark as the hum drops off slightly, leaving behind a quieter, heavier silence that fills the space immediately.
Jolie wants to expose it.
I get why.
But this?—
This doesn’t just expose.
It fractures.
And fracture means escalation.
I push off the console and step back into the corridor, the transition immediate as the cooler air hits my skin and the ambient noise of the undercity returns in uneven layers. My boots strike the metal floor in controlled rhythm as I move, but the pace feels sharper now, driven by something heavier than urgency.
I need to find her.
Now.
The corridors tighten and open in uneven patterns as I move through them, the lighting shifting from dim flicker to deeper shadow and back again. Pipes run exposed along the walls in some sections, radiating heat that brushes against my arm as I pass, while other stretches feel damp and colder, the scent of stagnant water threading through the air.
Everything feels more exposed now.
Not physically.
Structurally.
By the time I reach the junction, she’s already there.
Of course she is.
Jolie stands near the far wall, her posture rigid, her arms crossed tight enough that I can see the tension running through her shoulders even from a distance. Her head turns the second I step into view, her gaze locking onto me with sharp precision.
“You’re late,” she says, her tone clipped.
