The restraints were cold. The iron rings clamped around her wrists and ankles transmitted the chill of Jarilo-6 directly into her skin. Kafka leaned her back against the wall and breathed slowly. The dull ache in her left shoulder persisted. A wound from three days ago, when she'd escaped the abandoned mine. It had been given first aid, but every movement reminded her of it. She couldn't see. The visor affixed to her face blocked out all light completely. A sight-deprivation device developed by the Architects to counter Chaos Flame—a mechanism that made eye contact impossible, thereby sealing off mental interference itself. Even with her eyes open, there was only darkness. (Stay calm. Think clearly.) Silverwolf's habitual phrase echoed unbidden in her mind. Sound was all she had. Kafka sharpened her hearing. Distant footsteps of guards reached her ears—a pair, patrolling the left corridor at regular intervals. From the pattern of the footsteps she'd heard, she could work backward to estimate the shift change: probably every two hours. The cell floor was stone. The distance to the walls was roughly three meters, judged by the echo of her voice. The ventilation shaft was diagonally up and to the right—she'd determined that from the flow of cold air. Even with her abilities sealed, no one could stop her from thinking. But there was no way to confirm whether Silverwolf had managed to escape. That alone accumulated quietly, seeping in bit by bit. ──── Footsteps came in the morning. One person. Not heavy. Young. The pace wavered with uncertainty—different from the usual guard patrol. The lock on the cell door disengaged. The door opened. She knew it was Klint Valov the moment she heard his voice. "[serious]Where is the Stigma Organization's headquarters? How many members does it have? What star is your next target?" He spoke quickly. The speed of someone who had prepared his words and laid them out all at once. Kafka said nothing. Silence stretched. Klint pulled out a chair. Wood legs scraped against stone. He sat. He asked again. The same three questions, phrased slightly differently. Kafka remained silent. In the third silence, Kafka opened her mouth. "[cold]Have you ever gone down to the lower levels of this star?" Klint fell silent. "[cold]The lower levels—Belobog's third underground stratum. The edge of the mechanical district. Deep in the industrial sector." Her voice was low and flat. Not an accusatory tone, but one of confirmation. "[cold]The Eternal Freeze Core delivers its blessings to all 1.2 million people on this star, the Architects say. But in reality? The upper-level heating systems are perfectly maintained. Livet Street in the middle levels has shops lined up, with lights. The lower-level industrial sector has just one old heat exchanger. The walls are blackened. The smell of machine oil and rust has soaked into them. Children don't have warm clothes." Klint offered no response. "[cold]Who receives the blessings of the star core, and who doesn't—the people in the upper levels don't notice. Whether they don't notice or don't want to notice, I can't tell." Kafka didn't continue. She'd said what needed saying. The rest was for Klint to consider. A long silence followed. "[serious]...Does that justify destroying the star core?" His voice was slightly strained. Less a question than something he was telling himself. A hardness born of doubt. Kafka didn't answer. Silence again. Klint rose. The chair scraped back. The door opened and closed. The lock engaged. His footsteps receded down the corridor. Halfway down, they stopped. A muffled sound—something hitting the wall. A fist, or an open palm. That was all. Klint's footsteps resumed. This time they didn't stop. ──── As afternoon passed and evening drew near, the footsteps in the corridor changed. Heavy. Armored. One person, but walking with absolute certainty. The gait of someone with purpose. The lock disengaged. The door opened. "[cold]You've been quite quiet, Kafka." An unfamiliar voice. Fifties, perhaps. Low and dry. Devoid of emotion. "I am Garshin, an officer of the Architects. This is not an interrogation. I've come to inform you." Kafka said nothing. She listened. "[cold]You know a man named Dmitri." Something moved deep in her chest. "A liaison officer who handled the Stigma Organization's intelligence network. As of three days ago, he had completed a transaction with us. Not just your location information." Garshin's voice was matter-of-fact. Clinical. The tone of someone laying out facts. "Seven core members of the Stigma Organization. Approximately thirty support personnel. All their names, appearances, behavioral patterns. He handed us a complete list." The cell was silent. Utterly silent. "In exchange: citizenship of Jarilo-6 and upper-level residential rights. A member of the most critical criminal organization under the Star Core Protection Treaty—desired a safe life protected by the star core." Kafka's breathing changed, just slightly. "[sarcastic]Your 'freedom,' as you call it—" He paused. "—wasn't even trusted by your own comrades." The door closed. The lock engaged. Footsteps receded. Methodical. Unhesitating. Gone in moments. ──── It was quiet. Kafka remained motionless, leaning against the wall. Dmitri. A man who'd been with the Organization for years. He knew every information route. He knew every member's movements. He was one of the few people Kafka had placed her trust in. That man had sold them all for upper-level residency and citizenship. (Seven members and thirty support personnel.) Even now, at this very moment, members whose names and faces and behavioral patterns were known might be captured somewhere. Silverwolf's information would be on that list too. Even if she'd escaped, the pursuers— (Stay calm. Think clearly.) Silverwolf's voice echoed again. But now, that voice felt distant. Could she blame Dmitri? she wondered. All he'd wanted was a safe place. A place protected by the star core, where he wouldn't freeze. The upper levels, with clean air and warm rooms. In place of the freedom Kafka had promised to give him, he'd chosen something certain and tangible. (What can I say to that?) Klint's words surfaced. Your freedom is just destruction—he hadn't said it exactly that way, but in their exchange before being taken from the mine, that boy had asked something close to it. If the star collapsed after liberation, then it wasn't liberation but destruction. And Garshin had said: not even trusted by your own comrades. Both thoughts occupied her mind simultaneously now. Kafka had no answer. She hadn't had one for three days. Standing before the Eternal Freeze Core, she'd declared she would "liberate" it. That word had been true. She still believed it was true. But seeing what Dmitri had chosen—for him, Kafka's vision of freedom had been "unworthy of belief." (Do I understand anything at all?) The habitual phrase echoed like an empty shell. No smile came. There was no smile anywhere. Kafka's eyes, beneath the visor, slowly closed. Tears traced down her cheeks. No one could see them. She made no sound. In the darkness alone, they existed. She'd hidden them all along. Behind smiles, behind composure, behind the pretense of confidence—the thing she'd hidden, the strength to hide it, had run out. She wept. Silent, leaning against the cold stone wall, she wept. ──── After crying herself out, Kafka lay down on the stone floor. The night at Nabuus Harbor returned to her mind. The blacked-out district. Dark alleys. Dry, cold air and the smell of metal. And a voice. —Stars belong to no one. Stars are free. What would the person who'd given her those words say if they saw Kafka now? Abilities sealed. Limbs bound. Alone in darkness. The list of comrades handed to the Architects. Silverwolf's fate unknown. What bound her wasn't the star or the Architects, but unanswerable questions and betrayed trust itself. That alone was clear. Only that she didn't understand. There was a sensation of consciousness sinking toward the depths. ──── That was when it happened. From the upper right—the direction of the ventilation shaft—came a sound. At first she thought it was her imagination. A faint noise mixed into the sound of air flowing through the duct. But Kafka listened. It didn't stop. She heard it again. A sound like fingernails delicately tapping metal. Small. So small. And then it became words. ...Big sis. Kafka's consciousness snapped into perfect clarity in an instant. She was alive. It was Silverwolf's voice. That quiet, soft, endlessly calm voice. The voice that had traveled through the ventilation shaft was small, unable to carry more words. It couldn't deliver long sentences. But it was enough. She'd escaped. Kafka pushed herself up on her hands. The restraints clinked. Slowly, she raised her body. Her left shoulder ached. But it moved. Beneath the visor, another tear fell. This one was different from before. She was still silent. Still in darkness, alone. But this time, a single thread of voice had reached through the darkness. Not yet. It wasn't over. Silverwolf was there. She'd escaped. But—Kafka was still here. The restraints wouldn't come off. The visor wouldn't budge. Chaos Flame remained sealed. Silverwolf alone couldn't open this cell door, couldn't remove the restraints. No path to escape was visible yet. Still, Kafka placed her hand against the wall and slowly straightened her spine. Holding that single voice that had reached through the darkness close to her heart.