The basement levels beneath Tower Six weren't on any active schematics. They existed like bruises beneath the grid — old war-era infrastructure sealed off when history became inconvenient. Where the polished floors of upper command echoed with clean light and scheduled loyalty, this deep, the only thing that echoed was memory.
Nico walked ahead, flashlight in one hand, scanner rig on his shoulder like a shield. The capsule drive at his hip gave off faint warmth — like a pulse, anxious to be read. His boots stepped carefully, like the ground might remember who last used it.
Hernan followed two paces behind, silent as breath, a tactical jacket thrown over his usual fieldwear. His hand hovered near the hilt of his shockblade, fingers brushing it on reflex every time the corridor narrowed.
Neither of them spoke for the first two minutes.
Then: "You're sure about the trace?" Hernan asked.
