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Julia moved forward, using the wall as guidance while her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The service corridor stretched ahead, emergency lighting creating pools of dim illumination every twenty feet. She advanced in a crouch, weapon ready, senses hyperaware of every sound, every shadow, every potential threat.

Somewhere in this building, Ivy was fighting her own battle against Knox and his organization. And Julia would move heaven and earth to reach her side.

The sound of approaching footsteps froze her in position. Julia pressed against the wall as a figure passed the intersecting corridor—another security operative, moving with professional purpose ratherthan casual patrol. The facility was more heavily guarded than she'd anticipated. Knox had escalated security protocols.

Julia waited until the footsteps receded then continued forward, following the corridor toward the central area where the main terminal operations would have been conducted. Where Knox would have established his interrogation.

I'm coming,Julia promised silently, moving with renewed purpose through the shadows of Phoenix Ridge's abandoned past.Hold on, Ivy. I'm coming.

11

IVY

Pain crept into Ivy's consciousness before memory did—a throbbing at her temples, the raw burn of abraded wrists, a dull ache at the base of her skull. She kept her eyes closed, breathing maintained in the steady rhythm of sleep, as her analytical mind assembled fragments of awareness.

Cold metal beneath her. Salt-tinged air carrying undertones of oil and rust. Male voices, low and professional, at least ten feet away.

The shipyard. Knox's people. Julia.

The memory of Julia crumpling under the taser jolted through her like a current.Ivy forced herself to maintain the façade of unconsciousness while cataloging her situation. Hands bound behind her back with zip ties. Feet similarly secured. A shipping container, likely in the abandoned yards near district seven.

"She's been out for nearly an hour." A male voice spoke nearby. "Should we use stimulants?"

"The boss wants her coherent." A second voice, authority in its tone. "Not hysterical from chemical acceleration. He'll be here within twenty."

Ivy risked cracking one eyelid a millimeter. A metal shipping container retrofitted as a holding cell. Bare except for the bench she lay on and a single metal chair. A portable LED lantern cast harsh shadows against corrugated walls streaked with rust.

Two guards near the container's door—tactical clothing without insignia, armed with sidearms and knives. The zip ties binding her wrists had been applied hastily. One plastic strip had a slight imperfection—a manufacturing flaw creating a microscopic ridge she might exploit.

A new sound intruded—tires on gravel,car doors closing, expensive leather on concrete.

"Position?" The voice carried authority without volume—cultured, precise, with the barest hint of a New England accent.

Vincent Knox had arrived.

Ivy made her decision. She allowed her breathing to change, her body to stir with apparent disorientation.

"She's awake, sir," the guard reported unnecessarily.

Vincent Knox stood framed in the doorway—tall, slender, impeccably dressed in a cream-colored suit. Silver hair perfectly styled, ice-blue eyes assessing her with clinical detachment. His cologne cut through the industrial smells like a declaration of power.

"Dr. Monroe, I believe we're overdue for a conversation."

Ivy struggled upright, testing her bonds while feigning greater disorientation than she felt. She met Knox's gaze directly.

"Most people just send meeting invitations," she said, voice rough but steady.

A flicker of something crossed Knox's face before his expression resumed its neutrality.

"I find traditional channels ineffective when dealing with someone dismantling my life's work." He gestured to the guard, who produced a small metal case. "I presume you understand your situation."

Knox wasn't a man who employed physical violence personally; he delegated such unpleasantness. His presence indicated the seriousness with which he took her threat.

Good. Fear was leverage.

"I understand you're hemorrhaging money and influence," she replied conversationally. "The eastern district properties have triggered regulatory investigations. Three council members have publicly distanced themselves from your developments. Your stock has dropped eighteen percent since yesterday."

The flash of surprise in Knox's eyes was brief but unmistakable. He hadn't expected her to know the operation's impact. Information asymmetry—another leverage point.