Ash drifted like snow.
Every step crunched grit beneath Harun's boots.
The town held its breath.
Too quiet. Too still.
He pulled the satchel strap until it bit his shoulder.
Rope. Cloth. A pocket chisel. A pouch of salt.
Enough to keep one chest breathing.
Not enough to keep a city alive.
The Mask clung to his face.
Bone pressed to skin.
Warm. Throbbing.
A second pulse under his own.
Truth: They are near.
Harun froze where two houses leaned against each other.
Threads shimmered in the lane like spider silk, only he could see.
One led toward the market.
One toward the roofs.
One into a shuttered run.
Each beat has its own rhythm.
Each has a different heart.
Bootsteps broke the silence.
A Bureau patrol turned the corner.
Four men. Grey coats buttoned to the throat.
Rifles slung. Bayonets fixed.
Their silver insignia flashed like knives.
Ash gilded their shoulders.
Their breath smoked pale.
Harun pressed flat to the shadow.
Counted the pulse in his wrist.
One passed.
The second swept the alley mouth.
The third lifted a lantern, eyes narrowing.
The fourth already had his rifle half-raised, casual, ready.
"Stop," the lantern-man said. Calm. Like a clerk weighing grain.
Harun's body locked.
The glow reached.
The Mask warmed against his cheek.
Truth: Let me breathe.
Ash groaned, loose from a gutter.
It fell like a curtain.
The lantern flickered.
The guard cursed, brushing grit from his sleeve.
Light slid away from Harun's outline.
"Damned city," the fourth muttered.
Boots resumed their rhythm.
Left. Right. Left.
Harun breathed coal-tasting air.
He peeled from the wall, ribs aching from the stillness.
Slipped into a lane that ran toward the east quarter.
The Mask pulsed faster.
Truth: The net closes.
He climbed crates and hauled himself onto a slate roof.
From above, streets spread like a map carved in soot.
Lantern arcs. Patrols looping. Paths crossing.
Not random sweeps.
A ring.
A snare tightening.
Ash stung his eyes.
He blinked—saw a second pattern glow.
Pauses. Hesitations. A limp in one man's stride.
Another person who continuously spat at the same doorway.
Another who touched his chest near the temple.
Habits glowing faintly like chalk.
Truth: They have a scent. Not yours. Theirs.
"What?" Harun whispered.
Truth: Habit is a smell. You can follow it by sight.
He traced the loops.
Marked the cracked wick that dimmed each bell toll.
The man who cut a corner short when his bladder burned.
The hungry eyes that lingered too long on a bakery door.
Harun dropped down the far side of the roof.
He landed in a courtyard where rainwater pooled black.
His reflection stared back: ragged cloak, hollow eyes, a mask where a face should be.
Like a child's rumour made flesh.
Metal clanged in the distance. Men shouted.
The wind carried the scent of grain and a hint of sweetness.
Harun's stomach twisted.
He'd smelled it in the storehouse.
Had slapped a bowl from a boy's hands.
Had scrubbed the sweetness from his mouth until his own fingers shook.
Memory made his hand twitch toward the satchel.
He forced himself to move.
Through laundry lines.
Past windows where candles died, ashamed of being seen.
The Mask leaned toward one.
Truth: Do not knock there. Grief waits.
Harun obeyed. Turned left.
The lane spat him into a square with a pump bound in wire.
A crooked sign: WATER RATION, DAWN.
A nail had scrawled a second word beneath: LIARS.
Harun smiled without humour.
He had carried buckets here in winter.
Watched clerks write his name on lists that meant less.
A bell tolled once in the west.
The sound pressed ash flat to stone.
Patrols shifted.
Lanterns halted.
Two changed course.
One hurried.
Harun crouched, listening to the rhythm ripple outward.
Truth: You can move through them if you wear their rhythm.
"How?"
Truth: Count, then step. Left. Right. Left. Pause. Left.
He tried it.
First stride—ridiculous.
Second—obvious.
Third—gone.
A patrol passed within reach.
Did not turn.
Harun's skin prickled.
He slid through them like a shadow that didn't need to hide.
A wall barred him, whitewash flaking like chalk dust.
He climbed. Dropped into a courtyard with three exits.
Two reeked of coal.
One of the sweet, bitter rot.
The Mask tightened, hot and cold.
Truth: Do not follow sweetness.
He turned into the coal reek instead.
Above him, shutters leaked dull gold.
A child coughed from the top landing of a tenement.
Harun's chest echoed it.
He had stood in those rooms, counting ribs, whispering patience mothers no longer had.
A door creaked.
He ducked back.
A man slipped out with a bucket, eyes darting.
Steam rose faintly.
The man poured two careful mouthfuls, lips never touching the rim.
Then bolted three locks behind him.
Truth: Kindness is hunted tonight.
"So is cowardice," Harun muttered.
Voices slid along the brick from the market.
The Mask's threads tugged him darker.
He saw the east gate between blackened pillars, the Bureau's office behind iron bars.
A desk. A ledger. An empty chair.
Even clerks feared the night.
He stepped into a lane—nearly onto a patrol's heel.
The Mask flared hot.
Truth: Stop.
Harun froze mid-stride.
The guard twitched, as if almost noticing.
Then shook it off. Moved on.
Harun eased his foot down without a sound.
Slipped away, throat tight.
The next street lay untouched.
Ash piled smoothly.
No prints.
He knelt and pressed his palm down. Lifted it.
A dead plant print stared back.
Truth: The ring is almost closed.
He saw the map in his head.
Circles converging. Small nets tighten into one knot.
He would be inside when it pulled tight.
The thought sank like a stone in water.
He thought of the woman with grey hair.
The parchment in his hand.
The boy who had breathed wrong.
The guards he had spared.
Mercy leaves footprints.
The Mask pulsed.
Truth: They will make you choose. Not tonight. Soon.
"Between what?" Harun whispered.
Truth: Between a breathing city and a clean one.
Snow that wasn't snow fell stubbornly from the sky.
Ash on his tongue tasted of coins and burnt bread.
The Mask exhaled faintly, like a match struck under glass.
Harun turned east.
Toward mills. Toward grain stores.
Toward sweetness that promised only death.
The net was closing.
He meant to be inside it when the jaws shut.