The warehouse floor gleamed like someone had polished it for an inspection no one announced. Cassia Shui crouched by valve T-7, checking the manual gauge against her scanner. The numbers disagreed by a margin small enough to dismiss—if she were anyone else. She wasn’t. Precision had been her language since before she could spell her name.

The indicator light flickered from green to amber, a pulse that didn’t match the rest of the line. She leaned closer, thumb steady on the control pad. “Don’t,” she murmured. The valve hissed anyway.

A burst of white powder exploded across the corridor. Compressed air hit her sleeve, scattering particles that caught the overhead light like snow. She shut her eyes, inhaled, exhaled. When she opened them, a shadow moved through the haze—tall, deliberate, wearing a badge that gleamed sharper than the dust.

Captain Jalen Ward. She knew the name from briefing files she wasn’t supposed to have. Seeing him in person was another kind of interference.

“You’re not on the maintenance roster,” he said, tone even. “And this section’s sealed for review.”

Cassia wiped her glove clean, pretending calm. “Then you should thank me for doing the review.”

“Unauthorized personnel don’t get thanked.”

She looked up. “Is this the part where you arrest me, or the part where you ask what happened?”

He stopped a meter away, clipboard at his side. “Depends which answer comes first.”

“The wrong light blinked. My reflexes followed.”

“That’s not a technical report.”

“It’s the accurate one.”

For a moment, silence filled the space between them, filtered through the faint hiss of depressurization. He took a step closer, enough that she could see the fine scratches on his badge, the faint smudge on his left cuff—details that belonged to someone who didn’t just desk files.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Cassia. Temporary contract.”

“Division?”

“Independent.”

He studied her for a beat that felt longer than it was. “Independent usually means unverified.”

“Or unbothered.” She stood, adjusting the scanner strap across her shoulder. “You’re early.”

“Inspection schedules aren’t public.”

“I didn’t say I read them.”

That earned a look—half disapproval, half interest. His eyes were a calm blue, the kind that cataloged rather than judged. Cassia felt the familiar itch to leave before conversation turned into data.

But the drive in her pocket hummed faintly against her hip, reminder of why she was here. *Fireline.* Hidden in an old system, tagged under her mother’s clearance. One step closer meant not running today.

She crouched again, opening the valve panel. “The sensor alignment’s off by three degrees. That’s your malfunction.”

He knelt beside her. The movement was unhurried, precise. “Show me.”

Cassia passed him the driver tool. Their hands brushed—barely a second, but static leapt between metal and skin. He didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat. His focus stayed on the exposed valve, the measured turn of a screw. She found herself matching his rhythm.

Click. The indicator returned to green.

“Told you,” she said softly.

“You fixed it,” he corrected. “After triggering it.”

She smiled. “Cause and cure. Efficient cycle.”

“Dangerous one.”

“That’s subjective.”

“Not in my line of work.”

He replaced the panel, stood, and dusted his hands. “Captain Jalen Ward,” he said, as if she hadn’t already known. “Facility investigation unit.”

“Nice timing, Captain.”

“It’s usually my job.”

He gestured toward her scanner. “Mind if I check your clearance?”

“Completely.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you can ask. I’ll politely refuse.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened. “You realize that puts me in a difficult position.”

“I’d hate to make your day predictable.”

He almost smiled—almost. The restraint was there, but so was the flicker of something less procedural. “You’re here about *Fireline*,” he said finally.

Her breath caught. “That word’s classified.”

“So’s your presence.”

Cassia exhaled slowly. “You going to file that report?”

“I might.”

“Then make sure the spelling’s right.”

Jalen’s brow arched. “You assume I’ll read it twice.”

“You seem thorough.”

“Sometimes thorough gets people caught.”

“Sometimes it keeps them alive.”

That shut both of them up for a moment. The quiet wasn’t awkward; it felt deliberate, like both were measuring distance. The valve hummed steadily now, perfect pressure restored. She brushed white dust from her sleeve.

“I’ll need to log your statement,” he said.

“Of course,” she replied, already moving toward the exit. “You can find me.”

“I will.”

She paused at the doorway, looking back. “Try not to be early next time.”

He watched her leave, footsteps fading against polished concrete. The air smelled faintly of ozone and something human beneath it—intent, curiosity, the start of pattern.

The next hour unfolded with the slow precision of containment. Jalen stayed behind, logging the incident, checking the sensor data twice. The valve reading confirmed her claim. She hadn’t lied. He didn’t like that realization; it complicated protocol.

Her name kept repeating in his head—Cassia Shui. There were three restricted files under that name, all sealed five years ago. One carried the tag *Fireline*. He tapped his stylus against the clipboard, once, twice, before locking the report. She wasn’t supposed to exist in his jurisdiction, but she did.

Outside, Cassia crossed the street into the industrial block where service lights cast everything in a honeyed blur. She found a bench beside a vending machine and pretended to check her messages. The drive rested in her pocket, cool against her fingers. She thought about the Captain’s eyes—not their color, but their steadiness. People like that rarely looked away unless they meant to.

She powered on her tablet, ran the first decryption layer. The screen blinked once before displaying a fragment of her mother’s old medical ID: *Elara Voss – Directive Fireline – Active: Unknown.*

Cassia exhaled. Unknown was better than deceased. It meant there was still a question worth chasing.

A sound broke her focus—a steady footstep behind her, then another. Reflex guided her hand toward the compact baton at her belt, but she didn’t draw. A reflection in the vending glass showed Jalen approaching, no clipboard this time, only a coffee cup and a look that wasn’t official.

“Following me already?” she asked.

“Returning your access badge,” he said, offering the small chip. “You dropped it.”

She frowned. “I didn’t.”

“Then I found it for someone else.”

She took it anyway. “You always patrol with caffeine?”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“Minimalist.”

“Efficient.”

The exchange lasted seconds, but it folded time neatly between them. No humor, just a shared understanding of pace.

He nodded once. “Next time, check the valves twice.”

She met his gaze. “Next time, announce inspections.”

He almost smiled again—the same almost from before. “Noted.”

When he walked away, Cassia turned the chip over in her hand. It wasn’t hers. Embedded in the back was a data key signature—one she recognized. Hale’s. The medic who raised her. She pocketed it, pulse steady, mind racing. The coincidence was too neat. Maybe he knew, maybe not.

She looked down the street where Jalen’s figure disappeared into the glow. “Noted,” she whispered. “We’ll see who’s early next time.”

The city’s night hum returned, smooth and mechanical. Somewhere deep in the grid, *Fireline* waited to open. For now, she had time—and someone newly interested in finding her.