Above the thirtieth, the air became cleaner and colder.
The noise from below didn't lessen so much as thin out. It became a constant, like blood in the ear. The concrete changed note underfoot—less vibration, more stiff. The stairwell lamps steadied, a line of dull coins running up a groove. The building's core held its breath and counted with them.
At the thirty-third landing, Zubair checked the door. Locked. He didn't bother the handle twice. At the thirty-fifth, Elias touched the jamb and frowned. "Shear line," he said softly, like he'd run his palm over a bruise. "Nothing critical."
"Not yet," Sera said.
They passed a fire hose cabinet with the glass cracked out, the canvas snake coiled and damp. The placard above it still wore instructions in neat block letters about pulling alarms and meeting at designated assembly points. Alexei tapped the placard once with a knuckle as if it might wake up and make its promises true. It didn't.
