The record vault was burning when Vasa reached the lower silo offices. Flames crawled along the ceiling cables, and thick smoke filled the stairwell above the rows of paper ledgers Holt had never trusted to a public network.
"The files are physical," Vasa said, pulling a cold seal from her belt. "That means the fire is not an accident."
Diana held the relay image steady from the Citadel, linking Vasa's camera to every independent screen that still carried the granary feed. "I can transmit pages if you give me a readable surface," she said. "I cannot pull paper through a locked vault."
"You do not need to," Vasa replied.
She entered before the smoke could cover the first shelves. Her ice was not an endless wall of frost; it took water, heat, and her own stamina to make every small patch hold.
