The red light cut through the archive like a pulse. It ran along the floor and painted the boxes in a cruel color. Footsteps hammered above. Voices shouted in the halls. Arin's tiny heart beat like a drum.
"Move!" Kael hissed. He shoved a stack of crates aside and pointed to a narrow aisle. Lysa hugged Arin to her chest. The old man who ran the archive pushed a lamp into a metal case and shoved it under a table, darkening the space.
They ran between shelves that rose like forest trunks. Papers rustled. Boxes slid. The alarm made a sharp, urgent sound that shook the bones. The rules of hiding were simple: stay low, cover your trail, and use the narrow spaces. Arin kept his head close to Lysa's shoulder and breathed the wet, dusty air.
Footsteps grew louder. A heavy boot thudded near the door. A voice shouted, "Seal the stacks! Check every shelf!" Another voice barked a name Arin had heard in the files—an officer with the institute's mark.
Kael bent and whispered to the old man, "Find the ledger. Burn what must be burned. We need proof, but we can't leave everything behind." The old man nodded and worked fast, piling papers into a metal bin.
Arin watched the light crawl closer. His mind sharpened. Predator's Mind pinged hot now. It showed him weak beams, tables that could tip, a route by which the floor led to a lower service door. Patterns came in slices. The escape was a puzzle—he could see the pieces.
"Three here," Kael said softly. "Two at the main door. One at the archives' side gate. We move when the guard turns."
They moved like ghosts. Lysa led with light steps. Kael and the old man carried the metal box of records that could free people or doom them. Arin kept his small paws silent, his ears catching each sound. The red light flashed a little farther down the aisle.
A shadow passed by a thin window. A face scanned the stacks and walked on. The team breathed.
Then a hand slammed at a shelf and a man shouted. A row of metal files clattered to the floor like a set of teeth. The guard had found them. The chase began.
They ran for the side gate. Kael shoved a heavy case into the path to slow their pursuers. The sound of breaking crates and flailing hands came behind them. Arin felt a hot pressure in his chest—fear, yes, but also the sharp focus of need. Rules could be bent, Kael had said, and now the rule was simple: make a path and force open the gate.
The side gate was old iron with rusted teeth. Kael jammed his shoulder and heaved. Metal groaned. Behind them, men shouted and boots pounded. A hand grabbed Lysa's sleeve. She yelped. Someone pulled her back.
"Go! Run!" Kael shouted.
Arin felt himself pulled. A large hand clasped him suddenly—firm and rough. A voice barked, "Hold fast, little one!" It was Garr.
He had slipped into the archive earlier that day, a trader known for moving goods through hidden channels. Arin had seen him once before, a man with tired eyes who probably owed money to the wrong people. Garr had not been part of the plan, but he stood now like a wall.
Kael shoved Lysa forward and slammed his shoulder against the gate. Metal gave with a harsh cry. The gate swung open a little, enough. Lysa slipped through, clutching Arin. The old man followed. Kael looked at Garr, eyes asking.
Garr grinned, wet with sweat. "I owe you this one," he said. Then he turned and grabbed a stack of crates and set them between the open gate and the men who chased them.
The first pursuer lunged into the pile. The crates toppled, knocking the man backward. Garr pushed more. He fought the second man with a long metal rod and laughed in a loud, strange way. The sound of his breath came heavy like a bell.
Arin clung to Lysa's chest and looked back. Garr fought like a man expecting to die. His moves were rough and brave. A net dropped behind him, then another hand grabbed him. A heavy voice said, "Seize him! Don't let any papers leave!"
Garr stumbled. He struck and pushed, but the numbers were too many. The guard struck him in the side. Garr fell, hitting his head on the iron. Blood spread slow and dark across his cheek. He stayed on his feet a long moment, still holding back the others, then collapsed, the life going out of him like a faint candle. The pursuers roared and moved past the gate, taking Garr like a prize.
Arin's world narrowed until it was only Lysa's breath and Garr's fall. For a silent blink, the river of air turned to ice. Lysa's arms tightened until Arin could not breathe. Kael slammed the gate and pushed it closed. Metal ground and locked. They were free—barely.
Outside, the night air hit them like an ocean. They ran into a narrow back lane, then down steps that led deeper toward the service tunnels. Lysa sobbed once and then kept moving. Her feet did not falter. The old man clutched the metal box and breathed raggedly. Kael dragged them forward with practiced hands.
They found a small maintenance door and slipped into a machine room that hummed with old engines. The place stank of oil and hot metal. Pipes ran across the ceiling like veins. Arin's fur was wet with sweat and river water from their escape. He curled into Lysa's scarf and listened.
"Garr…" Lysa said at last, voice thin. "He saved us."
Kael did not answer for a long time. He sat on a crate and set the metal box on his knees. He opened it. Papers spilled like secret birds. Many were burned edges where the old man had tried to destroy them. Others were wet and smeared. Still, there were names and dates and notes—proof.
Arin could not hold his small paws still. He pushed himself up and stepped onto Kael's knee. The Predator's Mind buzzed with anger and a new focus. Garr had died, maybe, to save them. That mattered. Rules could demand sacrifice. The new rule formed in Arin's head: when a friend stands in the gap, you must carry the truth further.
Lysa wept quietly. She wrapped her hands around Arin and said, "We owe him. We will not let this die in his place." Her voice was small but full of steel.
Kael closed the box slowly. "He bought you minutes with his life," Kael said. "He knew what mattered. The institute will search the river, the markets, and every safe house. We must move again and move quick."
Arin's thoughts were a thin line of fire. Predator's Mind flashed to the items in the files: strange symbols, a list of coordinates, and one repeated word that prickled his memory—Prometheus. He had seen the word before in the photograph. It felt like a center point, a place where many rules had been written.
"We head north," Kael said. "Old routes. Less watched. We hide, then we plan."
They left the machine room and moved under the city. The maintenance tunnels smelled of rust and old water. Rats crossed quickly and disappeared. Lysa limped a little. Her hands shook when she tied a cloth around Garr's head. The old man moved with them, muttering prayers to gods that might not exist. Arin kept his mind on patterns: how many guards they had seen, where the alarm had blinked, and which exit had opened them to the street.
At a small crossing, Kael stopped. "We are not clean," he said. "They watched the archive. Cameras record faces. We must assume they have a feed. We need allies."
A soft footstep sounded from the dark. Miro stepped out from behind a support pillar. The small cat's eyes shone in the dim light. He had not been seen for days, but he arrived now like a shadow with hands. He carried a small pouch and a folded note.
"You will need this," Miro said without moving his lips. He dropped the pouch into Lysa's palm. Inside were small coins, a tiny vial of strong antiseptic, and a scrap of cloth folded tight. The folded note was thin and smelled faintly of smoke.
Lysa opened it slowly. The paper read: We can help you turn the table. Midnight. Old clock tower by the river. Come alone if you must. — H.
Arin's chest tightened. A promise of help and a trap in one line. Who was H? Kael pressed his lips thin. "We must be cautious," he said. "But this offer may be an answer. We cannot move without outside hands now. Garr bought us a chance. We should use it."
The new rule settled in Arin's mind like a shard: truth draws teeth. When you find a way to fight, you must expect offers—some true, some false. Choose carefully.
They moved by safe paths through back alleys. A few nights later they reached a low safe house Kael knew of. It smelled of old bread and pipe smoke. Lysa wrapped Garr's body with care and placed it on a narrow bed. She set a small candle beside him and stared as if expecting him to breathe.
At dawn, Kael gathered the papers. The metal box was lighter now but still full of enough evidence to cause a city to burn. Arin nuzzled Lysa's hand. He thought of Garr's last face—brave, stubborn, and small in a way that made his choice vast. He thought of the institute and the name on the paper. He thought of the note: Midnight. Old clock tower.
A clock tower stood near the river—a tall, crooked thing once used to tell time. Now, it was a ruin where people moved in the dark. The note promised help there. The promise also smelled like bait. But secrets did not move without allies, and allies sometimes came in risky forms.
Arin curled into a little ball on Lysa's lap. He felt the rule they had learned stretch into a new shape: when you find a wound in the world, you can either hide it or press at it. Garr pressed. He had given them a way to press. Arin would not waste that gift.
Night came like a slow breath. The safe house door closed. Lysa and Kael stood with the papers spread across a table. The old man lit a match and watched the flame. He said nothing. The night kept its own counsel. Arin slept little. He listened to the hush beyond the walls. He heard distant boots that could be anything—patrols, traders, or watchers.
When the hour grew near, a soft knock sounded at the safe house door. Lysa froze, then moved to open it. Outside, a shadow waited. No face, only a coat and a hand gloved in black. The hand held a single card with a simple symbol: a clockwork gear within a ring.
A voice said softly, "Midnight is the right choice. Come to the clock tower. We will prove we are not the institute."
Lysa's fingers trembled as she closed the door. Kael looked at the symbol and then at the papers. "We go," he said. "But we take only what we need. And we watch."
Arin felt the new rule hum in him: when the world leans toward violence, choose those who ask the right questions. Garr had given them time. Now they would use it to find allies—or die trying.
As they left, Arin glanced at Garr one more time. The candle flame blinked and then steadied. Outside, the city breathed cold. The river moved like ink. The clock tower stood dark and waiting.
Under the skin of the night, a small device in Garr's jacket twitched. It was no larger than a coin. A thin light pulsed once, then twice, and then sent a faint signal out into the dark.
Somewhere, machines woke.