Page 1

The Splinter doesn't know we're here.

I can smell his fear though, sharp and sour beneath the artificial sweetness of arcology-grade soap. It's a dead giveaway. Nobody in Upper Level smells like fear. They're too busy smelling like privilege and synthetic lavender.

"Nervous, Thorne?" Trent's voice slides through my earpiece, smooth and warm in a way that sends an unauthorized shiver down my spine.

I roll my eyes even though he can't see me. "Please. This is basically a training exercise."

"Just checking. Your heart rate's elevated."

Of course he's monitoring my vitals. Standard Sentinel protocol, though there's something distinctly non-standard about the way Trent Vanguard's concern makes my pulse jump even higher. Not that he'd ever notice the difference between professional alertness and whatever this is.

"That's not nerves," I mutter. "That's boredom."

His low chuckle warms my ear. "The target's approaching your position. Thirty seconds."

I shift slightly in my hiding spot, a maintenance alcove in the pristine white corridor of Upper Level's central promenade.

To anyone passing by, the wall appears seamless, one of Unity's many architectural sleights of hand.

The residents of Upper Level prefer not to see the machinery that keeps their perfect world humming.

Just like they prefer not to see us until they need us.

The Splinter is good, I'll give him that.

He's survived three weeks inside the arcology without detection.

Fake ID chip, carefully practiced mannerisms, even the right Upper Level posture, that particular blend of relaxation and superiority that comes from never having to fight for your oxygen ration.

But I spotted the inconsistencies the moment Security flagged his resource consumption patterns. Too much protein. Too little usage of the sleep optimization chamber. Tiny deviations that might seem inconsequential, but to a Sentinel, they might as well be a flashing sign reading "NOT ONE OF YOU."

I breathe slowly, centering myself. Enhancement treatments have my senses dialed to maximum, and I can pick up on the subtle vibration of footsteps through the floor, the recycled air currents shifting as bodies move through the corridor, the distinct cadence of each person's gait.

"Target is wearing blue suit, carrying standard-issue workpad. Appears to be alone." Trent's voice is all business now. "Ready in three...two..."

I don't need the countdown. I feel the Splinter before I see him, some inexplicable awareness that I've always attributed to good training and better instincts.

The maintenance panel slides open silently as I step into the corridor, just another Unity citizen going about her day in standard-issue gray utility wear.

Our shoulders brush. The Splinter's eyes flick toward me—a normal reaction—then away. Then back again, wider this time as recognition hits him. Not of me specifically, but of what I am .

Sentinel.

He's good, but I'm better. Before his flight response fully engages, I've already moved. My fingers find the pressure point at his wrist, my body angling to block the view from passing citizens. To anyone watching, we might be colleagues, perhaps even lovers sharing an intimate moment.

"Hello there," I say pleasantly, voice pitched for his ears alone as my grip tightens precisely. "Unity welcomes all visitors, but you really should have gone through the proper channels."

The Splinter's face contorts, fear warring with defiance. Up close, I can see the subtle signs I've been trained to detect: the too-perfect skin that doesn't quite move like natural tissue, the faint amber ring around his pupils that standard citizens don't possess.

"Running would be a mistake," I continue conversationally. "My partner has already locked down this sector. And unlike me, he actually enjoys pursuit scenarios."

On cue, Trent materializes at the corridor junction, his tall frame cutting an imposing silhouette against the artificial sunlight streaming through the transparency panels.

Even in standard Sentinel grays, he moves with a lethal grace that turns heads, some in appreciation, others in instinctive unease.

The Splinter sees him too. I feel the exact moment the fight leaches out of him, tension dissolving under my grip.

"Smart choice," I murmur. "Now we're going to walk very calmly to the nearest security checkpoint.

You're going to tell us exactly how you got in and what you're looking for.

And if you're very, very cooperative, we might be able to arrange accommodations slightly more pleasant than immediate deportation to the wasteland. "

Trent approaches, moving with the synchronized precision that has made us Unity's most effective Sentinel pair. No words needed. He flanks our captive on the opposite side, one hand casually grasping the Splinter's elbow while the other activates the barely-visible neural disruptor at his wrist.

"Zara always makes the most interesting friends," Trent says to the Splinter, flashing that disarming smile that has charmed information out of the most hardened infiltrators, and sent my heart rate into unauthorized territory more times than I care to admit.

"Though I feel I should warn you—her last friend tried to bolt.

Three minutes later, he was enjoying the unique experience of atmospheric decompression in waste disposal unit five. "

I shoot Trent a look. "That was an accident."

"Was it?" His eyes meet mine, glinting with suppressed amusement that crinkles the corners.

"Mostly." I shrug, looking away before he can read anything in my expression. "He zigged when he should have zagged."

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 science behind 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—definitely not David 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 in front 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.