The Manufacturing Biome's alleys were a labyrinth of steam and shadow, the air heavy with the tang of molten steel and the distant clang of forges.
Syn moved with purpose, his olive uniform blending into the crowd of workers, though his mind was a storm of doubt and calculation.
Mia trailed a few steps behind, her white hair tucked beneath a cap, her slender frame weaving through the throng with ghostly ease.
The plan to infiltrate the palace and uncover the shapeshifters' hiding in the depths weighed on Syn like a lead shroud, each step a gamble against the Kingdom's watchful eyes.
He couldn't shake the possibility of being followed by someone—an unseen blade hovering over him, ready to fall.
To avoid suspicion, Syn didn't head straight for the safehouse.
He led Mia on a winding path, stopping at a grimy food stall where drones served synth-protein skewers and bitter stim-drinks.
They sat at a rusted table, the hum of the Biome drowning out their low voices.
