He was dying.
Shaal knew it the moment his legs buckled, and his back slammed into the cold metallic door. Pain roared through him. He scanned for cameras or drones - nothing. Good.
With shaking hands, he tore off his mask. Stale tunnel air scraped his lungs, each breath still a knife. Blood poured from the hole in his side and the bash on his head, soaking through his TI jacket until it clung like a second skin. His red hair, matted and dark, was almost the same color as the mess on his ribs.
"RUN, DAMN IT!"
Archis's voice still echoed.
Archis. His sister. His only family.
Now in a cage.
He was a wanted man. The government wanted him dead. The union? Deader. One for secrets, one for revenge — both happy to see him gone.
Shaal fumbled through his jacket and pulled a battered medical kit, half-soaked in his own blood. Kneeling, he wrapped the bandages tight, muscle memory guiding his hands. Shelves of mops and bleach confirmed it this is a cleaning supply room. Perfect.
"God, it hurts," he muttered, using his teeth to knot the bandage. From his pocket came a handkerchief and a bottle of chloroform.
Minutes later, the door creaked open.
Through the gap, dim light spilled in — along with a janitor humming to himself. He stepped inside, sorting bottles on the shelves.
The door clicked shut.
Cloth smothered his face before he even turned. His arms were yanked back, legs swept out from under him.
His eyes darted to the attacker — the gas mask, the carved ape face. North mercenary. Union's chicken they are searching, like a mad dog for him.
'Why the hell was he here?'
"N-Nilgiri…" he choked, hoping the name would buy him a second.
It didn't. A cold cloth pressed harder, the stench of chloroform filling his lungs.
Darkness claimed him.
A moment later, Shaal stepped over the unconscious man and tugged the janitor's cap low over his brow. The uniform hung loose on his frame, but from a distance, it'd pass.
He opened the door and walked out — movements slower, more deliberate.
He kept his head low, face and red hair shadowed by the cap, as he made his way down to the utility chamber on the lower floor.
Hot air slammed against him as he passed beneath the industrial vent—dry and stifling without the mask.
'Weird being on a mission without the mask,' Shaal thought, adjusting the collar of the borrowed uniform.
Footsteps echoed ahead—two men. One in round glasses with a brown trench coat and another in a high-ranking workers uniform.
"Zai, you know we can't push the strike this early. We need more time." the man in the workers uniform said, massaging his temple.
Shaal's mind snagged on the name 'The Workers' Association...? What the hell are they doing here?'
"Time we don't have. In three days, the rebels and the union are going to sign that contract."
Shaal kept his pace steady, slipping past them without looking up. His eyes briefly met with the man in trench coat -Zai's—just for a second. Then Shaal looked away, playing the part, just another background face in overalls. Still, he could feel the man in the trench coat staring.
"Give me two days, Zai. I'll try to set things up."
Shall felt stare lifting off him.
"The sooner the better." he replied as if it was another Tuesday.
Shaal continued to make his way till reached the double doors to the utility room. As his hand brushed the handle, a voice called out behind him—the man in the workers uniform.
"Hey, Jill. Clean the monitoring room after you're done with the platform."
"Yes, sir," Shaa took a moment to reply but nailed the bored tone effortlessly.
As Shaal turned slightly, careful not to meet workers eyes as he caught a flicker of a smirk tugging at Zai's mouth subtle and deliberate. then, almost casually, Zai nudged the man beside him and steered him away just before they rounded the corner, Zai looked back and mouthed a single word—Vouch
Shaal's eyes narrowed.
that word meant a lot in mercenary code—it wasn't just a favor, it was a debt
one man covers for another, and the debt gets repaid—no questions, no delays
What stuck with him wasn't just the vouch—it was how easily Zai had seen through the disguise. that man sure has sharp instincts, no doubt about that.
If Shaal had to guess—probably someone high up in the Workers' Association.
That would explain how he could talk about strikes so freely inside a government facility.
Too bad for him, Shaal thought grimly, that vouch would not be useful—not with someone like me
without another glance, he turned back and pushed the door open
The platform inside stretched above a vast network of massive pipes, thick and rusted, carrying water and waste through the city's underbelly. The air was damp, and the sound of rushing liquid echoed up through the metal.
He moved quickly down the stairs, flashlight in hand, eyes wandering everywhere to search
It didn't take long to find the one he needed: A7, boldly stamped onto a circular plate.
This pipe was blocked on the city's side, making it relatively dry. He twisted off the cap, slipped inside.
It was dark and foul-smelling inside, the air thick with dust that clung to his boots—but at least it was dry.
The sound of rushing water echoed loudly. He quickly threw away the uniform and was back in his tactical gear and jacket.
He glanced at the map on his wristwatch before heading south. A faint light flickered a few meters ahead, and the roar of water grew louder with each step.
The tunnel opened into the main drain—a massive pit where rusted pipes vomited steaming, chemical-laced water into the river below. It was colossal — enough to make Shaal feel like an ant. The air hit him like a punch, thick and humid, burning his throat like cheap liquor.
He checked the wristband. The signal blinked it was distant, but alive. The only way forward was over an endless drop. Below, toxic waters twisted and snapped like something alive, waiting to tear him apart.
No turning back. Not now. One foot was already in the grave.
He stepped back. Breathed in deep.
Archis's first cry flashed through his mind — small, fragile, furious at the world. Then the memory of that devil's handshake, the moment he sealed both their fates.
Exhale.
Run.
One step. Two.
Jump.
The world punched him in the chest — heat, wind, noise — all screaming past as seconds shredded into nothing. The water rushed up, a hungry maw.
He shut his eyes before the impact, and the memories came — tearing loose, dissolving into smoke.
Voices were taunting in a childish agony—sharp, childish, too familiar—cut through the haze like broken glass.
He was ten again.
Small. Curled up on some alley floor, it was a memory there was nothing to change.
The coward. The snitch. The boy who gave up his father.
They don't know a thing, he thought bitterly. Just mindless fools. They'll be the first to lose their heads when the inevitable happens.
Then came the voice he clung to like a lifeline.
"Back off, you little rats, or I'll break your teeth and feed 'em to you."
Archis. Eight. Bloody knuckled. Fury in a crooked braid.
She burst into the circle like a grenade, shoving one of the boys hard enough to knock him on his ass.
The rest scattered like mice.
(In their defense, she was the youngest member in the rebels. Rebels didn't take in hatchlings.)
Always her. Always standing between him and the world.
She didn't look at him right away—just glared at the cowards until their footsteps faded.
Then she turned. Her face, unreadable—jaw set, eyes sharp.
And what he saw in her gaze was pity.
"Get up, Shaal. Stop crying."
She didn't wait for a reply.
Already walking. Already expecting him to follow.
He loved her but sometimes as if he was the one in her shadow despite being older
"Why are you here?"
His voice cracked. He curled in on himself.
She paused. Glanced back.
"Shouldn't you be more grateful?" she said flatly, arms crossed.
He didn't know what she saw on his face, but she was quick to change her tone.
"C'mon. Let's get ice cream. You're paying."
He blinked at her through tears and bruises.
"I got beat up to save them…"
"And I saved you. So we're even."
"No. We're getting onions. I'm making fried rice"
She grinned, a crooked but familiar grin.
Then she grabbed his sleeve and dragged him down the street toward the corner shop with a dripping cooler
In the end they got ice cream that was melted and a dinner with plain rice.
That was Archis.
Fists first. Feelings later.
And he loved her.
More than he ever said.
More than he ever got to.