You get ready to make your trip to Houston.

The room is still dim when you open your eyes. Not quite dawn. That pale, in-between hour where the world hasn’t decided if it wants to wake up yet.

Mariana is curled against you, one arm draped over your ribs, her breath warm and steady against your chest. You stay still for a moment, letting yourself feel the weight of her, the quiet, the blanket still heavy with shared heat. Then, carefully, you shift. A slow slide out from under her arm, a lift of the blanket just enough to escape without waking her.

You sit on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor, elbows on your knees. It’s cold. Not freezing, just enough to bite. The house is always cold in the morning, like it’s holding its breath.

Your PocketWatch is still on the nightstand, blinking faintly. You plug it into the line port and wait a beat as the screen wakes up.

Two messages.

Yvette’s is first.

Any movement on Rachel?

You scroll to the second. Alex.

Hey. Just checking in. How’d it go with Mariana?

You thumb out a reply to Yvette first. It takes a few moments. You type, delete, then type again before settling on:

Nothing solid, but something’s off. Rachel might’ve tried to flirt with me at the spa. Could be she’s trying to make tech bro jealous.

Feels like she knows she’s being watched. Baldy is probably there to keep her from straying while he hides from the wife. Don't think she likes that. Got the distinct feeling she's trying to stir the pot.

If that’s the case, it could get messy. Tell Griggs to be careful. She’s on a short leash and angry about it.

You pause. Consider adding something else. You don’t.

Then you switch to Alex’s thread.

Mariana was open to the idea. A little cautious, but not against it.

Want to come to dinner sometime this week? We can cook, talk, keep it low-key.

No emojis. Just enough warmth to leave the door open.

The last one might be the most important.

You scroll to Jeremy’s name.

If you don’t hear from me in 48 hours, come by my place. There's a woman here. Her name is Mariana. Get her out. Keep her safe.

You don’t add anything else. He’ll understand.

You unplug the Watch and pull on your jacket. It still smells like last Thursday. A blend of sweat, detergent, and maybe guilt, depending on who’s asking.

One last look at Mariana, peaceful and unaware. Curled into your space like she's trying to warm it for you.

Then you step quietly into the hallway and head out into the cold dark morning.

You get behind the wheel. The dashboard wakes with a quiet pulse. No rumble. No engine growl. Just a soft chime that pretends to be reassuring and isn’t.

The headlights flicker on, cutting through the early murk. Dew beads across the windshield, catching light in pinpricks.

Your breath curls up in front of your face. The heater will take a minute. It always does. You rub your palms together and lean forward, elbow on the steering wheel, watching your street through the glass.

Nothing moves.

You tap the drive toggle. The old Chevy hums forward, quiet and heavy.

You roll past the neighbor’s house, the one with the half-collapsed fence and the mailbox that’s always open, like it’s still waiting for good news. A porch light flickers behind a screen door. Probably motion-triggered. Probably squirrels.

The houses blend together in the dark. Low roofs, chain-link, the occasional flag hung from a warped post. Most curtains still drawn. The world hasn't quite pressed play yet.

No traffic. No pedestrians. Just you and the quiet hum of the motor.

The gas station is a little place just off 183. Half of the sign’s burned out, so it only advertises “S UPER M R T.” It’s technically open. The lights inside are on, and a handwritten sign taped to the glass door says Cash Only, System’s Down in scrawled red marker. The system is always down.

Inside, the air smells like stale popcorn and cleaning fluid. A little bell jingles overhead—not to alert the clerk, but to remind you that this place once had charm. Now it just has gum under the counters and a fridge that hums like it’s on its last legs.

You make a circuit down the first aisle. The shelves are half-stocked, half-forgotten. You grab a few bottled waters, the last two turkey sandwiches sealed in plastic that may or may not count as FDA-approved, and a package of Jack Links. At the back, there’s a rack of shirts. Mostly "Keep Austin Weird" tourist junk. You sift through until you find one in black, plain and unworn, with the tag still attached. It smells like dust and has a faint hint of ammonia, but it’ll do.

The clerk doesn’t look up when you place your stuff on the counter. He gestures to the CASH ONLY sign. You hand over a few crumpled bills. He counts them slowly. Too slowly. You think about making a joke, but it dies in your throat somewhere between Don’t push your luck and He probably owns a gun.

So instead, you nod. He nods. This is as close to a conversation as either of you is willing to get at this hour.

You carry the bag back to the car and slide back into the driver’s seat. The sky’s lightening now, washed in steel gray, the edges of the clouds barely tinged with orange. Still early. Still quiet.

You tap the toggle. The motor hums awake again.

You start driving south.

The air changes gradually, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to get under your skin. You don’t notice it all at once. It just builds—mile by mile—as the trees thin and the road starts to crack. Something tightens in your chest. Familiar, but not welcome.

Houston’s outskirts aren’t marked by signs or fences. Just absence. No birds. No rustling leaves. No hopeful, half-starved eyes watching from the roadside. Even the usual scavenger traffic is missing. You keep expecting to see someone out here. A lookout. A runner. But the streets are hollow.

The houses start showing up in pieces.

Roofs collapsed inward. Yards overrun with weeds tall enough to hide a dog or a body, maybe both. Faded plastic mailboxes with their mouths open. Most of the windows are gone, shattered or boarded. One house has a mattress in the front yard, angled like someone tried to sleep through the apocalypse and gave up halfway.

You drive slow.

Eventually, you see it. A rise at the end of the block. Not a real hill. Just a spot where the land didn’t sink as much when the drainage system failed. It looks taller than it is.

You pull over and park in front of what might’ve once been a dentist’s office. The signage is long gone, but the smiling molar painted on the door is still visible beneath a layer of grime.

The engine goes quiet. You step out.

Your boots hit loose gravel and broken glass. Somewhere, a door creaks in the wind and slams shut again. Nothing else moves.

You make your way up the rise, stepping through dead grass and sun-bleached toys half-buried in the dirt. A rusted-out tricycle watches you pass. It feels like it’s been watching for a while.

At the top, there’s a bench. Or the bones of one. Rusted frame. A couple slats left. Just enough to sit if you’re careful. In front of, a small pile of rocks.

You sit.

The sky is overcast now. The wind has picked up. It smells like mildew and copper.

You rest your elbows on your knees and keep still.

You don’t have to wait long.

There’s a footstep behind you. Then another. Slow. Deliberate.

Not sneaking. Just arriving.

“Who’s Shanie, anyway?”

Young. Still rough with testosterone, but not fully settled. That catches you off guard.

You turn.

The kid standing at the base of the hill can’t be older than sixteen. Maybe younger. Close-cropped hair, sharp jaw, and a grin that looks too loose for the tension in his shoulders. He’s wearing a hoodie. The fabric clings like shrink-wrap across a frame that shouldn't be that developed, not naturally.

You’ve seen that kind of muscle growth before. Dense, almost swollen. The telltale overdevelopment that happens when someone grows too fast for their joints to keep up. An unaugmented Titan platform.

Also, definitely not one of your old crew.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” you say.

“Yeah, no one does. I’m like a surprise party. Surprise~ Yay.” He walks up a few paces, not too close, and tips his chin toward the bench. “You Carlos?”

You nod, but don’t answer.

“Cool. Cortez said you’d be here. Said you’d be waiting by a pile of rocks. And lo and behold, pile of rocks, and you.”

That grin again. All confidence, but something tight underneath it. Like he's trying on bravado that doesn’t quite fit.

You stay standing.

He looks at the pile of rocks next to the bench, then glances around like he was expecting something more impressive. “So… seriously. Who’s Shanie?”

You watch him. Broad shoulders, combat-ready stance, eyes that haven’t lived long enough to match the body they’re shoved into.

Not Cortez. Not one of your escapees. But definitely from the same program. Same scars. Different mold.

He shifts on his feet. “You’re not gonna answer, are you?”

You don’t blink. “Depends who's asking.”

That gets a reaction. Not much, but enough. His jaw sets tighter, like a little trap just clicked shut. His eyes stay flat.

“Fine.” He reaches into his hoodie, slow, obvious, and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Not digital. Not a card. Just a cheap, sun-bleached sheet, already creased to hell and starting to tear along the folds. He holds it up between two fingers and steps closer.

You take it. Unfold it. Three lines, handwritten.

He’s clean. He knows me. Let him in.

–C

No signature. No code word. Just that sloppy, slanted scrawl you haven’t seen since Cortez was carving messages into soap bars.

You pocket the note.

The kid watches you do it, then clears his throat like he’s trying not to show how weird this is for him.

“You want to follow, or should I let you brood here a little longer?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you look him over one last time.

No obvious tells. No implants visible. His posture isn’t defensive, but he’s ready to run. Or fight. You respect that.

You nod. Just once.

“Lead the way.”

The kid doesn’t talk much after that. His boots crunch across cracked pavement, avoiding weeds like he knows which ones bite. You keep a few paces behind, watching the way he moves—casual, but clipped. No wasted steps. He's been here before. Probably too many times.

The neighborhood used to be something. Two-story homes, playgrounds, cul-de-sacs with names like Cypress Hollow or Willow Bend. Now it’s all sagging roofs and swallowed driveways. Fences lean. Lawns gave up. A few plastic toys remain, bleached by sun and rain until they’re almost translucent.

You keep your hands loose at your sides.

The wind picks up, carrying the scent of rot and runoff. Houston. Even when the sun’s out, it smells like something gave up. The kid doesn’t seem to mind. He hops a broken curb, kicks aside a rusted scooter, and stops near what looks like the remains of a drainage canal. A concrete ditch with cracked retaining walls and graffiti so faded it might as well be hieroglyphics.

He drops down into the ditch without warning. You follow.

It’s steeper than it looks. Your boots scrape, and the gravel shifts beneath your weight. He moves to a rusted grate set into the wall and crouches low, fingers brushing along the edge until he finds something. A latch.

With a tug, the grate groans open. Not loud, but loud enough in the quiet.

“Careful with your head,” he mutters, already halfway through.

You duck and step in after him.

The passage is tight. Smells like mildew, wet copper, and something worse you can’t name. Not sewage exactly. Just old. Like the air hasn’t moved in years. The walls are concrete, cracked and bleeding rust. Your shoulders brush the sides more than once.

The kid doesn’t slow down.

You pass junctions, pipes hissing low, puddles too still. It’s a maze, and he doesn’t even glance at the turns. Just walks, arms swinging loose at his sides, like it’s just another hallway. You follow the echo of his footsteps and the faint orange glow of the lantern he eventually pulls from his bag.

Not a flashlight. A lantern. Hand-cranked, the kind that won’t die on you just because the grid forgot you exist.

Finally, he stops.

There’s a door ahead. Not a real door. Just a slab of metal welded into the tunnel wall, with a keypad and a dent where someone tried to bash it in with something blunt.

The kid turns to you.

“Don’t touch anything. Don’t talk unless someone talks to you. And if you see Cortez first… let him hug you. He gets weird if you don’t.”

Then he punches in a code.

The door buzzes. Shifts. Then creaks open, just enough to let the light spill in.

Warmth hits you first. Not physical heat, but human warmth. Voices. Movement. The echo of footsteps and murmured conversation. Something smells like food. Actual food.

The kid gestures.

“Welcome to the sewer kingdom.”

You step through.