Dawn makes the harbor look honest. It isn't.
We tag Pier Four with a bright orange placard: UNDER-STRUCTURE INSPECTION — SAFETY PRIORITY. That's the legal switch. Inside the tagged zone, Ken-touch and other tools are lawful. Outside, they're a felony. Juno lives inside those lines.
"Tide's at nadir in thirteen," Mia says. Harness on, tablet clipped, hair twisted under a hard hat. "We've got forty minutes before the bite."
She pops the case on the Anchor Gun—a city tool that fires steel spikes into timber or concrete so you can clip safety lines. Mia rebuilt ours with a recoil break and better bolts.
"Two lines," Juno says. "Red is mine, blue is Kanon's. Clip high. Move slow."
The hum is already here, faint, like bass behind a wall.
We harness up. Juno shoulders the gun, plants the first spike into a joist—thunk—tests. Solid. She clips in, drops to the ladder, boots thudding.
I follow. Under the pier are ribs and shadow and the slap of water. Barnacles have their own city. It smells like old rope, rust, and something electrical.
Mia kneels at the edge, feeds the line, lowers a puck onto the planks, and closes her eyes. "Geophone," she says for me. "Vibration mic. Tells us what the pier hears."
"What does it hear?"
"Three notes," she grimaces. "Same as the anonymous clip. Regular pattern. Man-made."
"Not ours," Juno says.
"Not ours," Mia confirms. "Please don't fall."
"Don't intend to," Juno says, humorless.
We inch along, bracing like ants. Tide's out; pylon slick near water, dry higher. I sketch a hair-thin Kein Thread along a beam—only our visors see it. Breadcrumbs in bad light. Cheap if I keep it thin.
At the third pylon, I see it: a lattice at the base. Not rope. Not epoxy. A net of dark-glass shimmer when the water moves, gone when it stills. Heat mirage on wood.
"It's back," I say.
Juno plants a gloved hand above the wet line. She doesn't press Ken—she tests like a climber. The wood hums under her palm. She takes it away, quickly.
"Don't touch that," she tells herself.
Mia whispers in our ears. "No heavy permits for lattice in sixty days. City spec is fiber bands and epoxy, not…whatever that is."
"Can you sample it?" Juno asks.
"Not with tools I'm proud of," Mia says. "I can chisel a chip and pretend we didn't."
"Do it," Juno says. "Fast."
Pressure blooms behind my eyes. A faint click rides the water slosh. Juno raises a fist. Freeze.
Two shapes move three pylons down. Wetsuits. Low masks. Hook knives strapped to thighs. They move like they belong in cramped space—knees wide, toes careful. The lead one glances at our cliplines.
"Divers," I breathe.
Juno's fist dips—on me—then points left—flank. Training drill, now with a humming mystery underfoot.
I slide the crossbeam, blade low. I cup two fingers; a dark pocket blooms around my hand—Kein Mute, a tiny sound-sink. It eats my foot scuff. It collapses if I get greedy.
The lead diver reaches for my blue line, knife ready to shave it. Drop me and let the harness pendulum me into the lattice? Maybe. Maybe he doesn't know what it is.
I whistle once. He looks up. Clear mask—not mirrored. Water beads inside. Half a second: enough.
Gaze Trap. I nudge the beam's edge an inch in his head. He thinks the gap is wider.
He steps wide. His boot hits nothing. Knee slams beam. Pain eats balance.
I break Mute and throw a Phantom Steel scrape right. His partner lunges toward the sound with a hook knife—disciplined, still human.
Juno slides in from that side, hand like a vise on his elbow. Ken Disrupt floods the limb. The hook knife clatters, clangs, ricocheting under the deck.
The lead recovers fast. He rolls his shoulder and shaves a whisper off my clipline sheath. Harness goes light for one sick second.
I kick his ankle. He's planted; the kick tells him I'm there.
Fine. Cutting Channel—one breath, one pulse along my blade. I angle low and tap the tendon above his heel. The edge carries more bite than a touch cut should. He gasps to a knee.
Mia inhales in my ear. "Two more pings—eastward. Fast."
"Of course," I mutter.
Juno twists her opponent into a timber, small motion, big thud. He tries to cast in her face—sloppy finger-lines—and she smears his pattern with a forearm across his biceps. Ken ruins fine motor when you mean it. He whimpers, quits being clever.
The lead lunges low for my belt. I flare the Kein Thread bright across his eyes for a beat—reflex blink. The trap sinks. I move the pylon two inches in his head. He shifts wide and shoulder-checks wood. His knife sparks.
He smiles anyway. He's enjoying this. "You don't know what you're standing on," he says—the line from last night.
"Say something new," I tell him, and rap his wrist with the katana's spine. Knife drops.
Juno plants him with a palm to the collarbone and zip-bands both wrists. Plastic jerks as he tests; stops when it doesn't snap.
The other two shapes arrive late, see their friends tied, and freeze—smarter than the first pair. They back into the shadows.
"Don't," Juno says. They go anyway, deeper, where the lattice makes light syrup-thick.
Mia's voice tightens. "Heads up. Boat on approach, no tag, kill switch off. Coming in quietly to the east ladders."
"Spook them?" Juno asks.
"Working," Mia says. Metal clanks above—a ladder someone doesn't want heard. "I can drop Lark on their bow and make them hate life."
"Do it," Juno says.
She looks at me. "We take one up. Then we go deeper."
The idea tastes wrong. Deeper means closer to the lattice. But that's why we came.
We clip a secondary onto the prisoner and frog-march him along braces. He staggers like a pro—eyes never touch the shimmer. He knows what not to touch.
"What is it?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Not for you."
"Then for whom?"
He reads my badge. "Not you."
"Boat?" Juno asks.
"Ten seconds," Mia says. "And—"
Ending hook: "—they're here," Mia finishes, as a hull kisses the ladders and the pier hum climbs a note.