The bond pulls left.
Hard.
I take it at a dead sprint.
We pass a junction where the walls change texture, from modern transit composite to older poured concrete with hairline cracks spidering through it like veins.
Reaper-era construction.
My stomach drops.
They’re taking her into the bones of the city.
We hit a bulkhead door.
Locked.
I shoulder it.
The hinge screams.
The door buckles.
I rip it open.
The tunnel beyond slopes steeply downward, the lights spaced farther apart now, the hum of distant machinery vibrating through the soles of my feet and straight into my teeth.
This is old.
This is wrong.
I round a corner and skid to a stop.
The corridor is empty.
No heat signatures.
No sound.
No trace of movement beyond the fading ghost of her presence in my chest.
They ghosted through a hidden access hatch.
They knew exactly where they were going.
I slam my fist into the wall hard enough to crack concrete.
“Fuck!”
The bond pulses.
Sharp.
Aching.
Alive.
She’s still alive.
