The corridor spat them into a storage bay under the river road, concrete sweating, lights pretending to be moons. The air tasted like wet cardboard and copper wire. Above them, trucks moved in short, irritated bursts, a metronome built by people who didn't believe in songs.
Kael checked the exits. One door with a broken panic bar. One roll‑up with a padlock that looked strong because it had learned to look strong. Two vents that lied about where they went. Amara's mirror caught no watchers. Callum's shoulders said he expected some anyway.
Arden set the shard on her tongue for half a second and pulled it back out. The metal came away warmer. The bay remembered them. It was impolite but useful.
"We make them come here," she said. "We keep the fight inside the box we choose. We don't use the book."
"You always say that before you use it," Olli said, laying out dampers and a cable that had decided to kink out of spite.
