Kweku didn't realize how badly he was hurt until he tried to stand.
His legs straightened, then buckled, sending him back against the wall of the service alcove. Pain flared through his ribs, sharp enough to steal his breath. He pressed a hand to his side and felt heat beneath his clothes, his fingers coming away slick.
"Okay," he whispered to himself. "Slow."
The word echoed strangely in the narrow space.
He waited until his breathing settled into something manageable, then shifted again. This time he pushed up in stages—knees first, then one hand against the wall, then his shoulder. Every movement demanded attention. Every mistake punished him immediately.
When he finally stood, the world tilted.
Kweku closed his eyes and stayed still until it passed.
The alcove smelled of dust and old coolant. A thin pipe ran along the wall at shoulder height, vibrating faintly with whatever passed through it. He leaned into that vibration, grounding himself in something steady.
His arm throbbed dully, the muscles tight and uncooperative. When he rotated his shoulder, pain shot down to his fingers, making them twitch. He flexed them carefully until the shaking eased.
He checked his ribs next, lifting his shirt just enough to see bruising already spreading across his side, dark and uneven. The sight made his stomach churn.
He lowered the fabric and pressed his palm there instead.
"You can walk," he muttered. "That's enough."
It had to be.
The lower levels beneath the Reach were quieter than he remembered.
Power conduits hummed behind sealed panels. Old maintenance drones sat dormant in recessed alcoves, their shells dulled by years of neglect. The air grew cooler as he descended, the metallic tang giving way to something damp and stale.
Kweku moved slowly, favoring one side, stopping often to rest. Each step sent a dull reminder through his body of what he'd done and what it had cost.
His thoughts kept circling back to his mother.
The image of her standing in the doorway replayed over and over in his mind—her shoulders squared, her voice steady, her eyes giving nothing away. He didn't know what was happening to her now. That uncertainty gnawed at him more than the pain.
"I'll come back," he whispered. He didn't know who he was promising.
The band around his wrist remained cool, unobtrusive. He turned it absently, thumb tracing the etched markings. They felt smoother now, worn by use or familiarity.
The slate Ama had given him sat heavy in his pocket.
When he finally stopped to rest again, he slid down the wall and pulled it out. The screen flickered weakly to life, casting a dim glow across his hands.
Routes appeared—some half-corrupted, others barely legible. Layers of information overlapped, faded annotations intersecting with newer markings.
Kweku studied them carefully.
One route pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly brighter than the others. He frowned, tapping it lightly.
The image steadied.
"Of course," he murmured.
The third route.
Ama hadn't hesitated when she told him which one to follow. That meant she'd already decided what it would cost her to send him that way.
He swallowed and stood again.
Time blurred as he moved.
Sometimes he walked. Sometimes he leaned against walls, breathing through the ache until his legs steadied again. Once, he thought he heard voices echoing through the ducts overhead and froze for several long minutes before realizing it was just old air cycling through damaged vents.
Hunger crept in slowly, dull and persistent. Thirst followed soon after.
When he finally reached a junction marked with faded hazard stripes, his vision swam badly enough that he had to sit.
He slid down and rested his head against the wall, eyes closed.
His grandmother's voice surfaced then, unbidden.
Pain tells you where you are, she'd said. Ignore it and you'll get lost.
Kweku breathed and listened.
The ache in his ribs.The tight pull in his arm.The exhaustion settling deep into his legs.
Each sensation anchored him.
After a while, his breathing evened out.
He opened his eyes and pushed himself back to his feet.
By the time he reached the outer maintenance access, the lights had dimmed further, signaling a cycle shift above. The corridor opened onto a narrow platform overlooking a drop into darkness, with only a thin railing separating solid ground from empty space.
Kweku stopped there, gripping the rail with one hand.
He looked back the way he'd come.
Somewhere far above, Ama was still facing the consequences of his escape. Somewhere closer, people were searching for him, retracing steps, adjusting assumptions.
And somewhere ahead lay a path he didn't understand yet, marked by memory instead of permission.
Kweku tightened his grip on the rail and pulled himself upright.
"I'm still here," he said aloud.
The words sounded small in the open space.
They were enough.
He turned and followed the route into the dark.