The accident didn't feel like an accident when it happened.
At first, it was just noise.
A sharp metallic crack echoed through the work district shortly after midday, cutting cleanly through the usual rhythm of labor. People froze for half a breath before movement resumed, faster this time, tighter, as if speed could erase whatever had just gone wrong.
Keith was assigned to a transfer corridor that day—a narrow passage where materials were pushed from one yard to another on unstable carts. The work was lighter than hauling scrap, but more precise. Mistakes didn't injure muscles. They crushed bones.
He kept his head down and his hands steady.
The corridor was overcrowded. It always was. Two lines moving in opposite directions, carts passing too close, workers compensating manually where the track alignment failed. Oversight was minimal. Accountability absolute.
A shout went up ahead.
Keith saw the shift before he heard it—the cart's weight changing, metal screaming as stress redistributed unevenly. Someone had loaded it wrong. Too much mass on one side. Too late to fix.
The cart tipped.
Keith stepped back on instinct, shoulder brushing another body as he moved. The cart slammed sideways, one wheel snapping free and skidding across the stone. Materials spilled, scattering sharp fragments across the corridor floor.
Someone screamed.
The sound cut off abruptly.
For a moment, everything stopped.
Then the overseers arrived.
They didn't ask who was hurt first. They didn't check the damage. They sealed the corridor at both ends, shutters slamming down with finality. A thin rod hummed as it activated, casting a pale barrier across the exit.
Containment protocol.
Keith's pulse slowed instead of spiking. Adrenaline sharpened his senses, but his expression stayed neutral. Around him, panic began to spread—workers shouting over each other, voices rising too quickly, too loudly.
That was a mistake.
The lead overseer raised one hand.
Silence followed.
He stepped forward, boots crunching over scattered debris, gaze sweeping the corridor with detached interest. His eyes lingered on the spilled materials, the broken cart, the unmoving shape on the ground.
Then he spoke.
"This corridor is now classified as compromised," he said evenly. "All personnel present are subject to investigation."
No one argued.
They were herded into a tighter group, names and tokens recorded with brisk efficiency. Keith noticed then—too late—that the barrier had trapped more than just his line.
From the opposite direction, another group had been caught as well.
Among them, just at the edge of his vision, stood the same figure he had passed the night before.
Still. Quiet. Watching.
The pressure returned, sharper now, resonating faintly beneath the tension in the air.
The overseer's gaze followed the recording device, then paused.
"Due to labor shortages," he continued, "temporary reassignment will be issued pending review."
The word temporary settled like a lie no one could challenge.
Keith closed his fingers slowly.
Whatever this was, it wasn't ending here.
The group was marched out in silence.
Not released—relocated.
The shutters lifted only long enough to funnel them through a side passage Keith hadn't seen before, narrower and cleaner than the main corridors, its walls marked with faint grooves that suggested frequent use. The barrier hummed behind them as it reactivated, sealing off the accident site like it had never existed.
No one mentioned the body left behind.
They were led downward.
Each step took them farther from the work yards, farther from the noise and light, into a section of the district where lamps were spaced too far apart and shadows pooled thickly between them. The air changed—cooler, drier, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic layered over rust.
Keith kept his breathing steady, eyes forward. He catalogued details automatically: the number of turns, the slope of the floor, the rhythm of the overseers' steps. Old habits. Useless ones, probably.
Ahead, one of the workers broke.
"It wasn't me," the man said suddenly, voice cracking. "I didn't load the cart. I wasn't even—"
An overseer stopped.
He didn't turn fully. Just enough to look back over his shoulder.
"Responsibility is collective," he said. "Fault is determined after review."
The man swallowed. No one else spoke.
They were ushered into a holding hall that felt more administrative than punitive. Smooth stone benches lined the walls. Thin partitions divided the space into segments, each marked with faint identification glyphs Keith didn't recognize. Clerks waited inside, already prepared, their devices humming softly.
Names were called.
Workers stepped forward one by one, disappearing behind the partitions. Some came back quickly, faces pale but intact. Others didn't return at all.
Keith's turn came sooner than he expected.
He stepped into the partition and stood where indicated. The clerk didn't look at him at first, fingers moving rapidly over the device.
"Assignment history," the clerk murmured. "Recent arrival. No fixed residence."
Keith said nothing.
The clerk's gaze lifted briefly, sharp and assessing, then returned to the screen.
"You will be temporarily transferred," he said. "Duration pending."
"To where?" someone asked from another partition.
The clerk ignored the question.
Keith was escorted out the opposite side of the hall and into another corridor—this one lined with sealed doors. He was assigned to a small waiting cell, barely large enough to sit comfortably. The door closed with a quiet finality.
Minutes passed. Or longer. Time stretched thin in places like this.
When the door opened again, another figure was guided inside before Keith could react.
She stopped just inside the threshold.
The dim light caught her hair first—strands of muted color layered together, subdued by the realm's pallid glow but unmistakable even so. Not bright. Not vivid. Just… wrong, in a way that made the eye linger.
Her gaze met his for half a second.
The pressure surged.
Not violent. Not aggressive. Just a mutual recognition that made the air feel tight between them.
An overseer cleared his throat.
"You will remain here until transport," he said. "Do not speak unless instructed."
The door shut.
Silence followed.
Keith leaned back against the wall, careful to keep his posture neutral. His pulse was steady, but his thoughts weren't. The sensation hadn't faded this time. It lingered, subtle and persistent, like a quiet resonance between two tuning forks set too close together.
Across from him, the woman sat down slowly, movements measured. She didn't look at him again, but he was aware of her all the same—of the way she held herself, alert but contained.
Neither of them spoke.
Whatever had started as an accident had already moved beyond that.
And whatever came next, they were now caught in it together.