Souls Below - Rebellion

Chapter Five.

He looked at me for a long time. His throat bobbed once in a swallow.

“Thank you,” he said. Quiet. Sincere. The weight pressing down on my ribs felt a little lighter.

Jerard stared down at the table, jaw clenched tight, eyes flickering with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. The gloves lay there—simple, sturdy, new. The kind he used to wear before his fell apart seam by seam. Beside them, the apple gleamed under the weak kitchen light, impossibly red. He said nothing.

His hands trembled as he reached for the gloves. Fingers rough with work brushed the fabric as if it might vanish beneath his touch. I sat across from him in silence. Manes—the metalworker two doors down, and one of the few people Jerard trusted—had told me about his birthday last year. Told me Jerard hadn’t celebrated since his daughter died.

Now, he picked up the apple with reverence and turned it slowly in his hand. His eyes were glassy. Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the old folding knife he always carried. The blade clicked open, catching the light as he began slicing the fruit with the kind of quiet focus I’d only ever seen when he was repairing something important. Like this mattered.

He held out a wedge, causing my breath to hitch. I’d never tasted one before. Well, at least not that I remembered.

Apples had disappeared from the Lowers years ago, before my rescue. No one really knew why—some blamed disease, others said the soil had finally given up. Most of us blamed the Uppers. Greedy bastards, hoarding whatever nature had left to give.

I took the slice and brought it to my nose, inhaling something that smelled impossibly fresh, biting in tentively. My eyes fluttered shut. The flavor exploded in my mouth—sweet, tart, cold and crisp. Nothing like the stale food packs or limp synthetic fruit I was used to. It was alive. For a moment, so was I.

A quiet chuckle made me open my eyes. Jerard was watching me, the corners of his eyes creased in genuine amusement. He passed me another slice, and I didn’t hesitate.

“I didn’t think I’d ever taste one again,” he admitted softly. “Used to be in every ration box. Back when the system worked. Before the agri-sector failed. Before… everything.” I glanced at the gloves again, the gift suddenly feeling far too small.

“Why’d they stop sending them?” I asked.

He leaned back with a sigh. “Growing trees down here’s impossible. No light, no working tech. Without the argi-sector there was no chance to continue. And up there? Who knows. Maybe they stopped because they had too. Maybe they just stopped caring.”

“Sounds about right,” I muttered. “The Uppers take and take. Hoard whatever they can, let the rest of us rot.” Jerard’s smile faded. He looked at me—really looked.

“Not all is as it seems, Mira. We don’t know what’s happening up there, not really, any more than they know what goes on down here.” I scoffed, the words already forming on my tongue. “From what we under—”

A sudden, thunderous knock shattered the quiet. It echoed through the walls, deep and deliberate—nothing like the casual tap of a neighbour or customer. Jerard froze, his knife hovering mid-air. We stared toward the front door, neither of us breathing.

Another knock, harder this time. Whoever it was—they weren’t here to wish him a happy birthday.

No one ever came to Jerard’s house unless it was urgent. All his business happened in the shop or the back office—neutral ground, where nothing too personal ever touched the floor. Another pound hit the door, louder again. A second later, a voice cracked through the stillness, sharp and authoritative.

“Jerard Gearmaster! Open up to the Capital Guard!” I barely bit back a scoff. Capital Guard. What a ridiculous title. Just puffed-up thugs in gleaming armor playing at order while the city crumbled beneath their boots. But the sneer never made it past my lips—because my blood had already gone cold.

Jerard’s sharp hand motion sent me moving. No hesitation. Just instinct. I bolted up the narrow stairs two at a time, heart jackhammering in my chest. In my room, I slid silently to the floor, grabbed the uniform and boots I’d dumped near the bed last night, then reached into the cupboard for the emergency pack—sealed months ago, maybe longer. Just in case.

Another knock, this one heavier. Three deliberate raps. Not the kind you ignored. I crouched beside my bedroom door, easing it open just a sliver, just enough to see down the hallway. The front door came into view, the thin wedge of lanternlight from outside slicing across Jerard’s frame.

He stood still, hand hovering inches above the side drawer. The one with the wrench inside—the real kind, the kind that didn’t tighten bolts but shattered cheekbones. He didn’t grab it, not yet, but he was ready.

The door unlocked with a sharp snap and creaked open no more than a c***k. A tall figure stood on the stoop, backlit by amber light from the alleyway. I couldn’t make out his face—just the coat, dark and clean, the hood shadowing everything above the chin.

“Jerard Gearmaster?” the voice asked. Male. Low. Even. Like a stone dropping into a still pond. Jerard remained silent. “I’m looking for someone.” The man pulled a disc from inside his coat and flicked it on. A grainy holograph blinked to life between them—a flickering image of a young man. Upper-cut features. Wild, untamed hair. Face half in shadow.

My stomach dropped. It was him. The hottie upper from the Trade Market.

“He was spotted in this district earlier today,” the man continued. “You seen him?”

Jerard didn’t blink. “Don't look familiar.” The man’s gaze sharpened, though the shadows kept most of his face hidden. He knew. He knew Jerard was lying. But Jerard didn’t flinch.

“You sure?”

“I don’t make a habit of memorizing strangers,” Jerard replied coolly. “'Specially ones who don’t come through my shop.” A tight silence stretched between them. The man’s voice dropped a degree.

“What about the rumors? About a lower with no ID number?” My spine stiffened. I couldn’t breathe.

“Can't say I've heard anythin',” Jerard remarked, calm as ever. “Last girl without tags was taken four years back. Rebels took her in, if I recall. Bad end.” The man studied him for a beat longer, then clicked off the holograph. Slipped the disc back into his coat.

“If you do see this one…” He produced a card—flat, metallic, official—and laid it gently in Jerard’s palm. “There’s a reward.”

Jerard didn’t look at it. “Good night.” He started to shut the door. The man stopped it with a single hand.

“Be careful,” he warned, voice dipping low. “They’re saying this one’s dangerous, Jerard. Killed someone on the way down.” But the lock clicked into place before he finished. Jerard stood there for a moment, shoulders drawn tight. He turned slowly, still holding the card, and leaned against the door like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

I padded down the steps. My voice came out hoarse.

“That was the Capital Guard.”

Jerard nodded once. “Supreme, by the look.”

My throat went dry. “They don’t come below Tier six.”

“Not unless it’s important.” He looked down at the card then, lips pressed in a grim line. “Which means your friend at the market brought a storm with him.”

I wrinkled my nose. “He’s not my friend.”

Jerard gave me that long, tired look—the kind that saw more than I wanted him to. “He made eye contact with you, Mira. That’s enough for the for the guards if they found out.”

Makers. He was good. Too good. I opened my mouth, some defense on the tip of my tongue, but he raised a hand.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s gone now. And you’re going to work tomorrow. Not chasing ghosts.” The apple slices still sat on the table between us. Untouched now. The gloves too. That warmth—the rare moment of peace we’d shared—had evaporated. In its place: silence stretched taut over the sharp edge of fear.

'They’re saying this one’s dangerous,' the man had warned. The words echoed in my head like a bell tolling something final.

I swallowed hard. “What if they find him?” Jerard didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room instead and pulled the curtain back just enough to peer outside. Watching. Listening. The Guard hadn’t moved on. Not yet.

“They won’t,” he said finally. “Because if they do…” He let the words trail off, unfinished. But I heard what he didn’t say. What he didn’t have to.

'If they find him, they might find you too.'

I put the pack back in its place beneath the floorboard, covering it with the worn slats and the old crate that sat over them. Just in case. Always just in case. I dropped onto the bed, arms limp at my sides, and stared out the window.

The city pulsed faintly beyond the glass, half-shrouded in steam rising from some cracked pipe below. The haze curled like smoke, catching in the corners of alley lanterns and backlit doorways, flickering like dying embers. Nothing about it looked safe. It never did. But tonight, something felt worse. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

The guards knew something.

Not everything—but enough to start asking questions. Enough to come knocking at doors they usually ignored. Just rumors, for now, whispers passed from mouth to mouth across sector lines. But rumors had teeth. And teeth meant blood.

Footsteps. Jerard’s—slow, deliberate, heavier than usual. I didn’t move. Just kept staring at the amber-lit haze. He paused outside my room, then pushed the door open, without a knock. He didn’t speak right away, just stood in the doorway, fingers still curled around the handle. Watching me. There was a crease between his brows he usually kept hidden. Tonight, it showed.

“Lay low,” he ordered finally. His voice was low, quiet. Firm. “Work and home. No detours. No distractions. Not until they catch the Upper. We can’t risk it.” I nodded. No argument, not this time. Whatever had dragged a Supreme Guard down into the Lower tiers wasn’t going to stop until it had what it came for. And right now, that meant every glance, every shadow, every wrong step could get someone hurt. Or worse.

Jerard watched me another beat, like he was about to say more. Instead, he just left. The door clicked softly behind him. I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down my face. Outside, the city kept flickering—cold light through steam, like a dying thing pretending to breathe.

This was going to be a long, boring few weeks.