Lena hands me a small black box, which I clip to my dungarees while she slips the cable underneath, pinning the tiny microphone to my shirt. Once the mic is in place, she hands me a small earpiece. I reach for it, but she clasps my hand to stop me.

“Be careful,” she says, squeezing my fingers tightly. “Watch your step out there.”

“I thought you said it was safe?”

“You’ll be fine. No one’s going to shoot you or anything. It’s just…” She presses her lips together, her brow furrowing with concern. “Look, we chose this day to break you out of reform because of the riots. Figured the wardens would have too much shit on their plates to worry about escapees.”

“But..?”

She sighs. “But you and Dani aren’t just any escapees. You, especially.”

I scoff at her, pulling my hand free and clipping the receiver on to my ear. “I’m nothing special, Lena. I just got swept up in all this mess.”

Lena shakes her head, running a hand through her hair. “That might be true. But if Harding is out there, and he spots you… He’s got it in for you, K.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm, and I notice the twitch of irritation cross Lena’s face.

I don’t exactly love Lena’s reaction to the riots—her excitement at the carnage out on the streets, the glee she showed seeing VIPs trodden in the corners. But I know she’s done a lot to help us, and the other abandoned. It’s obvious that she gave up a lot, living here on her own, shut away from the rest of Skycross with just display screens and CCTV for company.

I take a steadying breath. “I’m sorry. I’m… wound up. Nervous, I guess. Thanks for your concern. We’ll keep an eye out.”

She nods, returning to monitor the warehouse. 

Dani comes over and hands me a small pack of dried food rations. “What was that about?”

“Lena’s worried about Harding.”

“And you’re not?” There’s no humour in Dani’s expression, only fear. 

“I’m just fed up of being afraid of him.” I shrug, packing my rucksack mechanically. “Besides, after what he did to Caleb…” 

Black liquid oozes over his lips and into his mouth. Blackened saliva pools and dribbles down his chin, dragging bloodied shards of glass with them. 

My fist tightens on the rucksack’s straps as I wait for the image to fade. That image lives forever in the back of my mind, the hollow shell of my brother lying dead on the floor of the dorm. The cold sweat eases, replaced by burning rage. 

“Harding needs to pay,” I say, gritting my teeth. “For what he did. To everyone.”

“Ready?” Frank swings his rucksack over his back, tucking his thumbs behind the straps. He looks at the two of us, turning from Dani to me, and back again. His expression is almost comical—a clueless mask of confusion. “Did I interrupt somethin’?”

Dani gives him an irritated look before pulling me into a hug. “Please be careful,” they whisper, tickling my ear. “See, the thing is, I sort of like you.”

I huff a laugh, squeezing them back. “I sort of like you, too. I’ll be careful.”

Forcing myself to pull away from their hold, I turn to Frank—now blushing furiously and looking anywhere but at the two of us—and nod. “Ready when you are.”

We head for the main door, leaving Lena and Dani behind. Frank pauses with his hand on the doorhandle, holding the other up to stop me. “Let me check the coast is clear first.”

When he opens the door, the drone of anger changes into a monstrous roar. While Frank pokes his head outside to look around, I try to ignore the increasing sweatiness of my palms, the cold trickle of sweat that runs between my shoulders. 

“Alright.” He waves me through.

The alley outside is unchanged from the day me and Dani came here first. The only difference lies at the end of the road, where the alley meets Skycross’s main streets. 

Main Street is normally filled with AI cars, each keeping to a steady pace behind the other, crawling along the central lanes with VIPs mindlessly swiping their tech in the back seats. Today, the cars are overturned on each side of the road, abandoned on their sides or their roofs. Instead of cars, angry workers fill the streets, marching in from the outskirts of Skycross—the residential blocks that sprawl outwards in circles from the Central Square.

“Bottoms up.” Frank hands me a small bottle, which I uncork and drink immediately. The distinctive taste of pennies hits the back of my throat, almost making me gag. 

Frank drinks his own dose of Luck, and we fall into step with each other, heading straight for Main Street.

We join the throng of workers stamping down the road, merging into the crowd seamlessly.

“Miller Square is five blocks on the right,” Frank says in a low voice, pointing at the buildings in the distance. “We stay with the crowd, then turn off. It’ll be our quickest way through.”

I nod, holding my rucksack tighter on my shoulders. All around us, workers chant to the sky, pushing forward between the tall buildings like a flood, a river of outcry heading straight for Central Square. 

For a moment, I consider telling them where Sheridan really is, shouting at the top of my lungs; “You’re going the wrong way!”

To hell with getting the truth. Why not just send them straight to her door? She’ll be crucified. 

It would be so easy. I wouldn’t even have to take another step.

I push the dark thought away, shaken by the temptation, and focus on the road where Frank pointed. The crowd carries us along without incident, and we duck down the alley, immediately breaking into open space once we part from the crowd. 

The road runs underneath a pedestrian walkway overhead, which reminds me uncannily of the Pit in reform. I shudder at the cold sensation that trickles down my back at the memory, and push on. As soon as we leave the road, the clean stone facades merge into dirty brick walls and oil-smeared concrete ground, piled high with rubbish sacks.  

“What now?” I ask, keeping an eye out for any wardens watching us. But our dose of Luck is holding strong, keeping prying eyes at bay. For now.

Frank motions to a building a few doors down. “There’s an access hatch for the tunnels over there.”

We head towards it, and I’m grateful to leave the noise of the riots behind us now we’re in a deserted part of Skycross. When I look back over my shoulder, I can see the distinct outline of Central Square in the distance, the tall skyscraper towers looking down on everyone surrounding them. 

“Shit!” 

I turn around just as Frank kicks the service hatch in irritation. “Frank! You’ll draw attention.”

“Damn thing’s sealed tight.”

“That can’t be right…” I bend down next to the hatch—a small square manhole cover made of metal, with an airtight seal to stop the tunnels from flooding in a storm. The seal is so tightly shut it’s like the whole hatch has been vacuum packed. I grab a handle and yank it with all my might, gasping at the pain that shoots up my arms. “Okay, yeah. Sealed tight.”

Frank curses under his breath, glancing around the alley. “There’s gotta be another way.”

We split up and check around. There aren’t any other service hatches around. “Next one over?” I ask with a grimace.

He shakes his head. “Then we’d be outside of twenty-two. This one will drop us right in Sheridan’s lap.”

“Alright.” I strut back to the hatch and grab one of the handles, raising my eyebrows at Frank. “Well? Let’s give our Luck a run for its money.”

Frank sighs and takes the other handle, leaning back to take the strain. We count to three and rock backward, pulling with all our strength on the hatch. It looks like it’s not going to budge, still sealed tight, maybe even locked from the other side.

Then all at once, the hinges shriek in protest and the hatch creaks open.

Frank scratches his chin, giving me an appraising look. “Well, shit. Why didn’t I think of that?”

I shrug. “Guess I’m finally getting used to how Luck works.”

I try not to think about how it could have helped back in reform. How even a drop might have stopped Caleb from having a third vial of Oblivion, or helped Jenna keep up during our escape.

Frank leads the way, climbing down into the service tunnel and checking for wardens. It’s cold and empty down here—nothing but the steady drip, drip of water from an unseen source. 

“Almost there,” Frank whispers, pointing to a large set of warehouse doors at the end of the right-hand path. 

The number 22 is painted on the wall in white, faded with time and the grime from the city above. We move quickly, practically skipping along the tunnel and standing one on each side. We each lay a hand on a door and push, steadily, slowly—enough to prevent any noises from the hinges as they swing open.

Inside, the warehouse is identical to the one Harding captured me from—a large concrete box with very little light and a musty smell. But where the warden’s storage was packed with shelves of boxes—syrups and armour and uniforms—this one is totally empty.

Empty, except for the woman sitting on the floor in front of us, her hands cuffed behind her back. It’s difficult to see in the dim light, but certain features stand out—her closely cropped, platinum blonde hair. The pastel business suit, which, before it was ripped from rough handling, fit her slight figure perfectly. 

Ordinarily, she would cut a stern, commanding figure. But no one would quake at the sight of this broken woman. 

She raises her head slowly, and I suck in a sharp breath. I’m sure I’m seeing things, some flashback of Caleb again. I blink my eyes, desperate to make the image fade.

But no matter how much I try, the streaks of black still stain her chin, running down her neck and pooling in a sticky, inky mess on her silk blouse.