“…power fluctuations reported near grid node seventy-three…”
“…unauthorized vehicular movement detected in service corridor delta-nine…”
“…possible incendiary device signatures…”
The sirens in the audio feed grow louder, their pitch sliding upward into urgency.
The pressure in my ribs becomes pain.
Not enough to incapacitate.
Enough to make my vision narrow and my spine arch slightly without permission.
I plant my boots flat against the floor and brace my hands on my thighs, breathing through my nose in slow, deliberate cycles.
In.
Hold.
Out.
My jaw is clenched so hard my molars ache.
This is not a bond, I tell myself.
This is not destiny.
This is not anything mystical or ancient or inevitable.
This is a stress-induced somatic hallucination layered over professional pattern recognition.
That explanation should calm me.
It does not.
Because the pull keeps pointing in exactly one direction.
Toward the restaurant district.
Toward Fierson Grill.
Toward something I still refuse to assign a face to.
I close my eyes for half a second and see nothing but that glowing route line carved into the inside of my skull.
I open them again and whisper, “I don’t believe in myths.”
The words sound thin.
Hollow.
Like a prayer offered to a god I stopped trusting a long time ago.
“I don’t believe in bonds,” I add, louder, as if volume might make it truer.
My hands are already moving.
The curtain slides back from the weapons rack with a soft, dry whisper of fabric.
