Page 1 of Broken Sentinel

CHAPTER 1

The Splinter doesn't knowwe're here.

I can smell his fear though, sharp and sour beneath the artificial sweetness of arcology-grade soap. It's a dead giveaway. Nobody in Upper Level smells like fear. They're too busy smelling like privilege and synthetic lavender.

"Nervous, Thorne?" Trent's voice slides through my earpiece, smooth and warm in a way that sends an unauthorized shiver down my spine.

I roll my eyes even though he can't see me. "Please. This is basically a training exercise."

"Just checking. Your heart rate's elevated."

Of course he's monitoring my vitals. Standard Sentinel protocol, though there's something distinctly non-standard about the way Trent Vanguard's concern makes my pulse jump even higher. Not that he'd ever notice the difference between professional alertness and whatever this is.

"That's not nerves," I mutter. "That's boredom."

His low chuckle warms my ear. "The target's approaching your position. Thirty seconds."

I shift slightly in my hiding spot, a maintenance alcove inthe pristine white corridor of Upper Level's central promenade. To anyone passing by, the wall appears seamless, one of Unity's many architectural sleights of hand. The residents of Upper Level prefer not to see the machinery that keeps their perfect world humming.

Just like they prefer not to see us until they need us.

The Splinter is good, I'll give him that. He's survived three weeks inside the arcology without detection. Fake ID chip, carefully practiced mannerisms, even the right Upper Level posture, that particular blend of relaxation and superiority that comes from never having to fight for your oxygen ration.

But I spotted the inconsistencies the moment Security flagged his resource consumption patterns. Too much protein. Too little usage of the sleep optimization chamber. Tiny deviations that might seem inconsequential, but to a Sentinel, they might as well be a flashing sign reading "NOT ONE OF YOU."

I breathe slowly, centering myself. Enhancement treatments have my senses dialed to maximum, and I can pick up on the subtle vibration of footsteps through the floor, the recycled air currents shifting as bodies move through the corridor, the distinct cadence of each person's gait.

"Target is wearing blue suit, carrying standard-issue workpad. Appears to be alone." Trent's voice is all business now. "Ready in three...two..."

I don't need the countdown. I feel the Splinter before I see him, some inexplicable awareness that I've always attributed to good training and better instincts. The maintenance panel slides open silently as I step into the corridor, just another Unity citizen going about her day in standard-issue gray utility wear.

Our shoulders brush. The Splinter's eyes flick toward me—a normal reaction—then away. Then back again, wider this time as recognition hits him. Not of me specifically, but of what I am.

Sentinel.

He's good, but I'm better. Before his flight response fully engages, I've already moved. My fingers find the pressure point at his wrist, my body angling to block the view from passing citizens. To anyone watching, we might be colleagues, perhaps even lovers sharing an intimate moment.

"Hello there," I say pleasantly, voice pitched for his ears alone as my grip tightens precisely. "Unity welcomes all visitors, but you really should have gone through the proper channels."

The Splinter's face contorts, fear warring with defiance. Up close, I can see the subtle signs I've been trained to detect: the too-perfect skin that doesn't quite move like natural tissue, the faint amber ring around his pupils that standard citizens don't possess.

"Running would be a mistake," I continue conversationally. "My partner has already locked down this sector. And unlike me, he actually enjoys pursuit scenarios."

On cue, Trent materializes at the corridor junction, his tall frame cutting an imposing silhouette against the artificial sunlight streaming through the transparency panels. Even in standard Sentinel grays, he moves with a lethal grace that turns heads, some in appreciation, others in instinctive unease.

The Splinter sees him too. I feel the exact moment the fight leaches out of him, tension dissolving under my grip.

"Smart choice," I murmur. "Now we're going to walk very calmly to the nearest security checkpoint. You're going to tell us exactly how you got in and what you're looking for. And if you're very, very cooperative, we might be able to arrange accommodations slightly more pleasant than immediate deportation to the wasteland."

Trent approaches, moving with the synchronized precision that has made us Unity's most effective Sentinel pair. No words needed. He flanks our captive on the opposite side,one hand casually grasping the Splinter's elbow while the other activates the barely-visible neural disruptor at his wrist.

"Zara always makes the most interesting friends," Trent says to the Splinter, flashing that disarming smile that has charmed information out of the most hardened infiltrators, and sent my heart rate into unauthorized territory more times than I care to admit. "Though I feel I should warn you—her last friend tried to bolt. Three minutes later, he was enjoying the unique experience of atmospheric decompression in waste disposal unit five."

I shoot Trent a look. "That was an accident."

"Was it?" His eyes meet mine, glinting with suppressed amusement that crinkles the corners.

"Mostly." I shrug, looking away before he can read anything in my expression. "He zigged when he should have zagged."

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