We get fifteen minutes of sleep and a summons.
BOARD REVIEW — HEARING ROOM 4 — 08:00.
Kade sits like the chair came standard. Beside him: two auditors, a city lawyer whose smile shows teeth, and a screen looping our body-cam—lattice glow, gel rounds, my big blue Kein Chalk arrows.
"Your zone tags were valid," the lawyer says. "Your use of Ken was restrained." He means Juno didn't break any jaw, he'll explain to a councilman.
Kade steeples his fingers. "Civil Ops was present. Good." He turns to Ariad, blandly. "Under what authority did you allow non-city contractors to brace a public conduit?"
"Mine," Ariad says. "It was failing while we stood there."
"Mm." He clicks a pen, then the remote. My Chalk X fills the screen. "Nice drawing. Looks… instructive."
"It kept feet right," I say.
"It also tells saboteurs where to cut," he says.
"Then stop them," Ariad says before I can make it worse.
The lawyer clears his throat. "Marrow Bridge has a scheduled pump this morning." Scroll, scroll. "Three outages in ten days, double-billing on brace work. Dry-run your cooperation there. Officially."
Translation: do what you did—more cameras, less freedom.
"Go," Kade says. His look clips to me. "And, Dilhevia—stay off off-book channels." His eyes add what his mouth doesn't: I know about Zann.
We roll.
⸻
Marrow Bridge is a steel spine and two concrete hips over the river's mouth. Traffic groans. Underneath, the old city leaks.
We tag the south abutment: UNDER-BRIDGE INSPECTION — SAFETY PRIORITY. Zone flips. Juno breathes easier once the placard pings live. Laws are her armor; they're also a target. People film less when orange tags rattle in the wind.
Ariad spreads an actual paper plan on the van hood. Lines, loads, little numbers.
"City spec braces the west plate with straight pulls," she says. "The lattice crew pulled diagonals instead. Better—until this joint—" tap "—takes weird stress at low tide."
"Kein Chalk it," I say.
"Not yet." She points under the span. "We mark while we move. Mia, geophones every ten meters on the south slab. Juno—bolts. Kanon—eyes and lies." Translation: Use Gaze Trap and baits when I must, not because I'm bored.
We descend maintenance stairs. The hum's here too—higher, tense, like a wire that forgot how to relax.
Lark circles, then perches under the belly of the bridge, glass gull eye staring.
"Two trucks on the east shoulder," Mia says in our ears. "One tarp, one honest. Tarp boys are reading our tag and pretending to leave. Honest crew is actually honest and confused."
"Keep them confused," Juno says. "We'll use them later."
We move along the catwalk. Ariad calls brace points; I draw thin Kein Chalk arrows where she taps. City crew watches from the rim, squinting at lines only we can see. They'll steal it later. Good.
Mia pauses over a pitted plate. "Salt-gel signature here. Old. Somebody tested this spot."
"Testing eats bolts," Ariad says. "They're soft already. Juno?"
Juno presses her palm, sends Ken through a bolt like a question. "Threads are tired. Two turns before lie."
"Replace later," Ariad says. "Walk now."
A man in an orange vest leans over the rail. "You can't be down there without—"
Juno holds up our tag copy in a plastic sleeve without looking. He sees it. Leaves.
Mia's voice tightens. "Three men coming over the east guardrail. 'City' vests. New boots, old helmets. Tube out."
"Gel," I say.
"Tube man is new," she adds. "Not the puker. Moves like he's actually trained."
"On me," Juno says. "We keep bracing until they make us stop."
They try fast. A gel round pops high on the south plate and runs down, smoking. Ariad shoves the Anchor Gun into my chest and points. "High line. Now."
I plant, fire. The spike bites. She clips, pulls, sets a triangle city spec that would never bless, and nods. "Chalk." I draw bold arrows. It costs a trickle. It saves a life.
"Left," Mia hisses. "Flanker on the beam."
He drops from the side like he owns steel. Mask, mirrored visor—anti-gaze—and a short baton he loves. He settles weight through his heels like a Ken-trained pro.
He slides my way without hurry. I throw a cheap Phantom Steel scrape right. He doesn't bite—saw the Pier Four footage or had a good teacher. He takes an angle that pins me between a lattice-wrapped plate and the river.
"Juno?" I say.
"Busy," she says—and is. She rides the tarp truck's hood again, Ken through metal, palm on the tube, melting a grip. Ariad is three hands and a mind, tying, firing, calling. Mia is a voice, and Lark's cruel strobe.
So: me and the visor.
He taps his baton against the beam. Ken thrums down steel—a cheap trick to numb hands if you're holding on. I let go before my fingers lie and drop into a low crouch.
He steps in. I try a Gaze Trap anyway—mirrored visor blanks it. He smiles under the mask like he knows he stole my favorite toy.
I hate him. Useful.
I cut my eyes to his feet. He's light on his toes—speed wins, until you change where speed can go.
I drag my katana along the plate—long, ugly screech. He doesn't look. Good for him. But his baton's Ken hums detunes when the structure vibrates. Noise fouls his feedback for a breath.
I step left, edge on, flick the blade flat at his knee—Cutting Channel pulse like a kiss. He reads it, drops weight, takes it on the shin, not the tendon. Smart.
He swings for my shoulder. I turn with it, take the hit on the coat, ride it through. Arm goes hot, then cold. Bruise later.
He tries to crowd me river-side. The lattice at my back hums alive when he presses me into the plate. Not today. I keep the word I won't say out of my mouth.
"Tube down," Juno says in my ear. "Two runners."
"Lark on runners," Mia says.
Visor pushes, baton low, trying to trap my blade. I let him. He thinks I need it for free. I don't.
I raise my empty left hand and give him Gaze Trap through his visor.
It shouldn't work. It does, a little.
Mirrors beat eyes; they don't beat habit. He trained to avoid my gaze; he still reads his world through eye lines. I throw a micro-pattern at the system behind the mirror—edges and corners. I move the catwalk's lip half an inch in him, not in space.
He short-steps. A blip. Enough.
I twist the trapped blade, slide it under his baton, and lever. Metal screams. His wrist pops. He grunts; the baton flies. I kick it into the river because petty is a tool.
He reaches for my belt—cut a clipline, own a fall.
I slice his glove open instead. Cold skin, colder swear.
I shouldn't, but I do: a fast, hard Ken pulse along my blade—Cutting Channel clean across his Achilles. He drops, leg gone soft.
"Down," I tell him. He stays. Pros know when a job changes.
"Brace," Ariad says behind me, and I turn to her pattern.
Three points set around the south plate—exotic, elegant, the sort of geometry a professor laughs at until a building refuses to fall.
"Chalk," she says.
The tide turns; the hum drops a note—and the bridge decides whether it likes our plan.