Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Fifteen.

I woke to the shrill sound of the morning whistle. My bed was empty, but the faint warmth lingering on the other side told me Krane had not long left. A soft smile tugged at my lips—He’d stayed longer than he said. Why did that make my chest feel so light—giddy, even?

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside my room—Jerard’s heavy boots, they slowed near my door. I held my breath, waiting for a knock or even just his voice. But after a brief pause, he moved on, the sound fading as he descended the stairs to his workshop.

I considered skipping work again. Just staying hidden in here, tucked beneath my blankets where the world couldn’t find me. But if I missed too many days, someone would eventually notice—and questions would follow. Besides, my stash of meal tickets wouldn’t last forever. I couldn’t afford to keep burning through them.

After dressing quickly, I climbed out the window rather than facing Jerard. Not yet. Not after last night. Krane’s words had helped, but the sting of being called someone else’s name still lingered, and I wasn’t ready to pretend everything was fine.

The morning air bit at my cheeks, crisp and sharp as my breath curled in small white clouds. The cold rotation was nearing—maybe two weeks away, maybe less. That meant tighter rationing, harsher restrictions, more desperation in the streets. I clutched my coat tighter around me. This was why I saved those tickets—for times like this, when food became dangerous to earn or simply impossible to find.

I took the long stair climb up to the pipe systems above. The water lines on the upper levels always froze faster than those nearer the ground. If they iced over during the cold rotation, entire sections of the City—above and below—could be cut off. I had to get ahead of it.

I planned to move fast today. No breaks, not even for food. The sooner I finished my rounds, the sooner I could slip away and check on the Upper, Calian. He still needed help. If I didn’t clean and dress that wound soon, he’d die—long before I ever got the chance to ask him who he really was, and why he was here.

~*~

Sweat clung to my brow, stinging my eyes as I worked. My arms ached from hours of cleaning and patching the long, corroded stretch of pipework. As planned, I hadn’t stopped once—not even for the midday break. My stomach growled in protest, but I couldn’t afford to rest. Not today.

The end-of-shift whistle finally blared through the haze, and I let out a breathless sigh, arms dropping limply to my sides. Every muscle screamed.

I wriggled out of the narrow crawlspace, my rubber suit slick with grime and moisture, squelching against the metal. Rising to my feet, I leaned against the railing and looked out across the city. It stretched endlessly below, the familiar glow of flickering lights and rising steam veiling the horizon in gold and gray.

My dream surfaced—the one where I stood at the edge of a lush garden, staring up at a towering spire that pierced the clouds. I blinked, squinting into the distance. Through the settling haze, I could just make out the silhouette of a nearly identical tower—right there, in the center of our City. Real, not imagined. But still impossibly far.

I’d never been that close to it. In fact, I’d never left the Makers Sector. The sectors were divided by towering walls, supposedly to “organize the city,” according to Jerard. But Krane claimed the truth was simpler: separation. Control. Keep the people divided, and they’re easier to manage.

The Medic Ward sat on the edge of the Makers and Mech districts, serving both. That meant a decent flow of foot traffic. With luck, I’d be just another exhausted worker passing through. No questions asked.

My eyes drifted to the bolts I had just tightened—rusted, jagged things holding the old pipe system together. I’d cut myself more than once when I started this job, and Jerard had insisted I visit the Medic Ward the first time it happened. He warned me about infection from rust, said it could kill me faster than any else. That visit had been tense—awkward. Jerard hadn’t set foot in the ward since his wife vanished. People recognized him, nodding politely, but no one spoke. That silence was probably the reason no one had asked for my ID either.

I crouched beside a jagged bolt, staring at it, heart pounding. What I was about to do was insane—risking my health, maybe even my life, for a stranger. But Calian held answers. Or at least a thread of them. I needed to know. Who he was. Who I was.

Desperate or crazy—maybe both.

Setting my jaw, I rolled up my sleeve and placed my forearm against the rusted metal. I shut my eyes, bracing myself.

One breath in.

Without counting or second-guessing, I shoved forward.

~*~

Inside the Medic Ward it reeked of antiseptic and cold metal. I hated it.

The sterile scent clung to my nose, sharp and unnatural, making my skin crawl. Every surface gleamed under the overhead fluorescents—bright, too bright—like they were trying to scrub the place clean of human suffering by sheer force of lighting. The walls, the floors, even the staff moved with mechanical efficiency. Clinical. Cold.

I hovered by the edge of the main hallway, rubbing at the fresh cloth wrapped hastily around my bleeding arm. No one stopped me. A few medics glanced up and then away, already consumed by their next task. But not everyone ignored me.

One of the older nurses blinked, her gaze lingering longer than the rest. Recognition flickered across her face. She gave a polite nod, then turned back to the stretcher she was guiding down the hall. Another pair of eyes followed me, then quickly looked away—familiarity, but no questions. They remembered me. From years ago, when Jerard brought me in after I nearly lost a finger on a rusted bolt.

I made my way through the side hallway, staying low and quiet, until I spotted the supply storage room. The door was cracked open just enough. I slipped in.

Inside, shelves lined the walls—rows of medic wraps, balms, sutures, and med-packs. I didn’t have time to be picky. I moved fast, grabbing what I thought necessary to clean and bind a wound like Calian’s. My pulse thundered in my ears.

“The disinfectant on the far shelf works better for deep tissue wounds.” I froze. A woman stood in the doorway, arms folded casually across her chest, expression unreadable, short brown hair tied back harshly in a ponytail. Her posture suggested military, but she wasn’t in a Guard uniform. No alarm in her voice, no accusation, just… calm. She stepped inside, picking up a small bottle and handing it to me.

“And these— antibiotics. They help with the sick. Two a day for six days. They aren't the best, but they'll help. Those liquid tubes will help flush and clean the wound” I stared, still clutching the supplies.

“You’re not... gonna call the guards?” Her smile seemed sad.

“No. I'd hoped someone would come, eventually.”

My brow furrowed. “why?” She glanced at the hallway, then closed the door behind her.

“Things need to change. Jerard ’s not the only one who lost people. Not the only one how still mourns" I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m Meya,” she introduced after a beat. “I'm Jerard’s sister-in-law. My sister—Klare—was his wife.” My breath caught.

“That’s why he doesn’t come here anymore. He never was good with the sentimental stuff” she continued gently. “Losing his wife was one thing. Losing his daughter… broke something in him. But it didn’t blind me." She gave a sad smile "I know why he took you in, Mira. You look like her, his daughter" my chest tightened painfully at her words.

We stood in silence a moment, the soft hum of equipment filling the air. Then Meya leaned closer, her tone shifting.

“There are more people willing to fight than Jerard lets on. He’s trying to protect you from more than just the Guards. But hiding won’t save anyone forever. And if you’re helping an Upper to do what's right… ” Her eyes held mine. “You’re not alone.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “They’re watching the front. Take the back exit, through the laundry chute. Comes out near the alley behind the ward. You’ll be clear of their surveillance.” I clutched the bundle tighter to my chest.

“Thank you.” she gave a tight nod.

“Go. Before someone notices.”

I hesitated at the door. “Why help me?”

“Because my sister would’ve wanted me to.” Meya’s smile returned, softer this time. “And because maybe it’s time we stop pretending none of us care.”

Heart pounding, I slipped through the back corridor, ducked down the narrow chute, and dropped into the alley below. Questions swirled in my head—about Jerard, about Meya, about the people willing to resist.

For now, I had one priority: get back to the Upper. Keep Calian alive.