Anya held her stick tighter. It felt good in her hand. The soft clinking sound from inside the old Hydro-Pumping Station was definitely made by a person. It wasn't the sound of animals or trash. Anya's gut told her it was Caspian.
She moved like a quiet hunter, slipping through a big hole in the station's broken wall. Inside, the building was a huge, empty space, like a giant, forgotten factory church. Big, rusty pipes hung from the high ceilings, dripping water onto the concrete floor. Weak, dirty light came through broken skylights and dusty windows, showing tiny specks of dust dancing in the old air. The place felt huge and empty. It was made for giant machines, but now it only echoed.
The clinking sound got louder. It was coming from deeper inside. Anya stayed in the shadows, moving from pillar to broken machine. Her senses were extra sharp. The air smelled old and metallic, like rust, and also faintly sweet – the clear smell of fresh spray paint. She was very close.
She walked around a giant, broken machine, its gears frozen in time. And there he was.
A thin, quick person stood on a homemade platform made from old pipes and wood. He wore dark, paint-splattered clothes and a hood that completely hid his face. But Anya could see how smoothly he moved, how focused he was. In his gloved hand, he held a spray can, adding the last, tiny details to another part of the wall. This new painting was smaller, hidden from the main view, but it was just as strong. It showed many complex, connected gears, with one gear being slowly crushed by something heavy that couldn't be seen. It was like the broken gear in the painting outside.
This was Caspian. The hard-to-find ghost of Grimstone's art rebellion.
Anya took a breath, letting him know she was there by shifting her weight slightly, her boot making a faint scrape on the floor. The artist froze, his hand still. For a long moment, there was only the sound of dripping water and the faraway city hum. Then, slowly, Caspian turned. He wasn't surprised, but he was very careful.
"You're not police," a voice, surprisingly young and tired but strong, echoed in the big space. It was muffled by his hood, but clear. "They move like brutes."
"No," Anya replied, stepping fully into a narrow beam of light. Her stick was still in her hand, but she held it loosely, not ready to fight. "I used to be police."
Caspian stayed still, his body tense. "Former Guard, then. What do you want? Come to clean up the city's dirty secrets?" He sounded a little bitter.
"I saw your work," Anya said, pointing vaguely towards the huge painting outside. "The one of Elara. The clockmaker."
When Anya said Elara's name, Caspian's shoulders seemed to drop, and his body shook a little. He lowered his spray can. "She was a good woman. Kind. Saw too much, I guess." He then jumped down from his platform, landing softly. He still kept his hood up, so his face was a mystery. "What do you care, ex-Guard?"
"She helped me once," Anya admitted, her voice low. "And what they did to her... it's wrong." She paused, letting her words hang in the air. "I want to find her. I want to know why they took her. You paint their crimes, Caspian. You see their hidden sides. Tell me what you know."
Caspian was quiet for a long time. Anya felt his hooded eyes studying her carefully. The air felt charged with unspoken questions, with the heavy feeling of not trusting each other. He was the voice of the city's rebels, and she was a ghost from its broken justice system. A huge gap separated them, built by years of betrayal and disappointment.
Finally, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper, "They're not just 'cleaning' the streets, ex-Guard. This is bigger. They're searching for something. And they won't stop until they find it."