Singh’s fingers moved from memory. ID: W-Singh-7 . Password: a string of alphanumeric gibberish he'd been forced to memorize last month. Token: the six-digit number from the fob on his belt.

He turned back to his terminal. The screen glowed with the words:

Singh sat up. Zone 7 was the old manganese mine—supposedly sealed after the border realignment three years ago. Thermal shadow meant something had moved through recently enough to leave a heat trace, but not recently enough to be active now. Something big. Something with a thermal signature that didn't match vehicles or people.

The reply was instant:

He pressed play.

> Who is sending this?

The screen flickered. For a split second, Singh saw something that wasn't a login prompt—a grainy black-and-white image of a corridor he didn't recognize, lined with five empty chairs. And in the sixth chair, a figure in an ISF uniform, head tilted back, eyes open.

He typed slowly, almost unwillingly: