At three in the morning, the environment had its own set of challenges. The rocks were slick and treacherous, filmed with moisture that turned every step into a calculated risk. The air was heavy with the rot of sea growth—brine and decay clinging to the damp night. Above, the moon hung too bright, casting an almost unnatural glow that helped less than it hurt. Mimi’s new night-vision “ability”—not something innate like the powers of Heroes, Demis, and Gods, but a feature of her mask—kept fighting the moon’s luminance. Still, in moments like this, it didn’t feel like equipment. It felt like hers.

  A rustle crackled through the communicator integrated into her mask, breaking the stillness.

  “You ready, little bird? T-minus twenty minutes. Locate our mole and find the inspection crew. The mole’s description was uploaded to your communicator. Look for a notification labeled The Mole the Merrier.”

  “On it.”

  Mimi stood with one hand gripping the Gate’s foundation and let out a sigh of relief that had nothing to do with the mission. She pinched the fabric between her cheeks and tugged. Thank Apollo and Artemis, she thought. That was the deepest wedgie of my life. Chuckles came over comms, but she didn’t care. The relief was worth an ass-pick in front of the crew—at least it wasn’t a vedgie. That would’ve been unforgivable.

  The Tri-Dominance uniform was less than ideal—especially since it seemed to have shrunk after being dried wrong, clinging in all the most inconvenient places. Mimi had never liked uniforms. Anything that valued looking crisp over moving fast was suspicious by default, and this one proved it.

  The knee-high boots were the one mercy: waterproof, grippy, made for ship work. The pants, though… those belonged in a temple service, not a stealth op. Prim. Pressed. Begging to be ruined.

  At her waist: a silenced semi-auto for quiet work, a flare gun with two spares, and a flash-bang for when quiet stopped being an option. Ellia had also handed her a linen sack—discreetly filled with chaos and ISO shards.

  Under everything, Mimi wore a thin black hoodie to hide her identity—mostly to hide the mask strap. Over that: a loose button-up with decent mobility… until Tri regulations forced it be tucked in. And over that, the worst part—a canvas-like jacket, water resistant, fleece-lined, and stiff as punishment, hanging just below her knees like a trench coat.

  Perfect—if you wanted to scale a wall with an anchor strapped to your spine.

  Hoisting her foot toward a stone just above knee height, Mimi immediately felt the problem. The pants didn’t give. She forced her leg higher, fabric biting into her thigh, threatening to tear if she pushed it any further. Swearing silently, she adjusted—smaller steps, tighter control.

  Up she went. One leg. Then the other. Push. Pull. Repeat.

  Four cycles in, she was nearly level with the docking platform when her jacket betrayed her. The trailing hem snagged under her boot. Her footing vanished.

  She slipped.

  Both hands slapped against the stone as she caught herself, arms locking hard while her legs swung uselessly beneath her. The momentum yanked at her shoulders, fire blooming in her muscles as she fought it down. After a breathless second, the sway died.

  Quietly, she reset.

  Her hood narrowed her vision, forcing her to move by feel. She groped along the stone until the toe of her boot found a narrow lip. She eased her weight onto it, fingers unclenching inch by inch. Relief surged through her as the tension bled from her hands—followed immediately by a tremor as her arms protested the effort.

  This is nothing, she told herself.

  It was nothing compared to the bone-deep shaking brought on by Artemis’s mark. Or Apollo’s. Or whatever those symbols truly were.

  The thought steadied her.

  Accounting for the breeze, the drag of her coat, the slickness of the stone, Mimi climbed again—every movement deliberate, every breath measured. The wall yielded a little at a time.

  At last, she reached the block beneath the ledge.

  She let herself hang, walked her feet up the wall until her body folded into a vertical crouch, then pulled. Slowly. Carefully. Her hooded head crested the edge.

  The moon slipped behind the port walls, then vanished beneath a passing cloud.

  Mimi toggled her night vision.

  The world snapped into green.

  A quiet, breathless wow escaped her. She’d used the feature before—on the way to the desalination plant—but this was different. This was real. The night unfolded into clarity, her brain filling in colors instinctively beneath the monochrome wash.

  Smooth cement walls sloped sharply toward the docks below, pale even through the filter. The angle reminded her of the unfinished dam on Delos’s eastern side—abandoned when war swallowed the world and redirected every resource toward killing instead of building.

  What a waste.

  Her communicator rustled softly in her ear.

  She froze, every muscle locking in place.

  “Is the coast clear?” Ellia asked.

  Another rustle cut across the line, and Tinga’s voice slipped in.

  “Sixteen minutes until Herme clears the gate. You need to move. No telling what delays you’ll hit.”

  As if summoned by her words, engines rumbled to life across the port.

  “There’s Murphy,” Ellia said. “Right on schedule.”

  Mimi’s heart kicked hard against her ribs.

  She had earned her feather.

  Now she had to prove she deserved it.

  “Coast is clear,” she said. “Moving to first target.”

  No reply came back.

  She didn’t wait for one.

  Mimi hauled herself up and broke left along the wall, boots whispering over stone. A twenty-yard stretch separated Delos from open sea. Below, a metal grating platform clung to the wall, a staircase running up to a door framed by two black, circular windows.

  Maintenance exit, she recalled.

  The crew would come through there to update Herme’s digital log depending on what side of the gate they decided to conduct the boarding.

  She scanned the wall toward the gate. No guards. Which meant either she was very lucky—

  —or the Tri’s were very careless…or too comfortable.

  At the center of each wall segment rose a square cement tower, climbing above the fortifications like a clenched fist. Two towers. Between them, the sea gate itself.

  Right where the mole was supposed to be working.

  Mimi swallowed. If he’d already pushed deeper into the facility, she’d lose her chance to link up. Timing mattered. Coordination mattered. This entire plan balanced on thin margins.

  A flicker of light drew her attention toward Delos. A ship powering up.

  Her gaze slid to the massive metal cleats across the water—five yards above the surface, built for leviathans, not skiffs. She pulled up Ellia’s map and felt her stomach drop.

  Herme was enormous.

  It would dock there—outside the port, opposite her position.

  Which meant a choice.

  And choices were where people proved who they were—at least according to mother.

  Board before the maintenance crew arrived and take them out onboard…

  or confront them in the room directly above her. Guess it all depends on the update Ellia sent.

  Mimi opened the file marked THE MOLE THE MERRIER.

  Panic prickled.

  The mole was stationed at the top of the facility. Above the sea gate. The route between them was a blank—no schematics, no clean path, just unknowns stacked on unknowns.

  First mission, she thought.

  First real test.

  If she failed now—if she froze, hesitated, chose wrong—what did her feather mean?

  Mimi closed the file and exhaled slowly.

  She’d promised Ellia she’d do anything for this family.

  Not someday.

  Not when it was easy.

  Now.

  Her grip tightened on the stone as doubt burned away, replaced by something steadier.

  Resolve.

  Mimi drew a slow breath and forced herself to still.

  Panic wouldn’t help.

  Thinking would.

  She ran through her options quickly.

  She could call the team and have them clear the room above her—fast, brutal, risky. Any alarm there would ripple straight through the port. But if they took it clean, they’d control the choke point and maybe even snag a layout of the armory.

  Or—

  She could try to reach the mole from inside the wall. Unlikely. The schematics were thin, and guessing wrong paths inside a fortified gate was a good way to disappear.

  Which brought up the real question.

  Why did she need to meet the mole at all?

  He was already inside. Already moving. Ellia had told him to board the ship. If he couldn’t manage that on his own, they had bigger problems than timing.

  Mimi’s gaze drifted upward.

  A bird cut silently across the darkness.

  Her breath caught.

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  “I’m an idiot. A brilliant idiot.”

  Of course.

  They hadn’t been given an eye in the sky.

  They’d melded with one.

  She closed her eyes and the world fell away.

  She slipped into the void she’d touched before—the quiet place behind thought, behind language. Darkness stretched out, endless and soft, until a light bloomed ahead of her. Orange. Blue. Intertwined.

  Ellia.

  Comforting. Steady.

  But where—

  A pulse struck her mind like a sudden gust.

  Mimi’s awareness snapped upward.

  High above, a faint glow circled the gate—small as a firefly, precise as a blade. The Raven.

  Her chest loosened.

  There you are.

  She didn’t speak. Didn’t force it. She imagined.

  The Raven spiraling wider.

  Its sight slipping between shadows.

  Guards flaring briefly into focus—then fading as it passed.

  The gate mapped from above, clean and quiet.

  The light brightened in response, banking sharply through the darkness of her mind.

  Acknowledgment.

  Mimi opened her eyes.

  Time to move.

  “All clear. No guards on this side of the dock,” Mimi whispered into the comm. “I’m directly below the maintenance exit. Once Herme docks, it might be our only window. We should neutralize them from this side—or inside. You won’t get another chance. Can you handle that?”

  The words came out fast. Too fast.

  Only after she finished did she realize she was breathing hard.

  That’s… new, she thought.

  “Roger that,” Ellia replied without hesitation.

  A beat.

  Then, more measured: “Do you have a headcount?”

  “Not exactly,” Mimi admitted.

  Another pause. Longer this time.

  “You’re sure the upper wall’s clean?” Ellia asked. “No one with eyes on the approach?”

  Mimi hesitated.

  The answer should’ve been yes. Clean. Confident.

  Instead, she closed her eyes.

  The Raven answered instantly.

  Her awareness lifted—no green wash, no artificial tint. The night brightened as if the world itself had been dialed open. Wind rushed past unseen wings as the Raven glided over the Delos side of the wall.

  There.

  Light flared.

  Then another.

  Then more.

  At first Mimi thought they were all soldiers—but the Raven corrected her, zooming hard on one glow. A guard stood at attention, sharp and bright.

  Then another glow resolved into metal. A ladder.

  Not everything that shines is a threat.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Understanding snapped into place.

  One of the guards shifted—and his glow shifted with him. White bled into pink.

  Mimi stifled a laugh.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Every guard was marked. Some brighter. Some muted. Those inside structures dimmed to soft halos, like embers behind glass.

  Positions. Cover. Movement.

  The Raven wasn’t just watching.

  It was annotating the world.

  Mimi opened her eyes.

  Ellia was going to lose her mind.

  And the Triarchy was about to lose this port.

  Taking a mental note—especially of the eyes nearest her position—Mimi slipped out of the Raven’s mind. Before severing the connection completely, she sent one last instruction.

  Then she keyed the comm.

  “One guard on each tower,” she said. “They’re patrolling loops around central command. Two guards per wall span. Our side’s clear—cards, drinks. Possibly a bottle. Just… don’t make noise.”

  “What?” Tinga snapped. “You’re already at the top?”

  “N—no—” Mimi started.

  Ellia cut in smoothly. “Mimi controls our eye in the sky.”

  A beat.

  “Your what?” Tinga fired back. “You have drones? How? High-grade—military level. I can’t hear them. I thought we agreed to disclose all operational assets.”

  “Forgot,” Ellia said lightly. “Lot going on. You seem happy we have them.”

  Silence.

  “Can you share the feed?” Tinga asked.

  “No,” Ellia replied without hesitation. “Security risk. We run multiples across the island.”

  Mimi held her breath.

  Then—acceptance.

  “Understood,” Tinga said. Just like that.

  Command recognized command.

  Mimi felt it then—not admiration exactly, but alignment. The way leaders moved past ego when the mission mattered. Ellia and Tinga weren’t alike in temperament, but they spoke the same language.

  Results.

  She refocused.

  The Raven answered faster this time.

  No vertigo. No emotional surge. Just flight.

  Wind tore past invisible wings. Below, the port glimmered in rippling darkness, engines rumbling like distant thunder. The Raven skimmed low—ten yards above the water—then leveled, eyes locking on the wall.

  Time thinned.

  The blacked-out windows brightened under intensified focus. Pink halos bloomed behind glass.

  One man at a desk, sorting paperwork.

  Two smoking.

  One asleep near a particle furnace.

  Another obscured—only a hand visible, clutching a fork.

  Five.

  Confirmed.

  Time snapped back into place.

  The Raven folded into the night and climbed.

  Mimi returned to herself grinning.

  She was about to open the comm and report the five inside when the scent hit her.

  Burnt tobacco.

  Then—a sniff.

  Slowly, Mimi tipped her chin up.

  Her stomach dropped.

  One of the soldiers had stepped outside and was smoking on the platform directly above her. Close enough that ash drifted down in lazy spirals. She needed to warn them. Now.

  Careful not to move her head, she reached up and tapped the side of her mask—three soft pulses.

  “Close the fucking door,” a voice barked from inside. “It’s freezing out there.”

  The smoker didn’t answer. He took another drag, eyes fixed on the dark water beyond the port.

  Mimi froze. Hand still hovering by her ear.

  “Did you hear me?” the voice snapped. “Close the FUCKING door, you prick.”

  The man grunted. “Swear I saw something.”

  “By the Twelve—it’s black as night. You didn’t see shit. All that paperwork’s cooked your eyes.”

  The cigarette stayed pinned between his lips as he leaned forward, both hands gripping the railing.

  Scanning.

  Mimi’s pulse hammered.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  The stoge slipped.

  Time stretched.

  A breath of wind nudged it straight onto her lap.

  She swallowed hard and didn’t move.

  Footsteps.

  Oh no.

  Her heart slammed as the man shifted, boots scraping—

  Then the door banged shut.

  “Finally,” someone muttered from inside.

  Mimi exhaled in broken bursts, air shaking out of her chest. The second she could breathe, she opened the comm.

  “Coast’s clear,” she whispered. “Five inside.”

  “Excellent work,” Tinga said, approval clear in her tone. “Anything else?”

  Mimi scanned her memory. “They’re relaxed. Not expecting trouble.”

  “That’s very good,” Ellia replied.

  “Armed?” Tinga pressed. “What were they doing?”

  “Paperwork. Sleeping. Eating. Drinking. Smoking.”

  “Perfect,” Tinga said. “Sounds like they’re due for relief in a couple hours. I’ll handle it.”

  “All five?” Mimi asked before she could stop herself. “By yourself?”

  No answer.

  Instead—hands crested the ledge.

  Bodies followed.

  “Mimi,” Ellia said as she slid in beside her, low against the wall. “You did great. Objective one complete. Go find our mole.”

  Mimi hesitated. “Why do I need to back him up? He knows this place better than we do—hopefully.”

  Ellia caught her wrist as the rest of the team assembled. “Hope isn’t a plan. If he gets caught, he burns us. I’d rather he have you than luck.”

  Before Mimi could respond, Tinga was already moving up the stairs.

  “Looks like you’re splitting,” Ellia murmured. “Before she gets us all killed.”

  Mimi peeled away along the wall, comm chatter flooding her ears.

  “Aren’t you going to brief your approach?” Ellia asked. “What if we need to extract you?”

  “You won’t,” Tinga said flatly.

  “But—”

  “I can’t risk open comms,” Tinga cut in. “I’ll signal when it’s done.”

  “Don’t you dare—”

  The line went dead.

  Ellia hissed, “Who does she think she is?”

  A knock echoed.

  Mimi stopped cold.

  She was directly beneath the first tower.

  The door opened toward her—blocking sightlines—but she stayed frozen, breath locked. She boosted her audio receptors just as Tinga spoke.

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded.

  “First mate to Themistocles of the Second Division.”

  “Bullshit,” the man scoffed. “Didn’t you hear? They went down off the coast of Libya. Boys—you hearing this malaka—”

  Mimi watched as Tinga drew back her sleeve.

  Whatever the man saw shut him up instantly.

  Mimi couldn’t see his face, but her mask caught everything else—the sharp click of heels, the rustle of fabric, the subtle shift of bodies repositioning. The room went taut.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the man said, his voice suddenly clear, disciplined. “We were told there were no survivors.”

  “Is that so?” Tinga replied mildly. “You want the scoop?”

  A swallow. “Y-yes.”

  “You got any raki?”

  Silence.

  “I’m not here to turn anyone in,” Tinga continued. “It’s cold as Boreas’s icy ass out there. And stories are better with a little booze. Don’t you agree?”

  A beat.

  “Come on in,” the man said, the edge back in his voice—but quieter now.

  The door shut.

  The comms crackled back to life as Mimi resumed moving along the wall, already halfway to the gate.

  As if nothing unusual had happened, Ellia picked up where she’d left off. “Who does she think she is?”

  “A capable captain,” Dante replied. “She earned her place in the Tetra. Don’t worry—we’re not like the Triarchy, buying rank.”

  “You pay some other way?” Ellia asked.

  JAX’s name flashed on Mimi’s display.

  “Blood,” he said.

  The word landed heavy.

  “By the Twelve, JAX, you’re dramatic,” Dante muttered. “It’s merit. Earned by completed missions.” A pause. “Most of them straightforward.” Another pause. “Eliminate your targets before they eliminate you.”

  “Blood,” JAX repeated.

  “Fine,” Dante sighed. “If you want poetry—merit’s paid in blood. Point is, the captain’s spilled plenty. She can handle five Tri.”

  Silence followed.

  A thick one.

  Mimi understood why. Some truths didn’t need echoing.

  She pushed the thought aside. Learning could wait. She had a job.

  Approaching the sea gate, Mimi saw the drawbridge was raised. No crossing there.

  She flattened herself against the cold, damp stone and edged along the wall. The sound of water grew louder, sloshing against the channel below, and she dialed down her mask’s audio receptors.

  A glance down made her stomach lurch.

  Too wide to jump.

  The only fixtures were metal loops for tying ships whose engines were having issues. The stones were slick with algae. Even with her boots, traversing was suicide.

  She exhaled slowly and looked left through the gate to the dark sea beyond.

  A twenty-yard upward stretch of metal separated the port from open sea.

  A massive grate.

  A cheese grater from hell.

  Mimi slid her fingers into one of the one-foot square openings.

  Climbing it was her only option.

  Unsure whether a camera watched her—or something with eyes—Mimi decided straight up was her best option.

  She climbed.

  Each movement was slow, deliberate. Fingers slid into square openings. Boots found purchase where they could. Every shift was measured, rehearsed in her head before she trusted it.

  The gate was flanked by thick metal guides, like the tracks of an oversized garage door—the same design she’d seen at the desalination plant. After eight squares, she slipped into the shadow of one, the cold plate pressing against her spine. Concealment. Not safety—but close enough.

  She kept going.

  By the time she reached the upper section, the guide stopped being comfort and became mercy. Forty-three squares up, her hands screamed. She leaned back into the metal, easing her grip just enough to shake life back into her fingers.

  Thirty seconds.

  No more.

  The clock glowed in the corner of her vision.

  3:15 AM.

  Five minutes. Maybe less.

  Five squares from the top, Mimi edged sideways, moving laterally along the grate. That’s when the thought hit her.

  Where is everyone?

  Five minutes of radio silence. Too long.

  She tapped her comm. “This is R-two. R-two checking in. Over.”

  Nothing.

  Her pulse spiked. She tried again—same channel, same volume. No excuse this time.

  Something was wrong.

  She was about to transmit again when the horn sounded.

  A deep, belching blast tore through the port.

  The vibration slammed into the gate, traveled straight up her arms, rattling bone. Her grip slipped—just for a heartbeat—but she locked down, teeth clenched, muscles burning.

  She looked over her shoulder.

  Herme loomed impossibly close.

  Close enough that if it crept forward another meter, she could have dropped onto the bridge roof.

  The deck was alive with motion, crew distracted, attention fixed on the sealed gate.

  She exhaled, slow and controlled.

  Missed.

  By seconds.

  Still unseen, Mimi pressed herself flat against the metal and held on—poised between the grinding machinery beneath her and the ship she needed to reach.

  Cries, grunts, and overlapping shouts exploded across her comm—too many voices, too fast to separate—until one cut through the noise, sharp and unmistakable.

  “LITTLE BIRD! COMM OFF! COMM OFF! COMM OFF!”

  Mimi killed her mic instantly.

  A message flashed across her display.

  Little bird.

  Herme’s at the gate. We’re moving to link up with Tinga—she handled the Tri, but the ship pulled in early and we’re trying not to look suss.

  How are things on your end?

  P.S. WTF that horn nearly blew our eardrums.

  Mimi stared at the text.

  What the fuck did WTF mean?

  Perched atop the gate, fingers still threaded through cold metal, she knew responding wasn’t an option. Speaking was out. Typing anything longer than a breath risked movement—sound—attention.

  She was stuck.

  Then the idea hit her.

  What if I don’t tell her… what if I show her?

  The thought was absurd. Dangerous. A memory inside a memory—nested, unstable. But after the last few days, after marks and voices and shared pain, the line between impossible and untested had blurred into nothing.

  The Raven was already linked.

  And Ellia was already listening.

  With no better option, Mimi reached inward.

  She held her body still—locked elbows, hooked knees—then let her mind slip free.

  The world tilted.

  Wind rushed past her ears as the night opened up beneath wide, beating wings.

  Herme dominated the sea gate below—vast, iron-lit, close enough to taste the engine smoke. To the left, at the door where her crew was supposed to be hidden, she spotted them.

  Seven Tri-Dominance troops.

  Four with their backs to the ship.

  Relief surged as her focus snapped onto one familiar silhouette—a beak, unmistakable even in low light.

  They’re still there.

  She didn’t linger.

  Instead, Mimi replayed everything—the climb, the silence, the horn, the gate beneath her hands—compressing it into a single, urgent thread and pushing it outward, toward the Raven.

  This is where I am. This is what’s happening. This is how close it is.

  The Raven banked once, sharply.

  Understanding.

  The sky collapsed.

  Mimi slammed back into her body.

  Cold metal bit into her palms. Muscles screamed. The gate vibrated beneath her.

  She sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and held on—waiting, hoping, that Ellia would see what she couldn’t say.

  Mimi’s hands were wedged firmly between the squares of the gate, inner elbows locked, muscles screaming as they strained against unyielding metal. A shaky breath slipped free.

  Don’t think about falling backward.

  She didn’t.

  With her arms threaded through the grid, she could just barely reach her communicator. Fingers shaking, she typed a single line.

  tap raven mind

  Send.

  The world detonated.

  A blinding red light washed over the gate, the stone, the sea—everything—followed by the deep, chest-rattling blast of a foghorn. Then came the sound she dreaded most.

  Gears.

  Grinding. Clanking. Awakening.

  “Oh—shit.”

  Mimi snapped her forearms together, locking herself to the gate as it moved.

  The entire structure lurched upward, dragging her with it. Violent vibrations tore through the metal, rattling her bones hard enough to blur her vision. She scrambled, shoving her legs through two adjacent squares and twisting them together on the other side in a panicked, pretzel-like knot.

  “Oooohhh—”

  The vibration rippled straight through her core, shaking her so badly it felt like her body was trying to evacuate itself.

  This is it. This is how I die—shitting myself on a sea gate.

  Somewhere beneath the panic, realization struck.

  She’d been lucky.

  If she’d been even a few squares lower, she would’ve been caught at a hinge point.

  The image slammed into her mind—arms threaded above, legs trapped below, the gate folding to ninety degrees and stretching her spine until—

  POP.

  Her stomach lurched.

  “Nope. Nope. Don’t think about that.”

  Don’t poop your pants. Don’t poop your pants, Mimi.

  Her section of the gate reached its pivot point, tilting her body to a precarious forty-five degrees. Her chest pressed hard against the grating as the stone ceiling loomed closer, swallowing her field of view.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  The hinges three squares down moved.

  A sharp metallic clink rang out—and suddenly the pressure vanished.

  Her limbs were ripped free as the gate shifted again, flinging her forward.

  Mimi sucked in a ragged breath as her eyes flew open.

  Sea.

  Endless, black, yawning sea directly beneath her.

  Her arms dangled uselessly for half a heartbeat before instinct kicked in. She jammed one elbow back through a diamond-shaped opening, then the other, muscles burning as she hauled herself into a clumsy sprawl atop the partially folded gate.

  Stone scraped inches from her face.

  Heart hammering, she yanked her legs through next, then froze—breathing hard, shaking—before inching forward on hands and knees.

  She had escaped the worst of it.

  Barely.

  And the gate was still moving.

  To her left and right, the gears roared—massive, relentless—dragging the gate upward inch by inch. Metal screamed as another section folded in on itself, the sound sharp enough to punch through her skull.

  Mimi didn’t need another warning.

  If she stayed on this thing, it would crush her.

  She tracked the gears with frantic precision, boosting her night vision, scanning for anything—a recess, a break, an exit. Then she saw it.

  A pocket in the wall.

  One of the gears receded just enough to expose a narrow maintenance ledge below the churning teeth.

  There.

  Her grip tightened as she edged sideways, palms burning against the crossbars. Every movement was deliberate. Every second stolen from the machine. The gate clanked again, snapping into place somewhere above her, and the vibration shuddered straight through her bones.

  Her communicator buzzed.

  She ignored it.

  Another metallic crack rang out as the section ahead of her locked, the space shrinking fast. The gears beside her meshed seamlessly with the gate’s squares, teeth sliding past inches from her hands.

  She leaned forward and looked down.

  The ledge was there—close enough to see, far enough to kill her if she missed.

  Her stomach dropped.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no…”

  There was no timing this. No margin. No second try.

  This wasn’t a cliff jump with an audience and a dare.

  This was jump—or die.

  Mimi shifted into a low bear crawl, hands clamped around a square near the gears. The gate lurched again, pitching her weight forward as the ceiling rushed toward her face.

  Then—everything stopped.

  For half a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

  Mimi didn’t.

  She launched.

  Twisting hard to the right, she flung herself into open air. Weightlessness swallowed her, time stretching thin and fragile—until her back slammed into metal.

  The impact ripped the air from her lungs.

  She hit the maintenance ledge in a tangled sprawl, vision swimming, ears ringing, chest heaving as pain and adrenaline crashed together in a single, overwhelming wave.

  For a long second, she didn’t move.

  Then she sucked in a ragged breath.

  She was alive.

  Barely.