Captain Hanson's order was a stone in his gut. "Wrap it up. Closed. Today." The words were a legal and professional shackle.
To disobey was career suicide, a direct insubordination that a man like Hanson would not tolerate.
But the compass was like a live wire in his pocket, its persistent, warm thrum a counterpoint to the cold finality of the command.
He stood on the station steps, the city sprawling before him.
To his left, the path of the dutiful officer—back to his desk, to the forms, to the lie of "case closed."
To his right, the path the needle pointed—east, towards the silent, sturdy form of the Ironweave Mill.
He thought of Leo, the cheerful mechanic with grease-stained hands, his head smashed in for the crime of listening too well.
He thought of the OmniCorp VP, Mr. Ignacio, with his bloodless smile, already measuring the land for his logistics hub.
If he was going to be complicit in handing over the place where a man had died, the least he could do was uncover the truth of that death. It was the only form of vengeance left to him.
He turned right.
The walk to the mill was a journey into a different city. The sleek chrome and aetheric glow of the central districts gave way to soot-stained brick and the lingering scent of rust and old steam.
The compass's pulse grew stronger with every block, a silent drum leading him on. He felt a bizarre sense of certainty.
For the first time since he'd fallen into this world, he wasn't guessing, wasn't theorizing. He was following.
He reached the mill. It loomed behind a high, chain-link fence, its windows like sightless eyes.
The main gate was padlocked, a yellow police tape still fluttering from it, a brittle symbol of an abandoned investigation.
This was his first obstacle. Climbing it as a police officer would be a violation. Climbing it as a civilian would be trespassing.
He was neither. He was something else now. He found a shadowed, debris-strewn section of the fence, away from the street.
With a final glance around, he scaled it, dropping silently onto the cracked asphalt on the other side.
The compass in his hand was almost hot now, the needle pointing rigidly towards the main factory building.
The employee entrance was sealed with a more modern electronic lock. Another obstacle.
He pulled out his multi-tool, the one he used for repairs at Havelock's and for the occasional stubborn evidence locker.
He wasn't Neil Humphrey, but he understood basic mechanics.
He pried off the faceplate, his heart thudding against his ribs, every sound magnified in the profound silence. He bypassed the power feed, and with a soft click, the lock disengaged.
The door swung open into darkness. The air that washed over him was frigid, carrying the familiar, coppery scent of old bleach trying to mask the deeper, metallic odor of blood. And beneath it, something else. A smell like ozone and wet stone.
He pulled his police-issue flashlight, the beam cutting a swath through the oppressive gloom.
The great looms stood frozen mid-motion, shrouded in dust cloths, looking like the skeletons of prehistoric beasts.
His beam swept across the floor, finding the faded outline where Leo's body had lain.
The compass in his other hand vibrated, not towards the body, but past it, towards the rear of the vast space, where Leo's workbench stood.
He moved carefully, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous room. The cold intensified the closer he got to the bench. His breath plumed in the flashlight beam. This was no natural chill.
The workbench was a disaster zone of tools, schematics, and components.
But the compass wasn't pointing at the bench itself. It was straining downwards, towards the floor. Foster knelt, running his hand over the cold, concrete floor.
His fingers found it—a nearly invisible seam, a square cut into the concrete, almost perfectly concealed by grime and shadow. A trap door.
It was heavy, made of iron, and sealed with a simple, old-fashioned bolt. Not an electronic lock this time, but a physical barrier.
He slid the bolt back, the rasp of metal on metal unnaturally loud. He took a deep breath, gripped the rusted ring pull, and heaved.
The door opened with a groan, revealing a yawning darkness that smelled of damp earth, decay, and that same sharp ozone.
A set of narrow, steep stone steps descended into the black.
The compass was practically leaping in his hand, the needle pointing straight down into the abyss. This was it. The source. The heart of the mystery.
He shone his light down the stairs. They vanished into darkness after a dozen steps. He had no idea what was down there.
_A Grifter's den? The lair of something with the authority of concealment?_
His every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to report this, to follow orders.
But Captain Hanson's orders were a lie. And the compass, for all its absurdity, was the only truth he had.
He took the first step down.