Page 151 of Fractured Loyalties
We move fast. Not running, but not slow either. Every turn is too smooth to be chance. This was designed as an escape, and it’s been used before.
At the next junction, I see scorch marks on the wall. Not recent. But not ancient either.
“Someone got out the hard way once,” he says. “Learned from it.”
“Who?”
He doesn’t answer.
I glance at the timestamp on the wall panel ahead, one minute left on the countdown. A chime sounds faintly from behind—probably piped through the emergency relay system, not from the room itself. No visuals, just numbers. Nothing to see now but the seconds falling away.
“Don’t look behind,” he warns. “You’ll miss what’s ahead.”
We reach a lift. Old, industrial. He scans the key, and it grinds into motion.
It carries us down. Further than I expected. My ears pop.
Then the doors open, and I stop breathing for a second.
We step into a room that doesn’t belong underground. Polished floors. Glass panels. A round table in the center with chairs that don’t match. Surveillance screens line one wall, all showing feeds from places I don’t recognize.
And in the center, on the main display—
My face.
Not now. Not here.
Me, from days ago. On the beach. Walking. Alone.
I spin toward him. “How long have you been watching me?”
He tilts his head. “Long enough to know you’d follow the signal.”
I step forward, anger licking at the edge of my voice. “Why?”
He doesn’t move. “Because you’re not the soft part of him. You’re the trigger. And someone had to make sure it went off at the right time.”
The words echo in the room like they’re still choosing who to wound.
I don’t speak. Not yet.
Because what terrifies me most is that he might be right.
“I want answers,” I say, voice low, teeth close to the edge of baring. “Real ones. Not riddles wrapped in fire escapes.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Then sit. You’ll need both hands free.”
I don’t trust him. But I trust my rage to keep me upright if this goes sideways.
I sit.
He taps something on the main console. The display changes. Files open—slow, grainy surveillance footage, cross-referenced comm logs, voice overlays flagged with keywords that make my stomach twist.
And then—
A name.
Elias’s. But not just his. Dozens of tagged entries.
