The stench hit her first.
It was sharp, chemical, not the earthy tang of wood smoke but something heavier—industrial. Evelyn slowed her pace, boots scraping against the uneven cobblestones of the alley. The air clung thick in her throat, the taste of scorched metal biting at her tongue. Sector 12 was alive with noise, but not the usual hum of commerce and chatter; tonight, its heartbeat was the crackle of flames and the distant wail of sirens struggling to break through the din.
Rico jogged a few paces ahead, scarf pulled up to shield his nose. "It's coming from the east quarter," he called over his shoulder, urgency in his voice. "Close to the river."
Evelyn followed, her eyes sweeping the shadowed windows and half-lit doorways they passed. There were eyes on them—she could feel it. Shapes flickered in the periphery, retreating into darkness at the sound of approaching boots. In Sector 12, survival meant seeing before being seen, knowing the danger before it knew you.
The streets narrowed, pressing them between walls patched with mismatched bricks, steel plates, and graffiti that screamed defiance in faded colors. A mural of a child holding a sunflower stretched across one cracked facade; its bright yellow petals were now smeared with soot drifting in from the fire.
"Who would do this?" Rico's voice was muffled by the scarf, but the disbelief cut through.
"Someone who wants to send a message," Evelyn said, keeping her tone even though her chest tightened. "And someone who knows exactly where to strike."
They turned the final corner, and the scene exploded into view.
A warehouse loomed ahead, its corrugated steel walls engulfed in orange flame. The fire roared like a living thing, swallowing the building piece by piece. Smoke churned skyward in thick black columns, blotting out the stars. The glow lit the faces of the gathered crowd—a sea of silhouettes frozen in a shared moment of shock.
The city's underfunded fire crews were already there, their hoses sputtering in fits, struggling against weak water pressure from a grid that hadn't been repaired in years. Sparks leapt from the inferno, riding the wind into nearby buildings. Volunteers formed a human chain, passing buckets of water scavenged from street pumps.
The crowd was restless, voices rising and breaking into fragments:
"They said it was electrical—"
"No way, I saw men go in before the fire started—"
"Burn it down, that's what they want—"
And then, like a thread stitching the murmurs together, Evelyn caught it: a name.
Hale.
The syllable cut through the chaos, repeated in low, bitter tones.
Her gut clenched. Marcus Hale's promises had been ambitious—renewal, jobs, sustainable infrastructure—but every pledge came with strings, and not everyone in New Knight believed his sudden change of heart. If these whispers were true, this wasn't just an accident. It was targeted.
Dr. Valdez's voice broke into her thoughts. Evelyn hadn't even noticed her mentor step beside her. The older woman's sharp gaze never left the flames.
"This isn't random," Valdez said flatly. "It's surgical. They're cutting away resistance before it has a chance to grow."
Evelyn looked around. Sector 12 had always been stubborn, fiercely independent from corporate influence. Many of its leaders had spoken openly against Bio-Future's expansion. A fire here, at the heart of its supply network, would cripple the district's ability to resist.
She took a step forward, weaving through the crowd toward the line of fire crews, when a sudden crack split the air—a pane of glass shattering high above. Heads turned in unison as a figure stumbled into view in the second-story window.
For a heartbeat, the figure was backlit by fire: a hunched silhouette, coughing violently, one arm clutched tightly around a scorched leather satchel. Without hesitation, they climbed over the sill and dropped onto the awning below. The crowd gasped.
Evelyn surged forward as the figure tumbled from the awning, landing hard on the cobblestones. The satchel thudded beside them. By the time Evelyn reached them, their knees were buckling. She caught the stranger under the arm, easing them down. Their face was streaked with soot, eyes wide and glassy.
"They… they can't… know," they rasped. Their voice was barely audible over the fire's roar.
Evelyn glanced at the satchel, its flap burned at the edges. She pulled it open and froze.
Inside was a bundle of papers, charred at the corners but still legible. Every page bore the Bio-Future Corporation seal. She flipped through—contracts, project blueprints, chemical reports. One page stopped her cold: an authorization for the disposal of hazardous materials, signed by Marcus Hale himself, redirecting toxic waste into the river that fed directly into Sector 12.
The fire wasn't meant to destroy property. It was meant to destroy evidence.
She looked up, scanning the rooftops instinctively. That's when she saw them—a figure standing on the edge of the opposite building, motionless. Their coat snapped in the heat-born wind, a glint of something metallic in their hand catching the firelight. The figure lingered a moment longer, then turned and vanished into the smoke.
"Evelyn!" Rico's voice cut through the haze. He was pushing toward her, his scarf hanging loose now, his expression tight. "We have to get out of here—fire's spreading."
But Evelyn wasn't moving yet. She could feel the weight of the satchel in her hands, heavier than its contents should allow. This was leverage. Proof. The kind of proof people would kill to bury.
The stranger coughed, pulling at Evelyn's sleeve. "Make… them… pay." Their hand slipped from her arm, body going slack.
Evelyn checked for a pulse—still there, but faint. She looked up at Rico. "Help me get them out. Now."
As they maneuvered through the tightening crowd, Evelyn's mind was already racing. If Hale's people were behind this, they wouldn't stop at burning one building. The satchel's survival was an accident—an accident she doubted would go unnoticed for long.
When they reached the edge of Sector 12, Evelyn risked one last glance over her shoulder. The warehouse was collapsing inward, flames devouring the last of its frame. And above it, smoke churned into the night like a dark banner unfurled—a signal that the real fight was only beginning.
The fire would burn out by morning. The truth it was meant to hide would not.