Chapter 3

Night had fully fallen, and I kept the headlights down to the lowest setting.

The wind across the open flats had turned colder. Grit peppered the windshield with a fine, constant tapping.

From far off came the occasional gunshot—never in a steady burst—like someone was driving something away, or like someone was wasting the few rounds they had left.

At last the outline of Dawnlight Base came into view. The walls were the same height and line I remembered, but there was noticeably less light along the top.

Back then the watchtowers’ spotlights swept the perimeter in a fixed rhythm, turning the wasteland bone-white every few minutes. Now only a few beams wandered around, angles sloppy, timing inconsistent.

A vehicle was too conspicuous here. I stopped well short of the wall, rolled the truck into a dried drainage trench, and threw a tarp and weeds over it, making sure no glare would catch a tower’s eye.

I went the rest of the way on foot, stepping on hard ground whenever I could so my boots wouldn’t rattle the loose stones.

Up close the decay was clearer. There used to be two rows of steel stanchions outside the North Gate and a quarantine corridor where convoys queued and registered. Now half that corridor had collapsed, the wire mesh had been “repaired” with a couple of lazy wraps, and the guard booth held nothing but a slumped silhouette dozing off.

Dawnlight had two gates—by design. I had drawn that layout myself.

The North Gate was the main one: visitors, convoy traffic, inspection and quarantine. The East Gate was the cargo gate: field teams, supply trucks, ore haulers—closest to the storage district for quick turnover.

Each gate used to run at least two shifts, with tower watch and ground patrol rotating by the hour. Now the lights were sparse, posts had gaps, and the patrol routes looked like they’d been thrown together at the last minute.

I kept to the wall’s shadow, moving along the outside and down a gravel slope into a shallow low spot.

There, hidden under scattered debris, was a drainage outlet. I crouched and felt along the cover’s edge until my fingertips found a shallow mark—two short lines pressed inside a triangle. A sign I had made years ago.

The cover was heavy, but the mechanism was simple.

I wedged the back of my knife into the seam, levered carefully, and lifted it a little at a time.

I slipped inside and eased the cover back into place. Darkness swallowed me immediately.

The tunnel was tight. It had been built for drainage and maintenance, and when I designed it I’d planned for the worst: the gates seized, the registry locked down, someone inside turning traitor. If that day came, command needed at least one route in and out that didn’t rely on anyone’s permission.

The route still existed. That meant Vera and Marcus either never found it, or found it and dismissed it.

I went a few dozen feet in. The mud underfoot grew slick. At the third junction, a side passage opened on the right with a faint smell of machine oil—this was the branch that ran closer to the storage district.

Minutes later I climbed a vertical shaft, pushed up the hatch, and raised my head. Cold air mixed with a trace of smoke rushed in.

The ground in the storage district was dirtier than I expected. Uncovered piles of trash sat in the corners.

Farther off, under a set of weak lights, a line of people stretched out—long and quiet, like a gray snake.

Some held bowls with gruel so thin you could see the bottom. Some carried children whose heads lay against their shoulders, barely moving.

A few guards stood beside the line. Their clothes were clean. Their rifles hung casually. In their hands, though, were meat tins and bread.

They didn’t look at the line. They joked with each other and occasionally kicked an empty can on the ground, like a reminder to the lower tier to keep their distance.

There used to be clerks beside the ration point. Now there was only private-soldier laziness and a quiet, accepted split in treatment.

I stayed in the shadows and waited for a patrol to pass the corridor entrance.

“Patrol” was generous. There were three of them, strolling without a formation, muzzles pointed at the ground. As they walked past, I even caught the smell of alcohol.

Once they turned the corner and disappeared, I crossed the open stretch quickly, moved along the warehouse wall, and avoided the pools of light.

I needed to find the old crew—split up, disarmed, worked like labor.

I followed a narrow path along the outside of the storage district. After a row of abandoned shelving, I caught the glow from the East Gate direction: an open yard half enclosed by the wall, the ground packed hard with tire tracks and drag marks. Four characters had been painted in white—East Gate Freight Yard.

It used to be the unloading area just inside the cargo gate, close to the warehouses: field returns went straight into storage, and ore and fuel from the mines could be moved quickly to the workshops.

Now it looked like a rough transfer station. A temporary awning leaned to one side. Under it sat sacks, crates, and bundles of metal pipes tied with wire. A few stripped vehicle frames had been shoved into the corner.

A dozen laborers sat near the awning to rest. Some wiped sweat with their sleeves. Some bent over coughing. Their hands were split and bleeding from work.

A roll-call board stood at the edge of the yard, paper strips nailed to it with numbers and destinations: Warehouse. Workshop. East Gate Ramp. Ore Pile.

I scanned the workers, my gaze stopping on faces only for an instant each, until I saw a familiar shape in the corner—broad shoulders still, but the back a little more bent. He sat steady, and even at rest he held himself like he could stand at a second’s notice. His fingers tapped lightly on his knee, as if counting time.

Raymond.

He sat alone with his eyes closed. No guard hovered over him. No one sat close enough to be called company.

I walked over and said his name. “Raymond.”

He opened his eyes. Caution first, then a blank unfamiliarity.

He studied my face, as if searching memory for a match and finding nothing.

His voice stayed low, worn with fatigue. “What do you want?”

I crouched so we were level. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Raymond’s eyes swept over my gate-guard uniform, the washed-out sleeves, like I was someone who shouldn’t have stepped into this place.

He didn’t answer. He shook his head faster instead. “Don’t talk like that here.”

I held his gaze. “I have weapons. I can get you out. Are you coming or not?”

His throat worked, like he wanted to curse me for being crazy, or like he was forcing down an impulse.

He finally pushed out a question in a harsh whisper. “Do you even know where you are?”

Right then, footsteps stopped outside the awning.

A guard walked in carrying a baton, wearing the usual look of practiced contempt.

He glanced at Raymond, then his eyes landed on me, like he’d found a stray dog in the wrong yard.

“Well, look at that,” he said loudly, making sure everyone could hear. “Isn’t this the night gate watch? Shouldn’t you be standing at the North Gate? What are you doing in the East Gate yard?”

The workers stiffened all at once. No one dared lift their head.

He took a step closer and tapped the ground with his baton, tone like he was calling names. “Standing that close to Raymond—what is it? Want something from him? Or want him to speak for you?”

He leaned in, the smile turning sharper. “I’ve heard about you, too. You stand your post like a good boy, but your eyes wander. Always staring toward the command building. When Miss Vera walks by, your gaze follows her and you forget what ‘rules’ even are.”

“Take a look at yourself. One word from her and someone else wears your uniform. If she’s in a bad mood, nobody even asks where you get sent.”

That was when I understood. Nolan hadn’t just been unlucky, and he hadn’t made a small mistake.

He’d looked at Vera—and Vera and Marcus had crushed him for it without effort.

Raymond stood up and put himself between me and the guard, voice rough and heavy. “He’s just passing through. Don’t start trouble.”

The guard’s eyes went cold immediately. He lifted the baton and pointed it at Raymond. “You think a numbered laborer gets to talk? What, you still think you’re part of the old field teams?”

Raymond didn’t step back. He raised his forearm and blocked the swing head-on.

The baton struck his arm with a dull thud.

I looked at the hand Raymond had lifted in front of me—thick knuckles, old scar tissue still visible. He didn’t recognize me, but his body had moved anyway. Instinct.

That was enough.

I lifted my eyes to the guard and spoke quietly, the words scraping out like metal on concrete.

“Move.”

The guard froze for a beat, then his grin widened into something uglier. “What did you say?”

I leaned forward slightly. “Move.”

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