The duct pressed in on him, scraped metal tight enough that Ren's shoulders brushed both sides every time he pulled forward. He shifted mid-crawl and felt the change go wrong before it went right—bones trying to pull inward, catching on themselves, joints misaligning for half a beat. His elbow slipped. Metal kissed harder against his ribs.
He forced the shift through anyway. Skin blurred. Structure tightened. His ears crawled higher, dragging heat with them, flattening against the duct. His eyes narrowed. Fingers thinned, claw-tips catching where blunt nails had skidded a second ago.
His breathing hitched, then had to be found again—shorter, sharper pulls to match the smaller frame.
Air moved in thin, stale currents around him. It carried old dust and something metallic-sour that stuck to the back of his tongue. The duct walls held a cold that smeared across his skin with every inch he crawled. Each push forward sent ticks and creaks echoing ahead of him, louder than they should have been, like the metal was repeating him to itself.
He kept his head low. Tail tucked tight. No extra space to waste.
Sound carried wrong up here. The tower's bones shifted and spoke through the metal like someone clearing their throat right next to his ear. A fan somewhere below rattled in a steady, tooth-loose chatter. Twice he froze as footsteps rang directly under him—clear, too clear—each impact punching up through the duct and into his chest.
"Subject 4-C's deterioration continues," a voice drifted up through a vent seam. "We'll have to mark this batch soon."
"The buyer didn't specify condition," another replied. "They want patterns. We send patterns."
Ren swallowed. His throat stuck halfway through it, dry enough that the motion scraped.
He moved on.
The scraping from the other cell sharpened as he got closer. It wasn't random. It had teeth to it. Rhythm.
Chew. Spit. Mumble.
Chew. Spit. Swear.
He angled toward it.
At the next junction, he slowed. Lowered himself carefully onto his elbows and eased toward the vent.
Air pushed up through the slats, warmer than the duct, carrying a different smell—stale food, old blood, damp cloth. It slid across his face and into his nose. Below, the sound changed shape, filtered through metal into something flatter, thinner.
He peered down.
Same layout as his cell. Bed. Table. Toilet. Camera.
But the air in this one felt worked over.
The back wall had been turned inside out. Every scrap stripped and stacked: screws, foil folded into points, plastic shards, wire that shouldn't have come loose from anything in here. It sat in a messy, deliberate pile like something waiting to be used.
In the middle of it, kneeling by the floor vent, was a girl.
Short. Lean. Movements tight and economical, even when she paused. Her breath came through her nose in short bursts between bites at the metal. Hair stuck out in uneven clumps, like it had been fought and lost. Shirt marked with old stains—dark, dried, layered. Pants cut short at the calves.
Her jaw shifted as he watched. Not fully human. Teeth pressing through where they didn't quite belong yet.
She bit down on the vent.
Metal groaned.
"I swear," she said around it, voice rough and dragged thin, "if this grate wins, I'm—"
She yanked back, spat rust, went in again.
Ren shifted his weight forward a fraction to see better.
The duct answered.
A thin whine ran through the metal under his elbows. Not loud. Not sudden. A drawn-out complaint.
He stilled.
The panel dipped, barely.
His arms trembled. Not enough strength left to hold perfectly still. The earlier run still lived in his muscles—small, involuntary shakes that traveled out into whatever he touched.
The metal dipped again.
He could pull back. Slow. Careful. Lose the angle.
Or hold and risk it.
The scraping below continued. Chew. Spit.
He held.
The screw under his right elbow slipped a fraction with a dry, grinding tick.
Ren exhaled, tried to redistribute—
Too late.
The panel tore loose with a sharp, ripping squeal.
He dropped.
Air punched out of his lungs the instant he hit. Shoulder first, then ribs, then the rest of him collapsing into Sumi in a tangle of limbs and metal. Pain flared bright and fast along his side. For a second, everything went thin and white at the edges.
"—shit—"
"—ow—"
They hit the floor hard enough to rattle the pile of scrap.
Sumi reacted before either of them had their breath back. She twisted under him, fast, teeth snapping up and catching his forearm. Not a bite—yet—but close enough that he felt the scrape and the heat.
Ren's vision doubled for a beat—two of her, offset—before snapping back. His ears rang. His balance lagged half a step behind his body.
He snarled anyway, sound rough in his throat, ears up, eyes narrowing to slits.
"Get off—" she hissed, the words breaking in the middle as she sucked in air. Her jaw stuttered between shapes. Teeth wrong, then right, then wrong again.
"Stop—" Ren jerked his arm, breath hitching, "—chewing—"
He yanked free, rolled, pushed himself up. His shoulder protested. Something along his ribs felt bruised deep. His stance came together a half-second late, weight shifting, correcting.
He settled into a crouch anyway.
Sumi sat up slower. One hand braced behind her. The other hovered near the pile of scrap, fingers flexing once before settling. Her eyes tracked him in short, precise jumps—hands, shoulders, throat, back again.
"If you're—" she started, stopped to swallow, tried again. "If you're here to kill me… do it quiet. I'm—" a breath, sharp, "—working."
Ren's gaze flicked to the mangled vent.
"That your plan?" he said, voice still rough. "Chew your way out?"
She grabbed a bent screw without looking, arm tightening like she might throw.
A shadow passed over the ceiling. Heavy steps in the corridor.
Ren's ears twitched toward the sound.
"Shut up," Sumi whispered. She snapped her fingers once.
The sound hit wrong.
It bounced, then came back a fraction off—same snap, but thinner, like it had been flattened and slid sideways. Ren's ears pinned back instinctively.
Out in the hall, boots slowed.
Then turned.
Then kept going.
A second later, the same steps came again—further away, misaligned, like they'd been dragged and dropped out of place.
Ren's head tilted without him meaning it to. The sound didn't sit right. It layered over itself, edges not matching.
"You just—"
"Didn't—" she swallowed, shook her head once like she was clearing something. "Just… gave them what they thought they heard. A second ago." Her voice came in pieces, breath breaking it up. "They follow that. Easier."
Under the floor, someone swore and moved off, chasing the wrong direction.
Ren's lips pulled back—not quite a smile.
"You can—" he started, then stopped, recalibrated. "Make it stick?"
"Sometimes." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a smear. "Short. Close. Gets… messy if I push."
She glanced at the vent again. Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
Ren jerked his chin upward.
"My way up," he said. "Your way out."
She looked at the hole, then back at him. Her eyes narrowed again, slower this time.
"You did something to the cameras," she said.
Ren rolled his shoulder once. It clicked, then settled.
"They're—" he paused, feeling for the right word and not finding a clean one. "Behind. A little. Seeing what I was doing, not what I am."
"That's…" she huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. "Stupid."
A beat.
"Useful."
"Ren."
She hesitated.
Not long. Just enough to notice.
"Sumi."
The name landed strange in the room. Too clean.
A buzz cracked through the speaker overhead. A bored voice spilled out, flat and uninterested.
"All staff, prepare anomaly shipments for seventeen hundred hours. New buyers on the eastern network. Reminder: data first, specimens second."
Sumi tipped her head toward it.
"That's us," she said. "Whatever we do, they watch it. Numbers go up, we go out."
Ren felt the walls press a little closer.
"Nice system," he muttered.
"Yeah." She pushed herself up, slower than she wanted, one hand briefly bracing on the table before she moved. She started scooping scrap into her pockets, movements quick but not wasted. "So. You mess with what they see. I mess with what they hear. We—"
She stopped. Reconsidered mid-sentence.
"—we confuse them. Enough to move."
"Or," Ren said, shifting his weight, testing his ribs again, "we split. Get lost. Die somewhere they don't check."
She watched him for a second longer than before. Measuring.
The building groaned. Lights flickered—dim, bright, dim again. Something deep in the structure shifted load with a low, dragging rumble. The air pressure changed just enough to feel against his ears.
Sumi exhaled through her nose.
"Fine," she said. "Together until that stops making sense."
Ren stepped toward the wall beneath the vent. Reached up.
Paused.
Then offered his hand.
"Try not to bite me," he said.
She eyed it. Then him.
Then took it.