Morning did not look different.
That felt wrong.
Kael had expected the sky to crack, or the shields to flicker in some visible way, or at least for the city's noise to change. Instead the world outside the depot sounded exactly as it always had.
Air traffic. Distant construction. Vendors shouting in market alleys.
Normal.
Inside, nothing was.
Taro had tuned one of the scavenged screens to a low‑tier civic channel, the kind that usually ran lifestyle pieces and soft interviews about new shield tech.
Today it ran a panel.
Three guests. One host. The footage in the corner of the screen, blurred but still unmistakable.
"…we cannot verify the authenticity of these clips," the host said for the third time in ten minutes, "but if they are genuine, what does this mean for public trust in the Order's containment policies?"
A "security consultant" answered with practiced calm.
"It means we have to remember context," he said. "Extremists manipulate information. The Order faces threats most civilians never see. Sometimes procedures look harsh from the outside, but they are necessary."
Rin watched from a shadowed corner, mug cradled in both hands like an anchor.
"What does it take," she asked quietly, "for them to say the word torture."
Aiden stood near the wall, arms folded lightly so he would not tug his ribs.
"They are trying not to be first," he said. "No one wants to go on record until they know which way the wind is really blowing."
Kael snorted.
"The wind is screaming," he said. "They just closed the windows."
On screen, the third guest spoke up.
She was a doctor, according to the caption. In a previous segment she had talked about trauma in children after shield failures.
"This is not about context," she said, voice steady. "If these images are real, we are looking at sustained, deliberate infliction of pain on restrained subjects. There is a word for that. We avoid it because it makes us responsible for responding."
The host shifted in his seat.
"Let us not jump to conclusions," he said quickly.
"Why not," the doctor asked. "They did."
Taro choked on his drink.
"Oh, she is going to lose her license by noon," he said. "I love her."
Kael could not help the small, fierce smile.
"Clip that," he told Taro. "Mirror it everywhere."
"Already on it," Taro said.
He was pale with exhaustion, but his hands moved with mechanical precision over the relay console.
"Some community nets are running with the footage," he added. "Neighborhood councils. Street med groups. People who see Deviants as patients instead of risks."
"And the Board," Aiden asked.
"They are busy pretending this is both nothing and an unforgivable crime at the same time," Taro said. "Hard job."
The door alarm clicked softly.
Everyone in the room went still.
Kael's power surged on reflex, a faint spark crawling over his fingers.
Aiden nodded toward the upper catwalk.
Rin was already moving, sliding into a position with clear sight of the door but plenty of cover.
The depot had never felt like a trap until now.
Now it felt like a single wrong turn away from a massacre.
Taro checked the tiny camera feed linked to the outer alley.
"Relax," he said after a second. "It is one of ours."
Kael did not relax.
He did lower his hand.
The door opened.
Rian stepped inside.
He looked worse than last time.
Crutches, again. Bruise blooming along one side of his face. Official uniform replaced by plain clothes that did a bad job of hiding the rigid set of his shoulders.
Every conversation in the room died.
Rian took it in.
The crates.
The cables.
Too many eyes.
He grimaced.
"Nice decor," he said. "Very illegal."
"Usually we charge admission," Taro said. "You get the betrayal discount."
Rian's mouth twitched despite itself.
He limped farther in.
Kael moved to meet him halfway.
"Did you get followed," Kael asked.
"If I had, you would know," Rian said. "This place would already be full of people with better uniforms than mine."
"That is reassuring," Taro said. "In a terrible way."
Aiden pushed off the wall and came closer.
"You should not be here," he said.
"I know," Rian said. "That seems to be a pattern with me lately."
He looked at Aiden.
"You are alive," he added.
"So are you," Aiden said.
"Temporarily," Rian replied. "Depending on how this conversation goes."
He reached into his jacket.
Three people lifted hands.
Rian froze.
Slowly, he drew out a small data wafer between two fingers.
"If I was going to pull a weapon in a room full of twitchy Deviants and one very tired traitor," he said, "I would pick something bigger."
Kael relaxed a fraction.
"Talk," he said.
Rian held out the wafer to Aiden.
"This is a copy of Internal's preliminary report on Twelve‑North," he said. "Restricted distribution. Not for external release."
Aiden hesitated, then took it.
"What does it say," he asked.
"The public version calls it a terrorist attack," Rian said. "The internal one is less tidy. Too many system failures that do not map to your people. Too many logs of complaints they ignored. Too many signatures of your… adjustments."
"Taro," Aiden said.
Taro was already at his side with a reader.
He slid the wafer into a slot.
Lines of text scrolled up.
"Is this a trap," Rin asked.
"Probably," Rian said. "But not the way you think."
He sat on a crate, crutches balanced against his knee.
"The Board is split," he went on. "Some want to crack down hard. Mass sweeps. Collars for every Deviant above a certain threshold. Others are worried that if they move too fast, they prove everything you are saying."
Kael frowned.
"So they argue while people like us wait to see who wins," he said.
"Welcome to politics," Rian said.
He looked tired in a way that went deeper than bruises.
"Mara," Aiden said. "Where does she stand."
Rian hesitated.
"Where she always has," he said. "In the line between whatever horror the Board signs off on and the people who have to carry it out."
"That is not an answer," Kael said.
"It is the only honest one," Rian replied, echoing Aiden's words from the night before.
He rubbed his eyes.
"She is pushing for oversight," he said. "Independent review panels. External auditors from civic councils. It sounds good on paper. It also assumes the Board lets her pick who sits on those panels."
"And if they do not," Taro said.
"Then she has a choice," Rian answered. "Enforce a system she knows is rotten, or step aside and watch someone worse take her place."
Kael snorted.
"That is the problem with being the best of a bad group," he said. "You start thinking your presence makes the group less bad."
Rian's gaze hardened.
"You think walking out fixed anything for the people still in uniform," he asked. "We are the only ones left who remember what you tried to be before you turned."
Kael felt the words hit.
"Turned," he repeated softly. "Is that what they are calling it."
Rian spread his hands.
"What would you call it," he asked.
Kael thought of collars and chairs and a pillar exploding.
"Corrected," he said.
Aiden stepped between them before the air could sharpen further.
"Rian," he said. "Why bring us this."
"Because Internal is going to use it to justify more power," Rian said. "They will say the incident proves how dangerous Deviants are when they organize. They will call for expanded surveillance and harsher containment. And they will wave this report as proof that the system works because it identified 'weaknesses.'"
He nodded toward the reader.
"You should see the part where they talk about you," he added.
Taro flicked a command.
A section of the report expanded.
SUBJECT: LIORIEN, A.
THREAT ASSESSMENT: ESCALATED.
RECOMMENDATION: PRIORITY NEUTRALIZATION OR RECAPTURE.
Underneath, paragraphs dissected Aiden like he was a piece of hardware.
Risk of symbolic value.
Ability to exploit existing systems.
Emotional ties to key personnel.
He read the last line twice.
SUBJECT REPRESENTS A UNIQUE CONVERGENCE OF ORDER TRAINING AND DEVIANT CAPABILITY.
IF LEVERAGED, POTENTIAL AS ASSET.
IF NOT, POTENTIAL AS CATALYST FOR WIDESPREAD DESTABILIZATION.
"They want you back," Kael said.
"Or dead," Aiden said.
"Those are not mutually exclusive," Taro muttered.
Rian watched Aiden's face.
"You see the problem," he said. "They are building their next move around you. Around all of you. You gave them a story. Now they will try to write the next chapter without you in the room."
"Then we crash the writers' meeting," Kael said.
Aiden tapped the reader casing lightly.
"We cannot fight them on every front," he said. "They have numbers, infrastructure, legal language. What they do not have is trust. That is where we have to push."
He looked at Rian.
"You came here," he said. "You handed us something that could destroy your career and possibly your life. Why."
Rian exhaled.
"Because I watched that footage from the labs," he said. "Because I was there when the pillar went up. Because every time I close my eyes I see people strapped to chairs and the word 'necessary' stamped across their files."
He met Kael's gaze.
"And because if you make this city burn without giving anyone inside a chance to choose something else, you become exactly what the Board is terrified of," he said. "I would rather go down knowing I tried to open a door from both sides."
Kael stared at him.
He did not say I trust you.
He did not say I forgive you.
He said nothing.
Rin stepped forward.
"What do you want us to do," she asked Rian.
"Use it," Rian said, nodding at the report. "Show people how they talk about you in rooms you never see. Not just the labs. The memos. The risk assessments. The way they reduce you to math and then call it protection."
He swallowed.
"And maybe," he added, "leave a crack for those of us still in the uniforms who are not completely lost yet."
Taro blew out a breath.
"We are running out of places to hide cracks," he said. "But we can aim."
Aiden nodded slowly.
"All right," he said. "We add it to the stream. Carefully. No mass dump this time. Targeted leaks. Council forums. Union channels. Anywhere people already suspect the cost of keeping the city 'safe.'"
"Dangerous," Taro said.
"Everything is dangerous now," Aiden replied.
Kael looked from Aiden to Rian to the glowing lines of text.
"Fine," he said. "We show them the inside of the cage and the inside of the control room. If they still choose the lock after that, at least they cannot say they did not know."
Rian pushed himself to his feet.
"Then I should go before someone decides to check where my comm has been," he said.
He paused at the door.
"Kael," he said without turning. "She is alive."
Kael's chest clenched.
"Lysa," he said.
Rian nodded.
"Internal has her flagged as 'status unknown, presumed captured or deceased,'" he said. "Mara marked that note herself. Which means if they had a body, it would say so."
"Presumed," Kael said.
"It is not comfort," Rian said. "It is a possibility."
He opened the door.
"Do not waste it," he added.
Then he was gone.
The room exhaled as one.
Taro let his head fall back.
"I hate this timeline," he said.
Rin looked at Kael.
He looked back.
"If she is alive," Rin said, "they have her somewhere worse than Twelve‑North."
"Yes," Kael said.
"And you are going to go after her," she said.
"Yes," he said.
Aiden did not argue.
He simply looked at the data wafer, at the sliver under his shirt, at the people around him who had not asked to be symbols and were becoming them anyway.
"The Order will tighten its grip," he said. "We push from below. We pull from inside, if Rian and anyone like him can manage it. And when we find where they put Lysa, we make sure the city is watching before we knock."
Kael smiled, small and sharp.
"Round two," he said.
"Round two," Aiden agreed.
Outside, the morning that had looked like any other began to tilt.
Words spread faster than patrol routes.
Trust eroded faster than directives could be written.
And somewhere in a place with no cameras and too much light, Lysa opened her eyes to a room that was not a lab and not a cell, and understood that the Board had finally learned from Twelve‑North.
They had built a cage meant for minds, not bodies.