From inside the Nun.
My skin prickles.
Clint hears it too. His head snaps up. “What’s that?”
I pull the alert up.
UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS ATTEMPT — INTERNAL SERVICE CORRIDOR B
USER AUTH: STAFF — CATERING
OVERRIDE: DENIED
My stomach flips.
“Catering?” I whisper.
Clint’s eyes widen. “In the underlevels?”
I’m already moving.
I don’t shout for guards because shouting wastes time. I don’t run through the main corridor because running makes noise and noise makes you predictable.
I cut through the side passage that smells like bleach and old smoke, my boots quiet on the polished floor. My heart is pounding hard enough to make my vision sharpen at the edges.
The Nun is busy above—always busy. Staff uniforms blend into a stream. Which is exactly why a disguised assassin would choose “staff.”
I reach the service corridor entrance and pause, pressing my back to the wall.
The air here is cooler, the lighting dimmer. I can smell food—garlic, oil, something fried—mixed with the sterile scent of cleaning solution.
Footsteps approach.
Soft. Controlled.
Not a rushed employee carrying trays. Too steady.
I glance at the security panel on the wall—Kaijen-coded, my code layered on top. My lockdown subroutine sits there like a sleeping animal.
I hear the cart wheels before I see them.
A service cart rolls around the corner, pushed by a staff member in a black-and-white uniform with their hair tucked under a cap. Their head is down, posture slightly hunched—submissive, harmless.
My body screamswrong.
They’re too close already. If I confront them openly, they can lunge.
So I do what I do.
I lie with systems.
I step out just enough for them to see me.
Their head snaps up.
And I see the eyes.
Not Nun-staff eyes. Not bored. Not tired.
