The first week was paperwork. Soren attended three briefings, two less than he'd anticipated, and spent the rest of it shadowing the outgoing commandant, a flabby, red-nosed man who kept referring to Soren as "the next generation," as if this meant a chunk of wisdom might get wedged loose in the hand-off.

Each morning, Soren walked the perimeter of the sector, mapping the rhythm of the patrols and counting the number of times the same faces oscillated through the front entrance. He noted patterns: who was on time never Kale, who was hungry for an audience usually Lira, who pretended not to see him at all half the garrison, and at least one drone.

On day five, he received his first non-memo assignment: escort detail on a syndicate transfer, "high asset, risk unknown." The brief had been redacted half to hell, but Soren could read the subtext: the Academy wanted to see if he would break protocol under kinetic pressure. Or, maybe, if he would let someone else take the fall.

The transfer was scheduled for midnight, corridor six. Soren dressed into the new uniform, bored with the old, relieved to be out of the bluem and made his way through the refrigerated guts of the outpost, boots echoing a fraction late in the empty hall.

The asset: a woman, small and unadorned, face a map of old knife work and new anxiety. No name on file, only a set of initials, R.A.V., and a price tag that made Soren swallow twice. Kale was on secondary, arms loaded with enough tranquilizers to take down a parade float.

The transfer team consisted of three: Soren, Kale, and a third, unfamiliar face, tall, blocky, face like a lone surviving knuckle. The man didn't introduce himself. Soren didn't expect him to.

They ran corridor six at an even pace, the air sharp as if it could be measured in angles rather than temperature. He kept a single hand on the hilt, not because he expected trouble, but because the other option was letting the asset see his hands shake.

They reached the junction without incident. Soren thought, for a second, that maybe this was just an elaborate desk test. Then the lights overhead went to emergency-blue, and the first round punched a hole through the concrete six inches above R.A.V.'s head.

Kale moved fast, shoving the woman down and out of sight. Soren scanned left, then right, marking the direction of attack. He waited for the next shot, but it didn't come. Instead, there was the dull charge of a concussion grenade, then the groan of the main doors as the lock system buckled. Soren's earpiece crackled, static, then the smooth, plastic voice of someone in Security Control: "Containment breach, corridor six. All units respond."

He exhaled, centered the panic to a single point just behind his ribs, then motioned the asset up. "Go left, down the ramp. Now." She went, limping, but quick. Kale followed, two darts already loaded. Soren brought up the rear, counting every meter, fifty, then forty, then the first shadow at the edge of the ramp, moving with the casual arrogance of someone who knew the blueprints.

He debated: challenge, or wait for visual. He waited.

The shadow turned into a man, not tall but wide, wearing the black of internal security and the battered, unpolished look of someone who'd spent years avoiding the brass. Soren didn't recognize him, but the man recognized Soren. "Vale," he said, as if it was either a compliment or a diagnosis.

Soren said nothing. He tracked the hands, watched for the tell.

The man smiled, just enough to show yellowed teeth. "Command sent me to help," he said, although the words "help" and "kill" could have swapped places with no loss of accuracy.

"Then get behind us," Soren said.

The man did, but not fast enough to suggest actual compliance.

They reached the mid-point of the access ramp. Behind them, footsteps in chorus, a dozen, maybe more. Not mercenaries, internal. Another test.

Soren turned, kept the asset moving. Kale pulled ahead, the woman in tow, her limp now an open wound of effort. Soren considered: if someone wanted this to end in blood, there were faster ways. So this was about panic, or optics.

He wasn't above playing along.

They reached the exit; Soren jammed the override, slapping the panel hard enough to snap his wrist again if he wasn't careful. The lock cycled, then spat a low, angry klaxon. A voice rang out above them: "Drop the asset and proceed to Meridian Plaza. This is your last warning."

Kale shot him a look. "You want me to?"

Soren shook his head. "We finish."

A second later, the wall opposite exploded inward, anti-personnel, shrapnel, calculated for intimidation on the first go-round. Soren rolled left, the woman right; Kale took the brunt, catching a spike in the calf but staying upright.

The new combatants, four of them, stepped through the breach, visors down, weapons already raised. Soren recognized the choreography, Academy training. The four moved as a single body, a wave, no wasted energy.

He didn't hesitate.

The first two he took with a low sweep, the old Edge Hollow maneuver, tripping them into each other and using the momentum to bounce off the wall. The third engaged, blade at ready, but Soren jammed the grip hard into the visor slit, shattering the lens and the nose beneath it. The fourth, a woman, nearly caught Soren at the hip, but Kale, bless his reckless appetite for disaster, tackled her straight off the walkway and into the pit below.

The aftermath was quick. Soren hauled the woman up, checked Kale for major leaks (none, but plenty of minor), then dragged the asset up through the dead zone and into the open. Outside, the night was colder than ever, air slicing clean through to the bone.

They didn't see the next team waiting, but Soren had guessed there would be one. This time, the threat wasn't military. It was a desk, folded and stamped, with a single chair. A figure waited: Envoy Lethren, arms folded, smile milk-pale in the security lights.

"You made good time," she said, as if Soren had just won a raffle.

He didn't answer, just watched for the angle.

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