They let me crash for a bit, and the building played along, humming low like it was pretending to doze. Dawn sneaks in underground through the vents—cool, sharp, metallic, like the sun's just another guy clocking in with a toolbox and a badge.
Mara shakes me awake with coffee that tastes like burnt promises and a protein bar that doesn't even try to fake being food. Sato's at the door with a backpack that looks like it could stop a truck if it felt like it; Rey bounces on his toes once, then catches himself like he swore he wouldn't. Kwan's juggling two tablets and has that wild-eyed look, like he packed a dozen "what ifs" for the road.
"How's the name holding up?" Mara asks.
"Heavy," I say.
"Good." She nods at Sato. "Let's roll."
They kit me out like I'm some random dude—plain jacket, sneakers that squish a little, hat to hide my hair that's been going rogue since the chamber. The red under my ribs is quiet, but awake. Like a cat watching from the corner.
The elevators that gave us crap last night are all cooperative now. Garage smells like wet cement and yesterday's rain. We pile into a van that's basically camouflage on wheels. Doors shut. City starts flashing by in chunks through the windshield.
Halfway up the ramp, a delivery truck cuts us off without looking; Sato tweaks the wheel two degrees and we slip by like nothing. I feel those two degrees before they happen—not psychic crap, just the air sketching shortcuts my bones already know.
"Flag it if it spikes," Kwan says, already scribbling on his tablet like I signed a waiver. "Spikes meaning, uh, anything. Vectors, weird tastes, that gut-drop feeling of… y'know."
"I don't know," Rey mutters. "But thanks for the nightmare fuel."
"Zip it," Mara says, eyes glued to the rearview. "We're on back roads, dodging the usual cams. Hale bought us a three-hour head start. Don't waste it on chit-chat."
The city topside is overcompensating, trying way too hard to look normal. Crews already fenced off the spot where the street went nuts last night. People queue for lattes like it's any Tuesday; their eyes slide just past each other, the way you do when you're ignoring that copper tang in the air.
We cross the river on a bridge that's seen better days, water below murky like forgotten coffee. Warehouses on the other side pretend they're trendy lofts; a junkyard acts like it's an art installation.
"Site's under the old rail loop," Sato says. "Service stairs, then a utility hall. There was gonna be a stop here once, before the city decided this hood didn't deserve trains."
"'Didn't deserve,'" Rey echoes, tapping his screen. "That in the blueprints?"
"It's what happens when the cash dries up," Mara says.
We park behind a half-brick eyesore that's falling apart politely. Sato kills the engine, turns to me. "Feeling anything?"
I check: hum's steady, world's lines are quiet, like a party before the music kicks in.
"Not yet," I say.
"Alright," Mara says. "Masks on."
Not the face-hiding kind—these are gray filters that smell like cheap glue and hospital lobbies. I snap mine over my nose; the straps pinch my ears like bad earrings.
The door's just a door till Rey sweet-talks the lock. Inside, stairs drop into concrete and bad choices. We head down.
Two flights. Three. Air gets colder, settles into something that ignores seasons. Graffiti on the walls—names scratched in, then painted over; red bleeding through like old bloodstains.
At the bottom, a wire gate guards a maintenance door. Sato picks the lock like he's asking it nicely. Gate swings. Door opens. Air shifts, like the end of a sentence you didn't see coming.
"Periphery," Kwan whispers, all awe-struck.
The hall beyond isn't dead—it's on pause. Wide tile floors, walls that shade of blue-gray they slap on schools to kill your soul. Lights flicker on as we pass, grumpy chain reaction. The hum in my chest perks up.
"Walk me through it," Mara says, close enough her shadow bumps mine.
"Map's stirring," I say. "Not screaming. Like navigating your room in the dark—you know where stuff is, till you stub your toe."
"Vectors?" Kwan pushes.
"Thin," I say. "Stretched wire."
We keep going. Rey scans nothing and everything with his tablet. Sato steps soft for a big guy; floor seems to like him. Mara sweeps—up, corners, back. She's wired to spot trouble before it puts on shoes.
We round a corner that feels off, hall curving like a bad dream. My gut twists—circles messing with straight-line brains.
"The ghost station?" Rey asks.
"Planned, funded, scrapped," Mara says. "After they'd already poured the slab and wired it up."
"They felt it," Kwan mutters.
"And called it smart to walk away," Mara adds.
Curve spits us onto a platform that never got a train. Empty ad frames stare back, foggy glass, dead wires. More graffiti—keys gouged in paint, weird symbols, a date from years ago the city buried.
In the middle, the air's doing something sneaky. Not a crack, not a glow—just a dip, like the space got polite and stepped aside.
"It's right there," I say, freezing before I mean to. Everyone piles up behind.
"How close?" Mara asks.
"Two steps if you're bendy," I say.
Sato tapes off a square like the floor gives a damn. Rey plants a sensor on a grate; it blinks hopeful green. Kwan hangs back, watching like he's waiting for fireworks.
"Ryo," Mara says. "Your call. Distance, price, all yours. Say stop, we're out."
I breathe: in four, out six. Hum climbs a notch, holds.
"I'm gonna… listen," I say.
"Not touch," she warns.
"Not yet," I say.
"Fair," she answers, meaning tell me before your fingers do.
One step forward. Air cools, arms prickle. Map sharpens—lines thin, frayed, hungry for more. They cluster just ahead, not quite here.
—vector?—
Not words. A nudge, like an offered hand.
"Periphery," I push back, tilting the thought till it echoes.
Something nudges again. Not the big bad mountain. Not the swarm. Smaller, softer—not a shove, an invite. Different vibe from the lab, from the kneel. If the mountain's the boss and harrowers are tools, this is… a leftover echo.
"Range?" Kwan whispers.
"Weird," I say. "It's sideways. Like—"
I wave my hand; the gesture flops because my fingers follow rules this doesn't.
Sato mutters into his collar. Rey glances at Mara. She nods tiny: breathe.
—threshold—
The tag again, shaky, like it's guessing my size. Hum answers polite: close, but nah.
"Ryo," Mara says. "Update."
"It's talking," I say. "Not them. Inside me."
Kwan sucks air like he struck gold. "Details."
"New," I say. "Kind."
Word hangs dumb in the stale air. Kind? Like that helps.
"Slow," Mara says. "Again."
"Not from out there," I say. "From me. Said hello."
Second nudge: —you're heavy—
I keep that quiet. Lands like a kid poking a bruise, curious.
"Ryo." Mara's tone for jumpers and live wires. "Names."
"Mine's good," I say. "This one doesn't have one."
—i have you—
Not possession. Like a fact tucked in.
"Can it hear me?" Mara asks.
Dunno. Can you? I think.
Quiet. Then: —you line. she anchor. no cut—
I blink. The dip ahead brightens, thoughtful.
"Shifting," Kwan says. "Field up six. Seven. Boss—"
"Hold," Mara snaps. "Ryo—price tag?"
"Less than lab," I say. "More than nothing."
"Nothing's history," Rey mumbles.
The voice curls close. —not theirs not yours ours—
"Ours?" I think. Gets me a Venn diagram, two circles bleeding into one fuzzy spot.
Sato edges left, covering without crowding. Floor likes it. Tape flutters—no breeze.
The dip decides to grow up. Tile warps subtle, frames fog. One shows our reflection late, like a bad lag.
It's not a mouth. Not a hand.
A window.
"Back up," Mara says, even, no panic.
I don't. Not stubborn—stuck.
Other side: mirror curve, clean platform. Figure staring back. Me, but not—same build, hair, slouch. Eyes older, like they've seen kitchens burn and wars drag.
Sato swears quiet, soldier-style. Rey grabs my jacket, lets go quick. Kwan forgets to breathe.
"Ryo," Mara says. "Freeze."
I do. Can't not.
Other lifts a hand. Mine mirrors. Worlds crunch math; palms ache like they almost touched.
Other's mouth moves slow. Translator tries: —keep name—
Voice inside sighs content, like a kid nailing a test.
Window flickers, undecided. Other side, shape steps in—clerk vibe, rules on legs. Window clouds.
—heavy— voice murmurs, mixed feelings. —stay learn no trade—
"What are you?" I think.
Gets me a seesaw sketch, notes scribbled: balance.
Rey exhales shaky. Kwan prays to data. Sato hovers, hand ghosting my back.
"Ryo." Mara. "You driving?"
"Yeah," I say. "With a copilot."
"Works," she says. "Ten seconds, we bounce. Can you drop it?"
Window wavers. Other's eyes spill something raw. Clerk tilts sharp.
"Yeah," I say.
I picture the overlap folding neat, book on a shelf. Translator handles it. Window thins, fades, sighs out.
Corridor snaps back ugly. Tape flattens. Tile chills.
Hum slows. Voice stays.
"Status?" Mara to everyone.
"Solid," Sato.
"Breathing," Rey.
"Goldmine," Kwan.
"Ryo?"
"Name's heavy," I say. "No bill yet."
She drops shoulders a notch. "We're out. No encores."
We retrace. Hall cooperates. Above, morning stumbles on. Sato leads; Rey babysits sensors; Kwan mumbles to his tablet like it's therapy.
Mara matches my stride. "Voice?"
"New," I say. "Calls itself balance. Asks, doesn't shove."
"Them?"
"Nah. Tuned for me."
She thinks a step. "Can you shut it down?"
"Did. It was cool."
"We'll roll with that."
Maintenance door. Sato resets; Rey checks; Kwan smooches his screen. We climb.
Second landing, hum brushes ribs. Voice leans: —watching—
"Where?" Close, up. Not mountain. Not Mara.
Garage light hits harsh. Van waits loyal. We pile in; Sato drives like he owns the street.
Two blocks out, sedan slips in behind, too smooth.
"Tail," Mara says, zero drama.
"Central?" Rey.
"Or wannabes," she says. "Stick to plan. No chase scenes."
Sato weaves casual, hits a "random" green. Sedan tags along like a bad date.
Voice chill: —no cut—
I don't.
Municipal lot, dust and bad vibes. Sato parks smart; Rey does the paperwork dance. Sedan ghosts by, pretends innocence.
"Inside," Mara.
Building lobby: stone, fake plants, escalators to nowhere. Doors hiss for Rey. City buys our bluff.
Back under the building's gut, Sato exhales. "Picked one up, shook it off."
"Not permanent," Mara says. "But good enough."
She eyes me; I eye back. Cut's scabbing. Hands steady. Hum's polite.
"What'd you see?" Meaning me and the copilot.
"Mirror me," I say. "Window wanted to connect. We said nah."
"Good," she says. "Get used to nah."
Kwan splits for the lab, itching to poke data. Sato melts into security crap. Rey hangs.
"You good?" he asks, real.
"Got backup," I say.
"From?"
"Me," I say. True enough.
Mara walks me to Recovery Three. "Two hours," she says. "Then Hale stares at you like a spreadsheet. I'll heckle."
"They gonna yank me again?"
"They'll try the paper parts," she says. "We keep the rest."
"Useful bits?"
"Depends who's asking."
Door shuts soft. I sit on the bed; it holds me like an old friend. Voice waits till I settle.
—did well—
"Did we?"
—kept anchor kept name no trade—
"What's your deal?" I think. "For real."
Gets me the seesaw again: balance, with scribbles.
—when pull i heavy feet—
"And if I bolt?"
—why?—
Laugh catches; I swallow.
Hallway stirs—boots learned quiet, soles sneaky.
Panel blinks. Hale.
He stands polite distance, gives me the room. Looks like a desk guy who hates desks.
"Ryo," he says. "You made it back."
"From the edge," I say.
He nods. "Brief later. But heads up."
"What?"
Hesitates—rare. "The video. Glass breathing, the kneel. It's viral. We kill it; it resurrects. People picking teams on what they think they saw."
"Do I pick?"
"You will," he says. "Even if you sit it out."
Leaves me with that density.
Door clicks. Voice pokes gentle: —ready?—
"For?"
—pull—
Hum echoes itself.
I palm the red. Say my name like a mantra.
"Ryo."
Room holds.
Voice waits.
And by the river, that spot remembers it could be more if no one says stop.