The station was sealed within nineteen minutes—slower than Yara preferred, but acceptable. By then she had acquired the schematics, three outdated maintenance maps, and a portable air-quality sensor from one of the responders who owed her a favor.
She walked the perimeter of the breach while the others kept a cautious distance. The concrete continued to warm under her fingertips.
Not dangerous.
Not outward pressure.
An internal temperature gradient—steady, intentional.
Something below was regulating airflow on a cycle.
She crouched again beside the opening.
"Engineer Lin," one of the officers called nervously, "you're not going in there, are you?"
"I'm evaluating accessibility," she answered.
Which was true.
She simply had a broader definition of accessibility.
Yara clipped the sensor to her belt, pulled a slim coil of rope from the emergency kit, and secured it around a structural beam. Her movements were quick and practiced; this was not her first collapsed environment.
"Air quality?" the officer asked, unsure if he wanted the answer.
She checked the reading.
"No toxins. Elevated heat. Pressure stable."
"…That's still not safe."
Yara gave him a glance—steady, unbothered.
"Safety is relative. Information isn't."
Before he could protest further, she was already lowering herself into the shaft.
Her descent was controlled, not rushed. The rope vibrated lightly with each step she braced against the inner wall. The texture under her palms was wrong for concrete—too smooth, too uniform.
Man-made, but not modern.
Five meters down, the material changed again. The wall angled, no longer vertical. A subtle curve guided her into a horizontal passage, as if the space had reshaped itself long before the station was ever built above it.
Her boots hit solid ground.
She released the rope and scanned the corridor with her penlight.
It was wider than expected—three meters across, maybe four. The surface wasn't rock or metal. Something in between. Faintly reflective, like stone polished by centuries of use.
But what caught her attention wasn't the architecture.
It was the wind.
A low, steady draft moved down the passage, rhythmic and measured, not natural airflow. Like a respiration cycle.
Yara checked her sensor.
The air was clean. Too clean.
She exhaled slowly.
This place wasn't a random cavity caused by collapse.
It was a structure.
A system.
She walked forward.
Her steps echoed in a pattern she couldn't yet name. Each sound returned delayed—not by distance, but by shape. The geometry here obeyed a different acoustic rule.
After several meters, the corridor widened into a chamber.
Yara stopped—not from fear, but for calculation.
The chamber was circular, ceiling domed. The inner walls bore faint linear markings—not writing, more like alignment tracks, as if something once rotated here.
In the center stood a column.
Not solid.
Segmented, like vertebrae.
A faint pulse of warm air rose from it.
Yara approached, examining the material. Smooth. Heat-conductive. Seamless.
Her hand hovered a few centimeters above it—not touching, just sensing thermal variation.
Then the pulse shifted.
A beat off-cycle.
As if reacting to her presence.
Her expression stayed calm, though her thoughts sharpened. She adjusted her light, angling it higher.
Something at the top of the column glinted.
She stepped closer—
A voice came from behind her.
"You shouldn't be here."
Yara didn't jump.
Didn't whirl.
Just turned her head enough to see the new arrival reflected faintly on the column's surface.
A woman.
Not the man from earlier.
Different face. Different stance.
But the same unshakable certainty in her voice.
Yara spoke evenly. "Neither should you."
The woman stepped into the chamber light. Short hair, dark jacket, hands unarmed but relaxed in a way that implied confidence.
"I followed the breach," she said. "You followed something else."
Yara didn't deny it. "You know what this structure is."
The woman's gaze flicked to the column. "I know what it was."
The distinction was intentional.
"And now?" Yara asked.
"Now," the woman said quietly, "it's waking because you touched the city wrong."
Yara considered this.
Not offended. Not intimidated.
Analytical.
"Then you're going to explain what that means," she said. "And why the ground heats in a regulated pattern every ninety seconds."
The woman blinked—just once, slow.
Surprised by Yara's composure, maybe.
"You're not supposed to be this calm," she said.
"That's your mistake," Yara replied.
She stepped closer to the column.
"It's not mine."
The warm pulse rose again—stronger.
Somewhere deep in the chamber, something unlocked with a quiet, precise click.
And the woman exhaled sharply, almost like recognition.
"…It's responding to you."
Yara didn't smile.
But her focus sharpened.
"Good," she said. "Then let's open it."
The station was sealed within nineteen minutes—slower than Yara preferred, but acceptable. By then she had acquired the schematics, three outdated maintenance maps, and a portable air-quality sensor from one of the responders who owed her a favor.
She walked the perimeter of the breach while the others kept a cautious distance. The concrete continued to warm under her fingertips.
Not dangerous.
Not outward pressure.
An internal temperature gradient—steady, intentional.
Something below was regulating airflow on a cycle.
She crouched again beside the opening.
"Engineer Lin," one of the officers called nervously, "you're not going in there, are you?"
"I'm evaluating accessibility," she answered.
Which was true.
She simply had a broader definition of accessibility.
Yara clipped the sensor to her belt, pulled a slim coil of rope from the emergency kit, and secured it around a structural beam. Her movements were quick and practiced; this was not her first collapsed environment.
"Air quality?" the officer asked, unsure if he wanted the answer.
She checked the reading.
"No toxins. Elevated heat. Pressure stable."
"…That's still not safe."
Yara gave him a glance—steady, unbothered.
"Safety is relative. Information isn't."
Before he could protest further, she was already lowering herself into the shaft.
Her descent was controlled, not rushed. The rope vibrated lightly with each step she braced against the inner wall. The texture under her palms was wrong for concrete—too smooth, too uniform.
Man-made, but not modern.
Five meters down, the material changed again. The wall angled, no longer vertical. A subtle curve guided her into a horizontal passage, as if the space had reshaped itself long before the station was ever built above it.
Her boots hit solid ground.
She released the rope and scanned the corridor with her penlight.
It was wider than expected—three meters across, maybe four. The surface wasn't rock or metal. Something in between. Faintly reflective, like stone polished by centuries of use.
But what caught her attention wasn't the architecture.
It was the wind.
A low, steady draft moved down the passage, rhythmic and measured, not natural airflow. Like a respiration cycle.
Yara checked her sensor.
The air was clean. Too clean.
She exhaled slowly.
This place wasn't a random cavity caused by collapse.
It was a structure.
A system.
She walked forward.
Her steps echoed in a pattern she couldn't yet name. Each sound returned delayed—not by distance, but by shape. The geometry here obeyed a different acoustic rule.
After several meters, the corridor widened into a chamber.
Yara stopped—not from fear, but for calculation.
The chamber was circular, ceiling domed. The inner walls bore faint linear markings—not writing, more like alignment tracks, as if something once rotated here.
In the center stood a column.
Not solid.
Segmented, like vertebrae.
A faint pulse of warm air rose from it.
Yara approached, examining the material. Smooth. Heat-conductive. Seamless.
Her hand hovered a few centimeters above it—not touching, just sensing thermal variation.
Then the pulse shifted.
A beat off-cycle.
As if reacting to her presence.
Her expression stayed calm, though her thoughts sharpened. She adjusted her light, angling it higher.
Something at the top of the column glinted.
She stepped closer—
A voice came from behind her.
"You shouldn't be here."
Yara didn't jump.
Didn't whirl.
Just turned her head enough to see the new arrival reflected faintly on the column's surface.
A woman.
Not the man from earlier.
Different face. Different stance.
But the same unshakable certainty in her voice.
Yara spoke evenly. "Neither should you."
The woman stepped into the chamber light. Short hair, dark jacket, hands unarmed but relaxed in a way that implied confidence.
"I followed the breach," she said. "You followed something else."
Yara didn't deny it. "You know what this structure is."
The woman's gaze flicked to the column. "I know what it was."
The distinction was intentional.
"And now?" Yara asked.
"Now," the woman said quietly, "it's waking because you touched the city wrong."
Yara considered this.
Not offended. Not intimidated.
Analytical.
"Then you're going to explain what that means," she said. "And why the ground heats in a regulated pattern every ninety seconds."
The woman blinked—just once, slow.
Surprised by Yara's composure, maybe.
"You're not supposed to be this calm," she said.
"That's your mistake," Yara replied.
She stepped closer to the column.
"It's not mine."
The warm pulse rose again—stronger.
Somewhere deep in the chamber, something unlocked with a quiet, precise click.
And the woman exhaled sharply, almost like recognition.
"…It's responding to you."
Yara didn't smile.
But her focus sharpened.
"Good," she said. "Then let's open it."