Around 10 p.m., the city was trying for quiet and passing for order. Emily sat at the window, forehead to the glass—not heavy, just there. Hum. Rain. Rumble. She traced three words on the pane with a finger, fogging it a little: Edge. Mirror. Leash.
The work phone buzzed. Unknown. She picked up.
“Yeah?”
“Nice writing,” a voice said. Not the one from last night. Younger, lighter. “The part about systems having manners—I liked that.”
“Who is this?”
“Someone who doesn’t want bad press. And who wants you to pick a fight with the people who actually make the calls.”
“Names?”
“Later. Just a tip for tonight: if you’re going back in the tunnel—bring someone who’ll ask you questions while you look.”
“Why?”
…
