I find her crouched near the drainage tunnel, knees muddy, jaw tight, slicing through chain-link like the night owes her blood. The heat cutter flares bright red in her grip, the blade’s hiss barely audible over the hum of distant turbines. Her hair’s tied back tight, a smear of soot across her cheek like warpaint.
She doesn’t see me until I’m right beside her.
For a breath, we just look at each other. Not past. Not through. At.
Her eyes widen—not in fear. Not even surprise. Just... recognition.
Two soldiers.
Same war.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says softly.
I don’t blink. “Neither should you.”
She hesitates, then pulls a second cutter from her satchel and holds it out. I take it without breaking eye contact.
There’s no apology.
No demand.
Just the work.
I kneel beside her and light my cutter.
We go at the fence together, twin arcs of heat slicing through steel. She works with precision. Controlled. Like she’s trying not to feel too much or show it. But I hear her breath catch when my shoulder brushes hers. I feel the tension uncoil—not entirely—but enough.
The last of the links fall away.
We slip through.
The tunnel’s dark, wet, slick with algae and the faint stench of coolant runoff. She leads without speaking, boots silent on the old duracrete. I follow. I always have.
She glances back once. I catch her gaze.
Still no words.
Not yet.
Not until we’re under the skin of this beast and past the point of no return.
The tunnel feeds into a rusted hatch. She pulls a code-splitter from her belt, taps into the panel, and mutters, “Give me ten seconds.”
I watch her hands move—deft, confident. The kind that don’t shake under pressure.
“Still using military issue gear,” I murmur.
“Still works,” she replies.
The lock clicks.
We slip inside.
The interior is all sterilized white and humming lights. Clinical. Dead. A hallway stretches out, empty. Too empty.
“Surveillance?” I whisper.
She nods. “Looped it for five minutes. That’s all we’ve got.”
