I scan the cell.
Ashlynn isn't here.
My heart is calm. Steady. Obedient.
I don't like it.
Something else hurts. Not sharp. Not loud. The body doesn't remember pain.
I do.
"Where's Ashlynn?" I ask the man.
He's leaning against the wall, one shoulder pressed into stone, holding him up.
"Lessies only brought you in," he says as he shrugs, shaking his head. "No one else."
"Lessies?"
"Faceless. Lessies. Call them whatever." A shrug. Casual. "Homunculi. Mass‑produced."
The word slides past me.
I pause.
"I'm sorry," I say. "But who are you?"
"Gary." Easy. Immediate. "Have we met before?"
"I don't think so."
"Ah." He nods once. "Then who are you?"
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
It isn't fear. My tongue isn't heavy. My chest isn't tight.
There's just a gap—clean and empty—where the answer should live.
Gary's face tightens a fraction. Not surprise. Assessment. Like he's already decided something and is waiting to see if I'll confirm it.
Then I finally say it.
"Len. My name is Len."
Relief passes through me. Clean and immediate.
My body doesn't react.
His face loosens. "Nice to meet you, friend."
BAM.
Metal slams suddenly somewhere beyond the cell. The sound ricochets through stone and iron, too loud, too close.
I crawl forward and press my face to the bars.
Gary mirrors me without comment. For a moment we're level—knees on stone, fingers wrapped around rusted iron—breathing the same stale air.
Then the smell arrives.
Cooked meat.
Footsteps follow. Soft. Even. Wrong.
Faceless figures move down the corridor, methodical. Their steps don't echo. They don't look at us. They don't need to.
They toss sandwiches through the bars like feed.
One skids into our cell.
Then another.
Two.
I pick mine up. Gary picks his.
I stare at it.
I don't eat.
BAM.
The door slams again. Louder this time. The faceless figures leave with that slam.
Gary opens his sandwich. Pauses. Then flicks the contents onto the floor.
"Don't eat the meat," he comments.
The eyeballs roll.
They stop near my feet.
Amber.
The same shade as Ashlynn's.
My stomach convulses before I can stop it. I retch hard, choking, palms scraping stone as bile burns up my throat.
"You don't like eyeballs?" Gary chuckles, already tearing into the bread.
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Try to speak.
"I—" Nothing comes. Is this what she felt? "I think I'm a picky eater," I manage.
He nods, like that explains everything.
I copy him. Remove the meat. Remove the eyes. Eat only the bread.
It tastes like nothing.
We finish in silence.
"You look way too calm for someone in prison," Gary says eventually.
Words don't come. Not because I can't speak.
Because there isn't a correct answer.
"Southern cell," he continues. "Safe cell. If she's not here, she's north."
My throat tightens.
"The processing cell."
I gag. The emotion arrives late and heavy—sadness, anger, something sharp underneath.
My heart stays slow.
He comes closer and taps my shoulder once. "Easy," he says. "With you here, we've got a chance."
He points at my right hand.
"The leechsteel. Uncalibrated, but it'll do."
I look down.
The metal is dull. Still. Like it's pretending to be dead.
"What do you mean uncalibrated?"
He exhales through his nose, like I asked why water is wet.
"Leechsteel listens," he says.
I wait.
"It maps you. Pulse. Heat. Stress drift." He taps his chest once. "The things you don't control."
My arm doesn't move.
"Yours latched early," he adds. "Wrong rhythm. That's why it's stiff."
"Stiff how?"
"Protective." A pause. "Until it decides you're not the threat."
"How does it decide?"
A smaller shrug.
"Your heart teaches it. Or it doesn't."
"And if it doesn't?"
He looks at me then. Not curious. Not worried.
"Then it keeps you safe."
The sentence doesn't land right.
"Safe from what?"
He doesn't answer. He only gives me a faint smile. His only one.
After that, Gary stands. Pulls a brick loose from the upper part of the wall. A key drops into his palm.
"We rescue your friend. Then we descend to the fifth floor. Deal?"
"If it's for my friend," I say. "Deal." I nod.
It's the first time I've used that word here.
Click.
The cell door opens. We step out.
Gary moves fast, unlocking doors along the corridor. Prisoners spill out—some frozen, some shaking, some running before permission feels real.
Everyone gathers near the corridor door.
"You don't know me and I don't know you," Gary shouts. "But there's only one way. The way up."
Silence.
Awkward. Heavy.
He leans in, whispers, "It goes differently in my head."
"Leave it be," I whisper back.
He unlocks the corridor door. Opens it.
A prisoner steps toward us. Eyes wide. Disbelieving.
"C‑can I leave?"
I nod.
He hesitates. One step. Then another. Both feet past the threshold.
Then he runs.
Another follows. Then another.
Soon the corridor is empty.
Just me and Gary left.
As I step forward, Gary stops me. "Let's not be suicidal."
He smirks then he closes the door. Locks it.
We return to the cell. He seals it from the inside.
He pulls a brick from lower part of the wall. Then another. Then a third.
Mortar flakes onto the floor. Dust clings to my fingers.
Behind the bricks—darkness.
Not a vent. No metal. No draft.
A passage cut straight through stone. Sideways. Someone‑made.
"How long has that been there?" I ask.
Gary doesn't answer right away. He works another brick loose, careful. Practiced. Like muscle memory doing something his mouth doesn't want to admit.
"Long enough," he says.
The opening widens. Just enough for one person.
I can't see the end.
The darkness doesn't slope. It doesn't drop.
It just goes.
North, I realize. Not because I see it.
Because it presses behind my eyes.
Gary drops to all fours.
"You first?" I ask.
He snorts softly. "Builder's privilege."
He crawls in.
Stone scrapes his shoulders, then swallows him whole.
I hesitate.
For a moment, my heart still doesn't react.
Then something tightens in my chest.
Not fear.
Direction.
I follow.
Toward Ashlynn.
Toward my friend.