The armored van's engine roared to life, its exhaust spitting black smoke into the alley. Anya knew she had precious seconds. Charging directly was suicide; two heavily built CID enforcers against one former guard, in an alley that was rapidly losing its shadows to the approaching dawn.
Her eyes scanned the familiar terrain. A stack of rusted Grimstone Steel crates, a teetering pile of discarded data-slates, and above it all, a fire escape ladder, its lowest rung just out of reach. She moved, a blur of motion. Her baton wasn't just for striking; it was a lever. Jamming its hooked end into a gap in the crates, she leveraged her weight, sending the precarious stack toppling with a deafening clatter.
"What the—?!" one of the enforcers yelled, spinning around. The other, still wrestling with the van's rear door, cursed loudly.
The distraction bought her the crucial instant. Anya launched herself, grabbing the lowest rung of the fire escape and hauling herself up with desperate strength. Boots scraped on metal, and a second later, she was scrambling onto the first landing. Below, the enforcers were already recovering, pulling out their stun-batons.
"CID! Stop right there!" one barked, his voice echoing.
Anya ignored him, scaling the grimy ladder with practiced ease. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind was cold, calculating. She couldn't stop them here. Her only chance was to track them. From this vantage point, she could get a glimpse of the van's route, maybe even its unit number.
Reaching the rooftop, she risked a quick glance back. The van was already accelerating, a dark shape vanishing into Grimstone's winding street network. Damn. Too fast. But as her eyes swept across the skyline, a splash of rebellious color caught her eye.
High on the decaying concrete wall of an abandoned factory, overlooking the very district Elara had just been dragged from, a new mural had appeared. It was stark, vibrant, and fiercely defiant, painted in shades of electric blue and furious crimson that seemed to pulse even in the pre-dawn gloom. It depicted a blindfolded figure, hands bound, but with a single, glowing tear falling from beneath the cloth, illuminating a broken gear. Below it, in bold, sweeping strokes, was a single word: SILENCED.
Anya knew that art. Everyone in the Lower Spires did. It was the signature of Caspian, the elusive street artist whose work was both a comfort and a provocation to Grimstone's oppressed. His murals were never just pictures; they were manifestos, calls to action, truths whispered in broad daylight.
She took a photo with her ancient comm-link, a blurry image in the dim light. The van was gone. Elara was gone. But Caspian's art was a new message, a new lead. If anyone knew the hidden paths, the whispers of the underground, it would be him. And if he was bold enough to paint this here, tonight, perhaps he knew more about these "sanitation" sweeps than anyone else.
Anya clenched her jaw. Her self-imposed exile was officially over. She had to find Caspian.