Cassia’s apartment sat above a repair shop that never closed. The scent of solder and ozone drifted through the vents, constant enough to become invisible. She worked at the small kitchen counter, tablet propped against a chipped mug, running another decryption layer on the *Fireline* drive.

The code unfolded in silent patterns—strings of medical logs spliced with procedural commands. It wasn’t data storage; it was infrastructure. A framework meant to monitor something that didn’t want to be found.

A line of text blinked at the bottom: *Elara Voss — Access Path Secondary: Redfield Sector*. Cassia traced the map overlay. Redfield was three districts over, near the city’s medical archive hub. Official access required clearance she didn’t have and couldn’t fake twice in the same week.

Her reflection in the tablet looked composed enough. That was a trick she’d learned from Hale: never let your expression reveal what your pulse can’t hide.

Outside, morning light angled through the blinds. A street tram rattled past. She shut down the tablet, slipped the drive into her jacket pocket, and checked the mirror. Same neutral face, same tired calm. The city wouldn’t look back.

Jalen Ward reread the incident report for the fourth time. The summary line no longer matched his original phrasing.

“Subject engaged with restricted valve system during maintenance inspection,” the text read. He’d written, *Subject responded to valve malfunction during scheduled test.* A small difference, but in reports, precision mattered. The new version implied intent.

He flagged the edit log, expecting to find a junior clerk’s revision tag. Instead, the metadata showed his own ID, timestamped three hours after he’d locked the file.

“Someone’s getting bold,” he muttered.

The office lights hummed faintly. Across the open floor, other investigators typed in quiet rhythm. He minimized the report, straightened his collar, and walked toward the archive terminal. The room’s glass walls reflected his image back—orderly, calm, predictable. That used to comfort him.

The system required retinal verification. When the scan cleared, he opened the cross-division access log. *Cassia Shui* had triggered four search queries in the last twelve hours, all flagged under different terminal IDs. Either she was faster than he’d thought, or someone wanted to make her look like she was everywhere.

He leaned against the console, considering whether to send a formal request for clarification. He didn’t. Instead, he logged out and picked up his coat.

By the time Cassia reached Redfield, the streets shimmered with midmorning heat. The medical archive tower rose thirty floors, glass wrapped around steel. She entered through a side gate marked “Deliveries,” flashing an outdated contractor badge she’d rebuilt overnight. The guard barely looked up.

Inside, the corridors were too clean. Every echo sounded like a question. She counted steps to stay calm, the way Hale had taught her—one, two, three, breathe.

The archive vault was on level seven. She bypassed the first two terminals; open screens drew attention. At the third station, she slid the Fireline drive into the port. The monitor dimmed, then bloomed with code.

Her fingers moved fast, toggling through hidden commands. The first block was ordinary medical data: case reports, treatment logs. The second was different—algorithmic parameters labeled “response timing,” “containment latency,” “subject threshold.” It looked more like a behavioral experiment than a health study.

Then she saw it: *Protocol Fireline – Phase 2 Initiated.*

The cursor blinked, then began to type on its own.

**ACCESS DENIED. TRACE ACTIVE.**

Cassia yanked the drive free, heart steady but sharp. She shut down the terminal and pivoted toward the exit—only to see a familiar figure at the end of the hall.

Jalen Ward, no clipboard this time. Just the quiet certainty of someone who already knew she’d be here.

“I told you to stay available, not to break into the archive,” he said.

“You said not to vanish,” she replied, walking past him. “I’m being very visible.”

“You triggered a trace.”

“I noticed.”

“Then you know they’re tracking your drive now.”

She stopped. “They were already tracking me.”

He fell into step beside her as they exited through the service stairwell. The air smelled like filtered coolant, faintly metallic.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

“Neither are you.”

“I have clearance.”

“You had clearance,” she corrected. “Your report was edited.”

That made him pause on the landing. “How do you—”

“I checked.”

“You hacked my report?”

“I prefer ‘previewed.’ Less accusatory.”

He stared at her for a long second, then sighed. “You’re going to get yourself flagged.”

“Already am.” She opened the stairwell door, the sunlight slicing across her face. “Might as well make it productive.”

Outside, the plaza shimmered with glass reflections. People moved in efficient lines, heads down, purpose defined. Cassia and Jalen didn’t fit that symmetry. They looked like a pause the city couldn’t quite process.

They crossed to a shaded corner café. Jalen ordered water, Cassia ordered nothing. Conversation came in fragments.

“You could have asked for help,” he said.

“I did. You didn’t know.”

“That’s not how protocols work.”

“Neither does rewriting your report.”

He studied her across the small table. “Why *Fireline*?”

“Because it’s still running.”

“That’s impossible.”

“So’s your altered report. Yet here we are.”

For a moment, the edge of humor surfaced. He looked away first.

She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “My mother’s name is in the system. She vanished during the first phase of Fireline’s testing.”

“And you think this drive will tell you why.”

“I think it already has.”

He shook his head. “You’re chasing ghosts.”

She smiled faintly. “Then I’m in good company.”

The conversation ended when the café lights dimmed—the automated signal for midshift power cycling. Cassia slipped the drive back into her jacket. “Thanks for the drink,” she said.

“You didn’t order one.”

“I noticed.”

He almost laughed, quietly, like someone rediscovering the shape of the sound. “You make every rule sound negotiable.”

“Only the boring ones.”

They parted at the intersection. She turned left toward the tram stop; he turned right toward the administrative tower. Both checked their reflections in the passing windows without meaning to.

Jalen returned to his office to find a message waiting—unsigned, timestamped five minutes after he’d left for Redfield.

**Captain Ward,  

Cease unsanctioned pursuit. Your clearance for Project Fireline is suspended.  

— Directorate Oversight**

He closed the message, pulse steady. Suspended, not revoked. That meant someone up the chain was still deciding which side of the line he stood on.

He opened the city’s personnel registry and typed *Cassia Shui.* The file was gone. Not deleted—relocated. He traced the metadata header, saw the forwarding signature: *Hale, Lucien.* He hadn’t heard that name in years.

Night returned to the city like a dimmer switch. Cassia stood on the balcony of her small apartment, watching tram lights weave through the grid below. The Fireline drive sat on the table beside her, unpowered, quiet. She could still feel its faint hum in her palm, like static memory.

Her tablet pinged—a new message, no sender ID. She opened it. A single line appeared.

**Don’t let him take the drive. — H**

Hale. The man who’d raised her, the one who’d vanished the same year her mother did.

Cassia exhaled through her teeth, steadying herself. She turned off the screen, pocketed the tablet, and looked toward the skyline. Somewhere across the city, Jalen Ward was probably reading his own warning. Whatever Fireline was, it had decided they were both participants now.

She whispered into the wind, half to herself, half to the unseen:  

“Then we keep it under control.”

Below, the tram bell chimed once—clean, precise, like confirmation.