I turn slowly, every hair on my arms rising like static before a storm.
Talven.
Of course it’s Talven. Council-loyal, Dennis-loyal, ex-Navy, regulation-sharp to the bone. I trained him myself back in the Archives. He used to carry my gear. Used to ask too many questions.
Now he’s wearing a stunblade and suspicion.
“Talven,” I say, voice dry as ash. “Didn’t know you pulled night shifts.”
“Didn’t know you still had clearance.”
His eyes flick to my coat. I feel it. The subtle bulge from the hidden satchel. He knows.
Shit.
“Just checking in,” I say, smiling like we’re old friends bumping into each other at a market stall. “Thought Dennis might’ve updated the archives?—”
He doesn’t even blink.
His hand goes to his comm.
I move.
No more games.
I sprint down the corridor as the word “INTRU—” dies on his lips.
Boots hammer behind me. My lungs burn. The walls blur past, marble and gold streaking like I’m running through someone’s idea of power.
The window looms.
Second floor. Too high. Too late.
I leap anyway.
Glass explodes around me.
My body flies.
Impact.
I hit the ground hard. Too hard. The breath slams out of me. The garden tiles rise up to meet me in a rush of sharp white. Something crunches. My left thigh screams.
I roll. Shards bite into my arms, my hip, my side.
Pain flashes red across my vision. Hot and immediate. My coat’s torn. Blood wells. My boot is slick. But I don’t stop.
The sirens scream to life overhead.
I force myself up. One leg’s dragging. Doesn’t matter. I push into the underbrush, thorns slashing at my skin. Talven’s shouting behind me, his voice muffled by walls and distance.
A drone buzzes overhead.
I drop flat, my cheek pressed against mulch and shattered garden glass. I can smell the chemicals they use on the fake moss. Smells like rot and lies.
I wait three breaths. Four.
The drone veers right.
