Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Twenty-nine.

Evening in the Lower City didn’t bring peace—it brought routine. The Lower City always looked the same—steel blue, furnace-smoke tangling with the last breath of the day cycle. Lights buzzed overhead, casting pale amber tones over cracked stone and rusted steel. Pipes dripped. The air smelled faintly of metal, oil, and old sweat.

It hummed with the usual din—grimy boots scraping across metal, tired voices trading stories and complaints, the hiss of vented steam rising like sighs from the underbelly of a world that never slept. Everything looked normal. Too normal. Like the city didn’t care that we were about to cross a line we couldn’t uncross.

It felt surreal—like I was moving through someone else’s life.

My bag weighed heavy on my shoulders as I moved along the edge of the street. Calian walked ahead, just far enough to avoid suspicion, just close enough that I could still see him. His hood was pulled high, shoulders tense, gait measured and calm. He didn’t look back—he didn’t need to. There was a kind of understanding between them now. Unspoken—that strange tether we’d formed somewhere along the way.

My mind drifted to Jerard. He still wasn’t home when I left. What would he think when he returned to an empty house?

Would he panic? Would he assume I’d run off with Calian to the surface, finally chasing those dreams he never approved of? Maybe I should’ve left a note. But what would I even write?

Hey Jerard, gone to expose dangerous Upper secrets. Might die. Don’t wait up.

Yeah, that would’ve gone over great. Krane was supposed to meet us at the door to the sector—I’d sent him a message before we left. Calian had noticed, his eyebrow twitching as I pulled the device from my bag. I caught his expression and stuffed it away quickly.

Our plan was simple: blend in, reach the restricted sector before the night whistle, slip in, grab what we needed, slip out.

Don’t die.

Simple.

But my mind wasn’t on the plan. It drifted, to the past few weeks, to the swirling turmoil that seemed to have taken over my life. Calian asking to take me above, Krane’s shift in attention towards me.

I didn’t know what to do with all of it.

We rounded a corner, and the street holding the restricted sector stretched out in front of us, eerily empty. I moved slowly, boots crunching debris and broken tile.

A chill crawled down my spine, hair prickling the back of my neck. Something felt… off. I paused.

I scanned the rooftops, the narrow, broken windows and pipes. Nothing. Just shadows, rust, and steam. I spun at the faint sound of movement behind me—nothing but shadows and distant footsteps. The street looked just as empty, but the hairs on my neck rose, the tingling buzz of being watched crawling over my skin like static.

I started walking again, forcing each step forward. Calian was halfway up the street now, his head turning slightly in search of me. Krane appeared at the far end of the street, his silhouette unmistakable. Even from this distance, I saw the moment his eyes landed on Calian—saw the flicker of tension in his jaw, angry scowl covering his face.

I started to jog toward them, eager to close the distance, when a squad of guards stepped out from a side alley, boots heavy and precise, and my stomach sank. The commander’s piercing blue eyes swept across the scene. Krane and Calian half stepped backwards, fear replacing the scowl as Krane glanced at me.

The commander looked between us—Calian, Krane, and me—and for a second, I could see the wheels turning in his head. Recognition. I didn’t breathe. The commander’s gaze locked on Calian. His body tensing.

“You two—halt!” he barked. “This zone is restricted!” Panic crashed through my body, heart thudding wildly against my chest.

“No,” I breathed. “No, no no—” Then those ice-chip eyes landed on me. His face twisted, lips curling in recognition, in rage. I was the Lower who’d slipped through his fingers before.

“Run!” I screamed, the sound tearing from me like a spark to dry tinder.

Chaos erupted. The guards pivoted toward the boys, Krane started forward instinctively—toward me—but Calian grabbed his arm, dragging him back. Krane resisted, his feet skidding, desperation written across his face. I met Krane’s eyes—furious, desperate—and I tore my gaze away before I lost my nerve.

I couldn’t afford to freeze, I had to give them time. I turned toward the commander with fire in my throat.

“Oi! Slugs!” I shouted, locking eyes with him, satisfaction curling at the corners of my lips as his face flushed red. “You useless, overbred designer babies can’t even catch a scrawny Lower? What a waste of pretty uniforms!”

His rage hit boiling point. “Seize her!” he barked.

I turned and ran. The street exploded behind me—boots pounding, weapons drawn, shouts chasing me like ghosts. Frustration and panic warred in my chest.

Why did it always have to go wrong? Why did I always end up running for my life, as if the universe itself had decided I wasn’t allowed to know the truth?

‘Why me?’ The thought tore bitterly through my mind.

I tore through the crowd spilling out into the next junction, people staring as I shoved past, their confused faces blurring. The sharp whistle of the guards’ commands sliced through the air. They were gaining.

‘Again. Just like before. Run, Mira. Run!’ I screamed at myself. My lungs burned while my legs screamed.

I needed to disappear before they used those damn weapons again. The memory of searing pain flared hot enough to fuel my legs into overdrive. I shoved through the crowd, darted down another street, heading toward the broken edge of the district.

If I could just reach one of the old collapsed buildings, I could crawl through the gaps and down into the forgotten maintenance tunnels. Maybe even loop back around to the restricted zone.

That was the plan. But the universe didn’t care. I skidded around a corner—and stopped dead.

A wall.

Dead end.

My heart dropped. “No no no—” I turned on instinct, sprinting back the way I came, lungs burning. My eyes searched wildly for an alternate street, another gap, anything.

The commander stepped into view, guards at his flanks, weapons raised. There was no escape now.

“Stop!” one of them shouted. “Hands where we can see them!” My feet slid to a halt. My arms went up before I could think. My breath came in short, ragged bursts.

This was it. My eyes darted between the guards, heart hammering, brain screaming.

‘I was really f****d now.’

Hands in the air, staring down the barrels of Upper-level guns and the blinding glare of their torches, I couldn’t help but wonder—how the hell had I ended up here?

One of the guards was barking for my papers. My pulse thundered in my ears as my eyes flicked nervously between them, my chest tightening with the start of a panic attack. Fake papers could be made… but if they were discovered, the punishment was death. And a forged Lower ID? Impossible. Each number was stored in their central database, easily verified by the handheld scanners they carried. The system didn’t make mistakes.

One of the guards stepped forward and struck me across the face. Pain exploded across my cheek, the impact sending me stumbling to the cracked concrete. My vision went white, ears ringing, before I could make sense of anything, another guard grabbed my arm and twisted it sharply behind my back. I cried out, only to be silenced by another brutal blow.

To them, we weren’t people. We were pests—vermin to beat, to break, to discard. I heard the digital chirping of their scanners searching both my arms for a chip. But there was nothing to find.

I was f****d.

“She has no ID number, sir,” the guard holding me reported.

Another man stepped forward—clearly the one in charge. His boots were polished to a mirror sheen, far too clean to have seen much time in the Lower District. He wore a pristine, tailored coat and a pin on his chest that marked him as someone important. Too young for the rank, too pretty for the grime. Maybe twenty-four, if that.

Another one of those perfect, pre-designed Uppers. Custom-made in a lab to be smarter, faster, prettier, colder.

“Who are you?” he demanded, voice clipped and controlled.

I met his gaze without flinching “Go f**k yourself, slug.” I sneered, spitting on his boots.

The next hit sent stars spinning behind my eyes. I tasted blood, my jaw throbbed, my head swam. I barely registered the commander crouching down in front of me, his too-perfect face close, piercing blue eyes practically glowing in the dark.

“I’ll ask once more, filth,” he growled, tone low and dangerous. “Who. Are. You?” I clenched my jaw, said nothing. A flicker of a smirk tugged at the edge of his lips. Like he enjoyed this.

“Very well,” he stated, standing again. “You’re under arrest in accordance with section 12 of the Estel Dome code, article three, for failure to provide ID, and for unlawful presence near a restricted zone. Interrogation will follow. And as per regulation, failure to register a citizen at birth is a punishable offense. Your parents—or guardians—will also be investigated.”

My blood ran cold.

Jerard.

He’d be punished. Maybe arrested. Maybe worse. Krane. Strem. Even Calian—if they traced any of this back to him—

I barely noticed the guard approaching until I was slammed face-down to the ground, a knee pressed hard against my back. The commander gestured lazily.

“Take a blood sample for record-keeping.” I struggled, kicking out in vain. Another blow landed in my side with brutal force, knocking the wind from my lungs. Pain flared, sharp and deep—I was pretty sure something cracked.

I felt the cold sting of a needle pierce my skin, before a long, low whistle rang out. Rising, unmistakable.

The rebels.

I barely had time to process the sound before the world detonated.

An explosion ripped through the street. I was thrown like a rag doll, my captor flung with me. My head collided with something hard—metal, stone, I couldn’t tell—and everything went black.