Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Ten.

Against my better judgement—due to the over abundance of curiosity and stubborness—I crept forward, slow and deliberate, every step wrapped in a layer of instinctual dread. The hairs on the back of my neck rose like someone had traced a cold finger along my spine.

I wasn’t alone. Someone was watching.

I scanned the edges of the street—half-collapsed walls, a burned-out transport hull, a pile of rusted scrap—and forced my feet to keep moving. Minutes passed, or maybe it was seconds, the tense time blurring together until I spotted it: a small, rust-choked door wedged between two fractured slabs of concrete. Almost invisible if you didn’t know what to look for.

But I did. It was the same one Krane and I found a few months back. It was still locked, of course, no surprise there. But next to it—half-buried under dust and soot—was a P.I.P. reader, still glowing faintly.

This district was power-dead, redirected years ago. No one lived here anymore, no one dared too. And yet, the reader blinked at me like it had been waiting. I pulled the card from my pocket, turned it over in my hand. The holographic chip shimmered faintly, catching the gray light like a secret.

Krane had risked everything to get this. Lied to Strem, to Jerard. Risked a beating for it. And here I was—alone, steps from using it, without him. The guilt hit sharp and fast, settling like ash in my mouth.

This wasn’t just my mystery to solve. What was the point if I had no one to share it with? I swallowed hard. The right thing would be to turn around, apologise for yesterday, bring him back, and head in together.

I started to turn, and froze.

Someone stood there, silhouetted in the half-light, ragged and still. My breath caught in my throat, heart slamming against my ribs like it wanted out.

'Desperate people are dangerous.' Jerard’s voice thundered in my head.

The man took one shaky step forward, the dim light making his skin appear gray. Filthy, half-starved. Eyes hollow, skin pale beneath layers of grime. He fell to his knees like his legs had stopped working hours ago and only just got the message.

Then, barely above a whisper—his voice cracked and raw—he looked up

“Please… help me.”

He crumpled. Hard. Right at my feet.

Well, s**t.

~*~

Flickering, half-broken lights spilled a dull, orange haze from the buildings near the city’s center, casting everything in sickly halos. I stood in the shadows, heart ticking fast, eyes sweeping the deserted street below.

No guards. No patrols. Just the low hum of failing power lines and the kind of silence that made your skin crawl. Still, I didn’t move.

A long breath slipped out of me, shaky and sharp around the edges. My thoughts spun like rusted gears—loud, grinding, stuck, swirling with unanswered questions. I pushed a strand of raven-black hair behind my ear, weighing the consequences of my decisions, while trying, unsuccessfully, to make sense of what the hell I was doing.

The Upper had collapsed right in front of me.

Unconscious. Bleeding. Barely able to speak.

And what did I do? Bolted. Halfway up the street before my conscience came storming in like it owned the place. He’d clutched his side, fingers slick with blood, the dark stain spreading fast. A gash like that wasn’t going to fix itself. Not in this part of the city. And not any part he would be welcome in.

I could’ve left him. I Should’ve. Gone home, told Jerard I’d found the missing Upper, he’d report it, or turn him in. End of story.

Except, it wouldn’t be.

Because I knew what that meant—what the guards did to people they didn’t have a use for. He was already on the edge of death, and I wasn’t heartless enough to push him the rest of the way.

So instead—cursing my own recklessness and because I have the survival instincts of a curious deranged rat on its last life—I dragged his half-dead weight into the least collapse building three blocks down. A busted window out front, a rusted-out door leading to a once used storage room, dust thick enough to choke in.

Perfect.

He was out cold. Probably had been since he hit the ground. His side was torn open, the skin raw and jagged like something had tried to rip him in half. Blood soaked the filthy mat I’d laid him on, and I didn’t have nearly enough supplies to make this look heroic.

I let out another sigh. A long, exhausted one this time. The kind that said well done, Mira, you’ve really f****d yourself now.

“I swear,” I muttered, crouching beside him, “if you die and get me executed for treason, I’m haunting you.” He didn’t answer.

Obviously.

The restricted door still called to me. It just sat there—quiet, rust-flaked, and humming faintly with potential—like it knew I wasn’t done with it. Like it was daring me to come back.

But I couldn’t. Not yet, guilt winning over curiosity this round. So, I played lookout. Perched in the shell of a long-abandoned office, elbows resting on a cracked windowsill, eyes trained on the empty street below.

The restricted zone was still. Eerily silent.

The whistle for the break shift whined in the distance, followed seconds later by a low, impatient growl from my stomach. Lunch hour. Great. I’d officially missed two meals and one perfectly good opportunity to mind my own business.

I sighed and stood, stretching stiff muscles before ducking back inside. The Upper was still unconscious, sprawled on the floor like someone had dropped a ragdoll and forgot to pick it up.

I’d done what I could with Jerard’s patched-together medic lessons—wiped as much blood away as I could, tightened the medic wrap on his side, removed the worst of the grime from his face—but it wasn’t enough. He needed better supplies, and I could feel he was beginnig to burn up. I was running out of time.

The building groaned as a hiss from a steam pipe sounded outside, the old walls settling like they’d just remembered I was squatting here. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was wrong. No city clatter, no distant drills or clanks or metal-on-metal racket, even the usual hum and thump of the internal workings was faint. Just the rustle of vermin and the occasional creak of something I’d rather not identify.

I didn’t like it, it made my skin crawl.

I slipped out the door, stuck to the shadows, and made my way toward the shop district.

I’d hoped to avoid trading anything valuable, but desperation had a way of changing priorities. By the time I was done bartering, my pack sagged heavier, and my heart lighter—sort of.

One beat-up water bottle. Food rations to last a few days. A threadbare blanket which smelled like it’d been fished out of a drainpipe. A few scraps of medic gear—gauze, sealant powder, half a roll of wound wrap that was probably expired years ago.

And all it had cost me was another pressure stone, and best wrench.

My favorite wrench. The one with the heat-wrapped grip and smooth teeth, perfect for tight valve corners and rusted pipes.

“Upper better be worth it,” I muttered as I crammed the last item into my backpack. It wouldn’t be enough to fix him, not by a long shot, but it might keep him alive long enough to open his eyes.

And if I wanted to actually heal him…

I’d need the real stuff. Which meant sneaking into the Medic Ward. The thought alone made my stomach turn.

I was just passing through the half empty streets, heading back toward the restricted district with a backpack full of guilt and half-baked plans, when movement flickered at the edge of my vision. I froze, ducked behind a crumbling wall, and peeked out through a jagged c***k where brick had fallen away.

Yup. A full sweep team.

They moved in tight formation—silent, precise, and armed to the teeth. Six of them in the usual black city guard uniforms, gear scuffed and dust-streaked. But the one in front? He practically glowed.

Their commander.

Even in the haze of the Lower streets, he stood out like a chrome gear in a pile of rusted junk. Tall, mid-twenties at most, with blond hair slicked back like he’d stepped out of a recruitment poster. Blue and black uniform, crisp and impossibly clean, tailored within an inch of its life to hug the kind of build that said I work out, but also probably have gene-editing to thank. The kind of body built in a lab, not a weight room.

And those eyes—icy blue, unnatural. Almost luminescent in the dull glow of the streetlamps. Definitely one of the designer babies. The kind of Upper mommy and daddy paid six figures to custom-print. No poor qualities, no fear. He was too perfect to be real. And real dangerous because of it.

'I wonder if they custom-size their d***s too?' The thought caused my cheeks to redden. 'What the s**t, Mira? Why would you think that?'

I held my breath, shoulders pressed to the wall, watching as they fanned out across the street. Their eyes scanned every shadow, lingering on faces, mostly younger men. They were comparing bone structure, squinting at jawlines and height like they were running facial matches in their heads.

Looking for him. The Upper.

My stomach dropped, a cold stone forming just beneath my ribs. If they found him—injured, delirious, vulnerable—they’d keep digging. Guards didn’t let things go. Not when it involved one of their own. And if they traced him back to me?

Jerard wouldn’t stand a chance.

The restricted sector—The Old Quarter, they use to call it—had been off-limits for years. Part of the sector, the one Krane and I had been trying to get into, had been locked down after the sickness hit. Everyone who got sealed in, never came out. Rumor was the air itself had become poison. Not that any of it stopped scrappers from sneaking in to gut whatever tech was left.

The place was a ghost of the past, full of broken things no one wanted to remember. Power had been cut to most of it ages ago—what still worked ran off buried backup grids the city didn’t even bother to monitor anymore.

Like the one powering that little rust-covered door. The one with the glowing P.I.P. reader. Hopefully, that meant no cameras, no footage. No trace. Just a bleeding Upper and secrets on the verge of dying with him.

I pressed a hand to the weight of the pack slung across my shoulder, hauling it higher as I turned away from the patrol. Not now, I’d have to check on him later—if he made it that long. Right now, the guards were too close. Too alert. But hopefully still too dumb to look thoroughly.

I slipped back into the deeper streets, heading toward the centre of the Makers District, heart still pounding. There were other things I could focus on. Like Krane. And Jerard. And the fact that I might’ve just painted a target across all of our backs.

Again.