Embers of Discontent

Liora’s POV

Liora slammed the heavy metal door behind her and Torian, pressing herself against its cool surface as the echoes of that distorted voice—her voice—faded into the bowels of the server room. Torian lay sprawled on the concrete floor, muscles slack from the paralysis dart. He’d come to with a gasp a moment ago, eyes wild, but as he struggled to sit up he met her gaze with relief so raw it nearly knocked her off balance.

“L–Liora?” he rasped, voice rough. “You… you heard her?”

She knelt beside him, slippery nerves coiling around her spine. “I did. On the monitor. She called us out by name.” Her palms stung from scrubbing her gun hand against her coat. “A council ghost—a founder—live. And she knows who we are.”

Torian rubbed his jaw where the dart grazed his skin. “She called me Torian Vale. That means… she was in our family documents. A sister? A cousin?” His brow furrowed as he tried to piece together genealogies suppressed by the Council’s whitewash. “What do we do now?”

Liora exhaled, fighting the tremor in her chest. “We find Sector H.” She rose, arranging the jammed light from her wrist‑lamp to reveal a battered transit map pinned crookedly on the wall. Sector H lay abandoned for decades—razed during the first Great Crackdown, the “cleansing” the Council called it. All records said it was uninhabitable. But in whispers she’d heard echoes of a hidden enclave there: old rebels turned ghosts, holding the key to the Council’s deepest archives.

Torian blinked. “You’re not thinking of going there alone.”

She smirked, slipping her pistol back into its holster. “I’d rather have you along than negotiate with a council ghost.” She reached out, tugging at his sleeve. “Get up. We’ve still got two hours before the safehouse grid goes dark.”

He pushed himself to his feet, every movement protest lodged in his bones. She bit back a protective instinct and instead brushed a lock of sweat‑dark hair from his forehead. For a heartbeat, the fluorescent corridor narrowed to their shared space—her hand on his arm, his pulse fluttering beneath her fingertips. The moment was too fragile to name, and so they ignored it. Besides, there were bigger ghosts to chase.

They crept down a spiral staircase, every footstep a susurrus of shared purpose. Outside, the alley’s neon haze mingled with drizzle, painting the world in smeared blues and crimsons. She guided Torian toward the extraction van—the one Aldren had stationed two blocks away before vanishing into the night with Echo’s recorder. The rear doors stood ajar, engines idling, red beacon throbbing like a warning beacon.

Torian clambered in; Liora followed just as a shadow detached itself from the alley’s gloom. She caught the glint of a sniper scope, the whispered click of a disarm dart. She dove for Torian, shoving him behind the truck’s frame as two swift figures emerged—Council shadow operatives, moving with predatory elegance.

Liora’s breath caught. She drew her pistol and squeezed off a warning round; the muzzle flare crackled like a rallying cry. The operatives froze, heads swiveling, masks reflecting the van’s red glow. One raised a silenced pistol; the other unsheathed a stun baton. They were professionals—no hesitation.

She swore under her breath. “Torian—get in!”

He dove inside as a second round pinged off the truck’s side, sparks dancing. Liora crouched at the threshold, firing methodically, each shot driving the operatives back into the shadows. Behind her, Torian fumbled for the driver’s seat—Aldren was nowhere in sight.

The second operative leapt at her, baton crackling. Liora twisted, jerking her pistol to butt the stylist’s grip. The impact jarred her wrist, but she wrenched free and slammed the barrel into his chest. He yelped, stumbling backward.

A shot rang out from across the street. The first operative collapsed, clutching his thigh. The second turned, only to be met by Torian’s burst from the doorway. The bullet tore through the hood of his coat; he spasmed, baton clattering to the ground.

Silence reclaimed the alley, punctuated by their ragged breathing. Liora blinked as the van’s radio crackled to life. Aldren’s voice, tight but triumphant:

Aldren: “You worry too much about ghosts. I picked these operatives off with a turret I nicked from Sector D’s power grid. Get in—no time to argue.”

Liora shot Torian a grin that didn’t feel like enough. “See? Never doubt Aldren’s sense of humor.”

He climbed into the cab; she followed, slamming the doors. The van roared to life, tires singing as they lurched away from the ambush site. Rain slapped the windshield, wiper blades fighting for visibility.

Torian exhaled, voice shaky: “That was too close.”

She tapped the dashboard display—coordinates for Sector H appeared, brittle and promising. “The closer we get to our ghosts, the more alive they feel.”

He stared at her, disbelief mixing with something warmer. “You make it sound… hopeful.”

Liora unfastened her seatbelt. “Hope’s a weapon in the dark.” She leaned toward him, voice hushed. “And I don’t plan to lose it.”

They navigated the labyrinth of quarantined zones, the city’s pulse flickering around them. Each blockade they bypassed, each empty checkpoint they ghosted through, tightened the tension like a drawn bowstring. But nestled within that tension was the spark of something undefinable—an alliance forged in gunfire and whispered secrets, a bond stronger than any Council decree.

Behind them, the Council’s operatives lay unconscious in an alley, their mission unraveling like thread. Ahead of them, Sector H awaited—an echo chamber of lost truths. Somewhere in its ruins lived the woman who bore Liora’s name, and the secrets that could crumble an empire.

Liora settled into the ride, glancing at Torian. “Next stop: the beginning of everything they wanted to erase.”

He swallowed. “Let’s hope we’re ready.”

And as the van slipped into the neon‑scarred night, they both knew they were too deep now to turn back.