Grimstone was a city that never truly slept, but it often feigned unconsciousness. As Anya descended from the rooftops into the grimy arteries of the city, the false dawn was giving way to a pale, smog-filtered morning. The alleys, which had been cloaked in the shadows of the CID's raid hours earlier, now buzzed with the muted hum of early vendors setting up stalls and the scuttling of scavengers.
Finding Caspian, she knew, would be harder than dodging a CID sweep. He was a ghost, a legend whispered among the desperate, his work appearing overnight like defiant blooms of rebellion. No one knew his face, his real name, or where he laid his head. His art was his only calling card, and it was deliberately transient – a message delivered, then left to be painted over or decay.
Anya started her search where Caspian's voice was loudest: the heart of the Lower Spires. This district, a sprawling slum beneath the oppressive shadow of the upper city, was his canvas. She walked, her eyes scanning walls, abandoned shopfronts, and underpasses, not just for fresh murals, but for the subtle clues only someone who understood the city's hidden language could read. Leftover paint streaks, discarded stencils, even the distinct pattern of a particular brand of spray can nozzle.
She moved with the effortless flow of someone who knew every crack in the pavement, every blind spot from a surveillance drone. Her time in the City Guard hadn't just taught her to fight; it had taught her to read Grimstone like a book – its moods, its dangers, and its secrets. She stopped at a vendor selling stale nutrient paste, not to buy, but to listen. The vendor, a woman with eyes that had seen too much, was murmuring about a new "ghost" appearing near the abandoned Hydro-Pumping Station.
"Heard some kids talking," the vendor whispered, without prompting. Her gaze, however, lingered on the faded scar above Anya's collarbone – the faint, circular mark of a CID stun-prod. "Said it appeared just after the sweep last night. Bold, that one."
Anya simply nodded, leaving a couple of tarnished coins on the counter. The Hydro-Pumping Station. That was further out, on the district's forgotten fringes, near the polluted river that wound through Grimstone's industrial heart. It was a less visible spot, yet also more dangerous. Caspian was either getting bolder, or he had something truly urgent to say.
The journey to the station took her through even grimmer stretches of the city. Dilapidated factories exhaled acrid smoke, and the sky seemed perpetually bruised. The air grew heavy with the smell of chemicals and the distant, rhythmic clang of unseen machinery. This was the true engine of Grimstone's wealth, powered by the unseen labor of its forgotten citizens.
When she finally reached the perimeter of the abandoned Hydro-Pumping Station, the silence was almost deafening compared to the constant thrum of the city. Weeds pushed through cracked concrete, and massive, rusted pipes snaked across the ground like petrified serpents. The building itself was a hulking, skeletal ruin, its immense walls scarred by decay.
And there, dominating an entire section of the largest wall, was Caspian's latest creation. It wasn't vibrant this time. It was a stark, almost monochromatic piece, rendered in shades of grey, black, and unsettling crimson. It depicted a towering, faceless official figure, its hand extended, not in charity, but in a gesture of crushing, controlling power. At its feet, barely visible, were tiny, struggling figures, one of whom looked unmistakably like Elara, the clockmaker.
The raw power of the mural, its desperate cry for recognition, hit Anya with the force of a physical blow. Caspian wasn't just an artist; he was a witness. And if he was willing to put this much of himself on the line, he might know far more than just whispers.
As she stepped back, absorbing the message, a faint clink echoed from inside the cavernous, derelict building. Then another. The sound of metal on stone, quiet, methodical. Someone was inside.
Caspian.
Anya drew her baton, its familiar weight a comfort. Her heart rate, once again, quickened. This was it. The start of something irreversible.