The handle twitched a second time and went still.
Lex held the shot at the doorframe, a bead of pressure at his fingertip. The corridor breathed—dust and hush—but nothing pressed close. He waited a full minute, reset the chain, and crossed to the counter.
He repacked fast: duct tape, two shop towels, a pry bar wrapped in a T-shirt, and a tube of black enamel. The paint wasn't art anymore. It was light control. He slid in a spare battery for the camera, then thought better of it and devoured the dead one rather than carry weight that lied.
[DEVOUR SUCCESS. MECHANICAL SOURCE +1.]
He cracked a shutter on the balcony and tasted iron and ozone. Across Greyhaven, blackout curtains turned the skyline into a fake mountain range. Somewhere far off, something very large tested a building by pushing until the building had an opinion.
Sit and hope, or shave the risk into shape.
The maintenance room should have grease, solvent, masks, maybe a headlamp to gut for parts. He slung the pack, clipped the alarm remote to his chest, and killed the red strips. The room sank to ink. He opened the door a span and let his pupils adjust.
The corridor was charcoal. He slid out, locked up, and laid a thin tape over the keyway so a future him would read the door's state at a glance. The camera at his shoulder gathered grain and patience.
At the stairwell, he pressed the bar with a folded towel. The latch clicked. Halfway down, he froze. Something breathed below—too patient, a dry bag for a lung.
Stairwell funnels it. He sighted the corner, narrowed the Wind Cannon to a nail head, and gave it a puff.
Pfft.
Claws—or flukes—scraped concrete. The thing poured downward, not up, abandoning the stairs in an elastic scramble. A thump two floors below. Silence.
Five meters: distraction. Two: disruption. He moved on, counting steps.
Second floor. Steel door. Old paint. A sign that once warned about goggles and now warned about nothing. He worked a hacked pick. The door sighed.
Inside smelled of oil and mop water. He kept the flashlight on the floor, slow and tight. Shelves: filters, belts, a coil of rope, a crate of "fresh" batteries that weren't. He pocketed two cloth masks, half a can of black spray, a bottle of valve grease. The batteries failed the finger test—dead weight.
A board held a dozen keys like teeth: ELEC, ROOF, BOILER, GATE. He took ROOF and GATE. A triangle key hung from a lanyard. He took that too and left a blank so the absence wouldn't shout.
By the wall, a man in coveralls had sat down and never stood again. A radio blinked a dead green on his lap. Lex palmed it. The Mechanical Heart warmed.
Eat. The heat rose; static combed his scalp; the radio relaxed into powder.
[DEVOUR SUCCESS. MECHANICAL SOURCE +1. MECHANICAL DEVOUR PROFICIENCY +1.]
[BASE ATTRIBUTES UPDATE — SPEED: LV1 — 1/60]
No new skill. He dusted off his glove.
Footsteps padded past the hall, stopped at the door, then drifted away. He blacked out the reflective trim on his pack with the spray, stowed the rope and grease, and took a roll of flagging tape. Messages to himself beat memory.
On the way out he paused at the stairwell sign, a dented aluminum placard bolted to cinderblock. He aimed at a corner and tapped a half-burst. The metal clicked and peeled back a scale. Not loud. In a corridor with carpet, the sound would drown. In a tile hall, it would carry.
Note: towel on doorframe = best baffle. He wrapped a shop towel around two fingers and tried again at feather pressure. Softer. He liked softer.
On the roof, the city leaned up into him—wind, chemical night, a sound like distant hail that wasn't. He left the door notched with tape so it wouldn't latch.
Greyhaven spread in dead blues. The Black Tide had pushed another finger across the river, a bruise on the horizon. Warehouses lay to the south; beyond, the rail yard cut a black geometry across the world.
He took a knee behind an HVAC unit and glassed the yard. Track and shadow. One string of cars under a dead gantry. Another line—eight, maybe ten hoppers—sat like a thought left in the rain. The signal house wore darkness like a habit.
Two lights winked and moved—flashlights, fast and jerky, retreating. Then a horn murmured once, strangled by distance.
He let the grin stop at his teeth. Alive. Not safe. But alive.
If there's power on one line, a whisper-move might work. Signal house = maps. Maps = plan that isn't a dare. He traced streets with a thumbnail on the gravel: southbound alleys → canal bridge → warehouse roofs → yard fence. He marked each with short slashes of flagging tape pressed under stones—tiny cairns only he would read in the dark when his head got expensive.
Something heavy shuffled on a neighboring roof. He stayed low and let the HVAC hum cover him. When the sound wandered off, he reversed his way back to the stairwell.
Darkness had mass again. The smell turned metallic and damp. A door below opened an inch and stopped.
A hoarse whisper leaked up. "Anyone?" Not a mimic. Human. Dangerous for different reasons.
"Stairwell's dirty," he said, keeping his voice low. "Stay in the door. Don't breathe deep."
"Water?"
He could spare a mouthful. He could also lose the night.
"Later," he said. "North roof at first light. If you're real."
A pause. "Real," the voice said. The door settled shut.
On his floor, something uncoiled at the turn and reached with hands that weren't hands. He stepped inside the reach and fired the Wind Cannon at its throat.
Pfft. The voice box collapsed with a wet, dry sound. The thing folded. He guided it down, then kicked its wrist until the flukes stopped moving. Thirty-two seconds to still.
Two meters: disruption. Lethal threshold: unknown.
His tape on the keyway lay flat. He slid inside, locked up, and let the red strips glow.
He didn't sit. Rope and grease on the counter. Notebook open.
— ROOF: yard shows lights + horn. Survivors probable.— TOOLS: rope, grease, triangle key, masks, paint.— SKILL:Wind Cannon works for airway/eye targets. Practice silent bursts.— ROUTE: alleys → canal bridge → warehouse roofs → yard fence (triangle).— RISK: Black Tide finger advancing; unknown patrols; corridor fauna adapt.— CONTACT: stairwell voice. "Real?" Evaluate at dawn on north roof.
He checked the UI.
[MECHANICAL HEART: LV.1 — 180/500][MECHANICAL DEVOUR: PROFICIENCY +2 TODAY][BASE ATTRIBUTES][STRENGTH: LV1 — 22/50][SPEED: LV1 — 1/60][DEFENSE: LV0 — 16/30]
Two items remained: dead shaver and a desk fan with a screaming bearing. He pressed his palm to the shaver.
[DEVOUR SUCCESS. MECHANICAL SOURCE +1.][NO BONUS ATTRIBUTES.]
He set the fan on a towel, braced it, and ate that too before it could advertise itself in the night.
[DEVOUR SUCCESS. MECHANICAL SOURCE +1.]
He taped a rubbed finger, ate half a bar, and stilled. A tremor purred through the floorboards—steel on steel far south, wearing a glove of distance.
A train was moving.
He drew three boxes:
SCOUT (pre-dawn): north roof rendezvous; confirm voice; new eyes on warehouse line.
BREACH (dusk): fence via service gate (triangle); map signal house; locate power.
MOVE (night +1): test-pull a single car; measure noise envelope.
He underlined SCOUT twice. He added a fourth, smaller box he didn't like: CREW?No trust. But hands move steel. He circled it, hard, until the paper softened.
He tightened his mask straps, checked the pry bar's tape wrap, and shortened the rope into a chest coil that wouldn't snag. Small prep, big margin.
An hour before first light, the alarm resonated in his skull. He drank, shouldered the pack, killed the glow, and paused at the chain.
Same world outside. Different him—not because of numbers, but because the horn had reminded him that motion was a promise.
The chain slid back with a small, metallic apology.
He stepped into the corridor and pulled the door until the latch kissed and didn't bite.
North roof first. If the voice is bait, I cut the line. If it's a person, I decide what a train needs more—steel or people.
He took the first step up.
[MECHANICAL HEART — READY.]