Claire's move came not with an army, but with a bus.
It rumbled up to the gate on Day Seventy-Five, engine smoking, tires flat. It was painted with the Citadel's colors—black and gold.
"Hold fire," I commanded, watching from the wall. The Sentinels were locked on, blue light pooling in their etchings.
The bus doors squeaked open. People tumbled out. Maybe twenty of them. Women, children, old men. They were gaunt, coughing, their skin grey.
"Refugees," Marcus said, lowering his binoculars. "She's dumping her weight on us."
"No," Dr. Okoye said, looking through her scope. "Look at their necks. Collars."
My blood ran cold. Explosive collars.
A figure stepped off the bus last. A man in clean tactical gear, one of Claire's lieutenants. He held a detonator.
"Founder Shen!" he shouted. "Citadel sends regards! These people are... contaminated. We can't house them. You have the cure. You take them, or I pop their heads right here."
It was a trap. If I took them, I drained our resources and potentially let in spies or a virus. If I didn't, I watched children die.
"Let them in," I said over the comms.
"Evie?" Alex asked.
"Open the gate. But keep the quarantine protocol tight."
The refugees scrambled inside, weeping. The lieutenant smirked, tipped his hat, and walked back toward the treeline.
As soon as the refugees were clear, I looked at the bus. It was leaking fluid.
"It's not just refugees," I muttered. "The bus is a bomb."
"Bomb squad!" Alex roared.
But I didn't call the bomb squad. I called Ryan.
"Ryan," I said calmly. "Burn the bus. Nothing left."
Ryan looked at me, then at the bus. He nodded. He stepped forward, eyes flaring orange. A torrent of white fire engulfed the vehicle. The heat was intense, melting the tires, shattering the windows. If there was a biological agent inside, it incinerated instantly.
The explosion never came. Just ash.
Inside the walls, Dr. Okoye was already scanning the refugees.
"They're clean," she announced. "Malnourished, but clean. And the collars..." She looked at me. "They're duds. Fake."
I laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound.
"She didn't send us a bomb," I said. "She sent us a bill. And she wanted us to waste ammo panicking."
I looked at the refugees—now twenty more mouths to feed, but twenty more hands to work.
"Thanks for the labor, Claire," I whispered.