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Our captive remains silent, but I feel his pulse jump beneath my fingers. Good. Fear makes them compliant.

We guide the Splinter smoothly through the corridor, maintaining the illusion of a casual encounter. Upper Level citizens glide past, their attention focused on their personal entertainment feeds or the latest social status updates projected onto their optical implants. Oblivious to the predators walking among them.

Just how Unity wants it.

The nearest security checkpoint is nestled discreetly behind an ornamental water feature, one of Upper Level's many ostentatious displays of resource control. The transparent liquid curtain parts as we approach, molecular recognition systems identifying our Sentinel signatures.

"Processing room three is prepped and waiting," says the security officer, not even glancing at our captive. Standard protocol, which means the less interaction, the better. Splinters are considered contamination risks, though the sciencebehind that particular Unity policy has always seemed questionable to me.

Not that I'd ever say so aloud. Having doubts about Unity policy is nearly as dangerous as being a Splinter.

The processing room is sterile white, like everything in Upper Level, with a single chair bolted to the center of the floor. No windows. No obvious monitoring devices, though I know every molecule of air in this room is being analyzed and recorded.

"Have a seat," I tell the Splinter, releasing his wrist.

He complies, eyes darting between Trent and me as we position ourselves on opposite sides of the room. Classic intimidation setup. We've done this so many times it's practically choreography.

"Identification?" Trent begins, voice neutral.

"David Morris," the Splinter answers. Even his voice is well-practiced—the precise tenor of Upper Level education. "Resource Management Division."

"That's what your chip says," I confirm, circling behind him. "But we both know that's not who you are."

The Splinter—definitelynotDavid Morris—says nothing.

Trent leans against the wall, the picture of relaxed confidence. I allow myself a fraction of a second to appreciate the line of his jaw, the way his uniform stretches across his shoulders. Perfect Sentinel posture. Nothing more.

"Let's not waste time," he says to our captive. "We know you're modified. We know you're here illegally. What we don't know is why Upper East Arcology is suddenly so interesting to your kind."

The Splinter's shoulders tense slightly. Interesting.

"There's nothing special about this arcology," he says carefully.

"Then why are you the third infiltrator we've caught here this month?" I ask, completing my circuit to stand directly infront of him. "That's triple the normal rate. Something's drawing you here, and Unity would very much like to know what."

A flicker of something crosses the Splinter's face—surprise, perhaps—before it's quickly masked. They're always surprised when they realize they're not as unique as they thought.

"I can't tell you what I don't know," he says, and I detect the first hint of his real accent slipping through, the slightly elongated vowels common to the northern wasteland territories.

Trent and I exchange a glance. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, and for a suspended moment, I feel that perfect synchronicity that makes us the most effective Sentinel team in Unity records. It's just professional harmony, I tell myself. Nothing to do with the way his eyes linger on mine a fraction longer than protocol dictates.

"We'll transfer you to central processing," I say, breaking eye contact first. "They have more...persuasive methods of gathering information."

Fear spikes in the room, a scent so strong I can practically taste it. Something shifts in my vision for a split second, the sterile white walls bleeding into sharp focus, the Splinter's heat signature suddenly visible beneath his skin like a ghostly outline.

I blink, and everything returns to normal. A momentary glitch in the visual enhancement from my last treatment, nothing more. I've been overdue for recalibration.

The Splinter looks up at me, something like recognition flickering across his features. "You're—" he begins, then stops abruptly.

"I'm what?" I step closer, suddenly intensely curious.

"Nothing," he says quickly. Too quickly. "Just...you're not what I expected."

Before I can press further, the door slides open, and aSecurity Division extraction team enters to take custody of our captive. Standard procedure. Sentinels capture, Security processes. Division of duties keeps everything orderly in Unity's perfect system.

"Excellent work, Sentinels," the team leader says, not looking at either of us as his people secure the Splinter. "Command has authorized your recovery period. Twenty-four hours, starting now."

I maintain a neutral expression despite the flicker of anticipation that runs through me. Twenty-four hours of unscheduled time is practically unheard of for Sentinels. Usually, we get six hours of sleep cycle followed immediately by the next assignment.