My hands are slick with sweat. I don’t think—I react. I shove past costume racks, knocking over a headless mannequin, and throw open the laundry chute door like it might bite me.
It’s black inside. Rank with the stink of mold, old soap, and metal that’s sweated out years of secrets. The last time someone cleaned it, the galaxy still had monarchs.
I climb in fast, knees catching on the edge, shoulder scraping the frame. The chute is narrow, barely wider than me, lined with grime and threadbare linens. I pull the door shut behind me with a softclangand curl tight into the corner, chest pressing against cold steel.
My breath’s coming too fast. I grab a damp towel, stuffy and sour, and hold it over my mouth to muffle the sound.
The hallway creaks above. I flinch.
Voices now. Calm. Measured. One female. One male. Another I can’t place. They're asking for logs. Shifts. Real names.
Someone lies. I hear it in the tremble of his voice. Bresh. He’s spinning stories—pulling staff numbers from memory like he’s done this before.
Please, don’t crack. Please, don’t.
Footsteps again. Closer this time. Sharp echoes. Someone’s walking slow, real slow, like they’re listening for ghosts.
A bead of sweat slips from my temple into my eye. I don’t blink. I don’t wipe it.
The chute’s metal is slick under my spine, but I don’t dare move. Not even an inch.
My legs go numb first. Pins and needles crawl up from my feet like insects chewing through nerves. Then my back knots. I shift just enough to breathe, and something clinks above—maybe a clipboard, maybe a gun.
I hold my breath.
Silence.
A low voice, almost amused: “No performers present?”
Bresh replies. Too quickly.
They don’t believe him.
The woman’s voice: “We’ll sweep.”
The words echo.We’ll sweep.
My lungs seize. My whole body’s a tremor. I bury my face deeper into the towel, bite it.
Don’t move. Don’t cough. Don’t even think too loud.
Time stops meaning anything. Minutes stretch into nightmares. I lose count. I lose names.
I become heat and ache and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
A faint shuffle at the chute door.
A whisper.
“Kelsea,” Ceera breathes. “They’re gone.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
She opens the door, and light spills in. I blink against it like a thing dragged from the underworld. I crawl out on shaking limbs, knees clanging to the tile. My hair’s matted, clothes soaked in mildew and sweat. My teeth chatter as I breathe.
Ceera catches me by the arm. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine,” I rasp.
