We hit the first hatch like it owes us an apology. It does. The panel fights, then pops; cold air spills over us from a chamber that smells like old ache and disinfectant. The light is cleaner here, sour and white. Rows of metal cabinets stand with their backs to us like choir stalls. The labels glow soft blue: SUBGRID: EAST—REGULATOR. SUBGRID: CENTRAL—COOLANT. SUBGRID: EMERGENT—AI/DECISION TREE.
Kellen goes reverent. “Well, hello.”
“Talk later,” Dominic says, sweeping the corners with a rifle that never shakes. “We’re not alone.”
He’s right. I hear them before I see them—soft shoes, the click of a safety, a breath held and let out too slowly. Then a voice from behind a cabinet, crisp and professional, the kind of voice used to be obeyed. “Don’t move.”
“We’re really not in the mood,” V
