Ortego's heart ached at the sight. His brother, Foster, was slumped on the floor against his bedroom door, head lolled to the side.
A thin line of drool traced a path from his slack lips to his chin. Drooling was an extremely rare sight for Foster.
It was a testament to a tiredness so profound it had breached all defenses. The constant walking, the helping of neighbors, the visits to old folks, the two jobs—it had all finally carved away the last of his energy.
Ortego didn't want to wake him. But the pale morning light was strengthening, and Foster could be late for the very job that kept their little family moving.
"Foster," he said softly, then louder, shaking his shoulder. "Foster, wake up."
Foster jolted awake with a gasp, his eyes wild for a second before focusing. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, disoriented.
"You're drooling." Ortego said, his voice a mix of concern and gentle nagging. He handed his brother a serviette.
"You have to sleep well, especially on your days off. And not on the ground. What are you, a college student during exams?"
Foster's gaze then fell on the service weapon lying on the floor beside him. His heart froze.
Ortego's eyes followed. The boy's face tightened. "Foster… what's that for? Have you gotten into some kind of serious trouble?"
The question was quiet, layered with a fear that was far too old for his sixteen years.
"No! No, of course not."
Foster said, the lie coming out too quickly. He scrambled to his feet, his body protesting.
"I just… came to check on you. Tuck you in. As I always do." He raised his hands in a placating gesture.
"I must have sat down to look at your… your desk, or your school stuff, and just fallen asleep. I was so tired. The gun… I was just too tired to put it away properly."
He scratched his head, the picture of awkward, exhausted nonchalance. It was flimsy, but it was all he had.
Ortego studied him for a long moment, the worry not entirely leaving his eyes. "You have to be more careful." he scolded, but the heat was gone, replaced by a weary affection.
"I ordered breakfast. From that bakery you like. Used some of my allowance savings."
The words struck a deep, resonant chord in Foster's heart. This kid, his brother, was using his own meager savings to take care of him.
The weight of it was both unbearable and fortifying.
As Ortego turned to leave, he paused. Then, he turned back and wrapped his arms around Foster in a tight, seemingly longer hug than usual. It was a silent communication, a transfer of strength and worry all at once.
Stunned, it took Foster a few seconds to hug him back, his arms closing around the boy who was, in every way that mattered, his brother. It was the first real hug Foster Ambrose had given him, and it felt like an oath.
After Ortego left for school, the house felt different. Quieter, but charged with Foster's newfound resolve. The need to protect that precious, sarcastic, brilliant soul burned fiercer than any fear.
The compass was still in his pocket. An idea, half-formed and desperate, came to him. He went to his room, pulled the blood-stained notebook from its drawer, and placed the cold, brass compass on its cover.
He waited, hoping for a spark, a vibration, a direction—some resonance between the artifact of his deaths and the tool pointing to this world's secrets.
Nothing happened. The notebook was silent. The compass was inert.
"Stupid." He muttered to the empty room. It was a stupid idea.
But as he picked the compass back up, he knew it wasn't leaving his person. It was part of his kit now, as essential as his badge or his wallet.
—
The day at the UIAF was a marathon of engaging, soul-wearying conversations. The Condominium and OmniCorp deals were moving at a frightening pace. Robert was ecstatic.
"The planning committee is fast-tracking the library demolition!" Robert crowed, clapping Andrew on the back.
"The historical society is putting up a fight, of course. Withersby's people are filing appeals, mobilizing the press, the whole song and dance. But it's too late. The momentum is with us. Even the police precinct has signed off on the safety logistics."
Andrew felt a chill. Hanson's efficiency was now actively enabling the destruction. "And the Mill property?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.
"OmniCorp is salivating. The police have officially closed their investigation there. No more complications. It's a clean slate."
After Robert left, Andrew sat at his desk, fumbling with the fountain pen between his fingers.
His mind drifted back to the empty stone room beneath the mill. The frantic compass. The thought that had been gnawing at him surfaced with chilling clarity.
What if he had gotten it all wrong?
One: the compass had been going wild. The 'thing'—the entity, the authority, whatever it was, could very likely have still been in there… with him.
He just couldn't see it. The thought was vomitous. He hadn't been exploring an empty lair; he'd been standing in the same room as it, a mouse scurrying past a sleeping cat.
Perhaps he wasn't a threat. Or perhaps he didn't need to be dead yet.
Two: the logistics of his own vulnerability hit him. That heavy iron door, sealed by an old-fashioned bolt… what if it had slammed shut?
An accident? A deliberate act? He would have been locked in the dark with that unseen presence. No one would have known where he was.
He had no one to call. Not his police colleagues—he was trespassing after direct orders.
Not the Oxford Club—he knew only aliases.
Not his UIAF colleagues—it would expose everything.
And the thought of calling Ortego for help was so terrifying it made his blood run cold.
Three: if he'd been caught, seen scaling the fence by a beat cop or a vigilant neighbor, his career would be over. Both of them.
He had been playing a dangerously solitary game, and the board was rigged with traps he was only just beginning to see.
—
His walk home took him past Havelock's shop. The warm, oil-scented light spilling from the window was a siren's call.
He wanted to go in, to commune with the one person who seemed to understand the city's hidden gears.
But he stopped. Havelock had given the compass to Andrew Garfield, the slick, annoying consultant, as a chastisement. He hadn't given it to Foster Ambrose.
He passed by, the loss of the ten dollars a trivial sting compared to the growing realization. Havelock, in his infuriating wisdom, hadn't just given him a lesson. He'd given him a tool.
A scrap from a junk bin, sold for a pittance, that had pulsed with a life of its own. It was a potential lodestone, a thing that could, maybe, one day, point his way through the chaos. Maybe even point his way home.