The corridor swallowed Lena and Moody the moment they stepped past the threshold.
Hellfire architecture had a way of doing that—corridors that bent just slightly off true, lighting calibrated to keep faces half-remembered, half-forgotten. Designed not to intimidate, but to unmoor. People who knew who they were found it irritating. People who didn't found it terrifying.
Lena noticed everything.
The absence of cameras where there should have been some.
The extra layer of sound-dampening beneath the floor.
The fact that the guards didn't look at her—only at Moody.
"You didn't tell me where we're going," she said.
Moody didn't slow. "Because if I did, you'd start planning exits."
"I'm already planning exits."
That earned him a faint smile. "Good."
They stopped before a door that wasn't marked. No keypad. No biometric plate. Just black composite and a single recessed light that pulsed once when Moody approached.
It opened.
Inside was a room too honest to be comfortable.
No table. No restraints. No glass walls. Just two chairs facing each other and a recorder embedded directly into the ceiling—old-tech, isolated, unhackable.
Lena stopped just inside the doorway.
"This isn't Hellfire standard," she said.
"No," Moody replied. "This is mine."
She turned to him then, really looked at him.
"You said I don't owe you obedience."
"You don't."
"Then say it out loud," she said. "Say what this is."
Moody hesitated.
That alone told her everything.
"This is the debt," she said quietly. "Isn't it?"
He nodded once.
"You walk this road with me," he said, voice low. "You see what I see. You hear what I hear. When I ask questions, you answer them. When I open doors, you walk through them."
"And when it's done?"
"You leave," he said. "No leash. No shadow. No Hellfire file with your name on it."
Lena laughed once—sharp, humorless.
"You're lying."
Moody didn't deny it.
"You'll try," he corrected.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Lena moved forward and sat.
"Start," she said. "Before I change my mind."
Brine didn't go home.
He went to the river instead.
The city stretched out before him—lights fractured by water, movement without meaning. He stood there longer than necessary, coat forgotten, hands braced on the railing like it was the only thing holding him upright.
He replayed it all.
Her voice.
Her apology.
The way she chose debt over safety.
No—over him.
His phone vibrated once.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
>She's inside. Alive. Not free.
Brine stared at the message.
Then typed.
BRINE
>>If you hurt her—
The reply came immediately.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
>>If I hurt her, you'll never know.
That's the difference between us.
Brine crushed the phone in his hand.
For the first time in years, he didn't know where to aim his rage.
So he did the only thing left.
He called in every favor he'd never wanted to owe.
Finley slept for exactly three hours.
Then her burner vibrated.
RAFFERTY
>>You disappeared.
She stared at the ceiling, heart hammering.
FINLEY
>>I'm safe.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
RAFFERTY
>>That's not an answer.
She sat up, rain still clinging to her hair, Hellfire's symbol burned into her thoughts.
FINLEY
>>I needed leverage.
The reply took longer this time.
RAFFERTY
>>Against who?
She hesitated.
Across the city, systems ticked. Permissions recalibrated. Old flags resurfaced in quiet databases that hadn't been touched in years.
Hellfire didn't forget.
It just waited.
Finley typed.
FINLEY
>>Against the truth.
Her phone went dark.
Somewhere deep in Hellfire's core, a red process woke fully for the first time since Lena disappeared.
PRIORITY SHIFT DETECTED.
ASSETS IN MOTION.
GRAVITY WELL STRENGTHENING.
And in a room without windows, Lena leaned back in her chair as Moody asked the first question that mattered.
"Tell me," he said, voice steady, eyes sharp,
"What did your father die protecting?"
Lena closed her eyes.
And the war took its first real breath.