Morning tasted like old metal. Sector Nine still coughed smoke into the barrier, but the market in Six tried to look alive—fruit stacked like offerings, vendors smiling with their eyes and counting with their fears.
The crooked bell coughed. A thin man in a gray coat read Antiques over the door and decided to believe it.
"Open?" he asked.
"Regrettably," I said.
He bought a cracked clock for two coins—time is cheaper before noon—and left hugging it like a rescued cat. A Helix van rolled past like a sermon. Spines straightened until it turned the corner; then the street exhaled.
The bell coughed twice. Two men. Tall and short. Calm and blinking.
"Mr. Gray," Vale said.
Kerr, the blinker, let his gaze iron the shelves. "Limited search," he said, showing a slip.
"My favorite kind," I said, stepping aside.
They didn't hurry—men who hurry apologize later. Vale's fingers hovered over the ledger without touching. Kerr touched everything else. Back hallway: a storeroom where empty boxes pretended to be stock; a closet where brooms resented each other; a plain wooden door that led to a corridor not on any map but mine.
Kerr pressed a brass disc to the lock plate. The metal hummed in my teeth.
"Inspection seal," he said. "It records tampering."
"A tattler," I said.
"It makes our jobs easier," Vale offered.
"Most things that make one job easier make another harder," I said.
They finished with the same empty hands they brought in.
"If you hear anything that keeps people safe," Vale said, "bring it to the depot."
"I'll bring a clock that ticks," I said.
Kerr tapped the disc. "If you touch this, we'll know."
"Then I won't," I said.
They left. The bell coughed. The seal hummed to itself about duty.
After the street stopped holding its breath, I pulled a stool to the hallway and stared until staring got boring. The disc was neat work: brass plate, micro-ridges, a ring of "dots" that were tiny watchers for pressure and light. Someone had oiled the rim so a thief would leave prints prying it off.
I didn't pry.
I slid a sliver of paper under the bottom lip—three hairs deep—until the hum dulled half a note. I tied a horsehair thread to the paper, ran it along the frame groove, down the jamb, under the pantry's kickplate. If anyone asked, it was dust with hobbies.
When I eased the door, the seal kept "watching" the paper while the door got on with its life. The corridor bent twice and brought me to the back room with my lies intact.
Mara sat on the table, blade across her knees, eyes a question mark. Jonas filled a corner like a boulder that had learned manners.
"They stuck a disc," Mara said.
"It tattles," I said. "Tonight it tattles about brooms."
Jonas grunted. "Remove later."
"Later," I agreed. "First we feed it a story."
We staged the room for an audience made of brass. I opened dull books about clocks. Jonas spread gears into the shape of a machine that looked like paperwork. Mara poured tea and forgot to drink it.
At midnight I tapped the paper twice—click—so the watchers thought they were still watching. For an hour we made useful noises: screwdriver slips, a soft curse about thread pitch, me asking Jonas to hold a plate, Mara reminding me the chair had opinions. Then I tapped twice again, shut the door, and let the seal dream of catching thieves.
I slept in the front chair. It pretended to be comfortable. I pretended to be tired.
Dawn peeled paint off roofs. The bell coughed. Vale stood there with a paper cup and a face undecided between kind and useful.
"Early," I said, taking the tea.
"Early is honest," he said.
"Dangerous," I said. "Tastes like policy."
"We checked the seal," he said. "Doors. A latch. Some tinkering."
"Brooms unionize at night," I said.
He almost smiled. Kerr wasn't with him. The shop felt larger.
"You're not surprised we came," he said.
"You don't visit antique shops for antiques," I said.
He glanced at the melted spoon bending light wrong. "Sometimes I do."
We listened to a vendor oversell a pear and get heckled for it. The city prefers jokes to fear when it can.
"There's a rumor," he said quietly, "that a boy taken from our depot didn't stay taken."
"Rumors are brave," I said.
"Braver than I like," he admitted. "If I find you, I'll have to take you apart with the same hands I use to hold people upright."
"Then find me slowly," I said.
He left. The bell coughed. Dust resumed its hobbies.
I lifted the horsehair, slid the paper free, and let the seal hum its small hymn. I didn't remove it. It's useful to keep something in the room that thinks it knows a thing.
Mara slipped in from the alley, hair damp with morning. "He wants to like you."
"That's his problem," I said.
Jonas tugged his sleeves down. "Fang?"
I turned the ledger. Meet tonight, Sector Three. Veyra wants the wall back. The rumor had come folded under a bread order—buttered truth.
"We go," Mara said.
"We listen," I said. "If we swing first, we hit Helix's spotlight, not Veyra's throat."
"Walls listen badly," Jonas said. "We listen better."
I inked the page: Helix at the door. Seal set. Story fed. Vale sees shape, not face. Fang gathers in Three.
No hum. No pulse. Just a plan and the day moving forward because it insists.
Umbra stayed a whisper. For now.
---
Author's Note (Relic):
Inspection Seal (Helix, Uncommon Tech Relic): Adhesive brass disc that logs door state and pressure/light changes to detect tampering. Hard to remove cleanly; best beaten by redirecting the sensors (shim + thread) and feeding it a harmless story.