Aya hated silence.
Not the normal kind — not the peace-after-the-fight kind — but the kind that hung too perfectly. Like someone had draped the entire corridor in a simulation-grade hush. Not even the buzz of a leaking capacitor or the drip of condensation off old rails. Just cold air and stillness.
They were thirty meters below street level, walking along what used to be an industrial cargo line before Scorpio rerouted it off the grid.
Aya's boots moved carefully between rail splits. Her burn wound tugged beneath her sleeve — sealed, yes, but still tender. She gritted through it. Renz moved beside her like a damned shadow. Quiet, contained, balanced.
Too balanced.
"You know," she muttered, voice just above her comm mic's static, "you breathe less than a normal person."
Renz didn't look at her. "Efficient oxygen control. Part of Mercury's field discipline."
Right. Mercury again.
She scanned the walls — heat residue, signal trails, boot impressions. Anything.
