The sign at the mouth of Shaft C said Please Keep Moving in three different handwritings. Someone had added SERIOUSLY underneath and then crossed that out like it was tempting fate.
I touched it.
With the chalk. Light. A test kiss. The stone pushed back so hard the chalk squealed and snapped in half. The sound echoed wrong, bending and coming back thin, like it had gone around a corner and forgotten something.
"Okay," I said. "That's new."
The Mimic thumped behind me, then stopped. It didn't like this place. Its lid stayed shut. Teeth quiet.
The drift wasn't visible at first. No flicker. No flare. Just… disagreement. The floor wanted to be a wall. The wall wanted to be somewhere else. Dust slid sideways, paused, then fell up for a second before giving up.
I rang the bell. Once. Steady.
Nothing.
I rang it again. Harder.
Somewhere far off, another bell answered. Not close enough.
"Great," I said.
I set the toolbelt down and rolled my shoulders. The weight coming off felt wrong, like forgetting a limb. I took out a fresh chalk stick, heavier than the last. The oilcloth stuck to my fingers.
"Stay," I told the Mimic. It didn't move.
I pressed the chalk to the seam that wasn't there. The stone resisted like it was offended by the idea of being told where it was. My wrist burned. The chalk vibrated, metal veins singing. The line jittered, broke, tried to curl.
"No," I said, out loud, like that helped. "Flat."
The drift pulled. Not hard. Insistent. Like a coworker leaning in your space. I braced my boot. The wrench on my belt clinked even though I wasn't wearing it. That felt bad.
Behind me, the Mimic whined. A low, wet sound.
"Don't," I said. "This is not your problem."
The line took. A little. The dust hung, sideways. The floor shuddered. The hum deepened.
I leaned harder. The chalk squealed. My shoulder screamed. The stone gave an inch and then snapped back.
I lost my footing. The drift grabbed my ankle and pulled. Not down. Sideways. The world tilted. The wall rushed my face.
The Mimic moved.
It slammed into my leg, dent-first, a solid, stupid impact. Thump. It knocked me out of the pull and took it instead. The can slid, scraping, lid snapping as gravity argued with itself.
"No," I said, scrambling. I grabbed the wrench, jammed it into the chalk line, twisted. The resistance fought like a rusted bolt with opinions. The wrench clinked. The line brightened, then dulled. The pull eased.
The Mimic stopped sliding. It lay on its side, lid ajar, drool pooling.
I dropped to my knees. The bell rang like it was yelling now.
"Hey," I said, stupidly. "Hey."
The Mimic twitched. One tooth fell out. Another started pushing through.
I grabbed the chalk and finished the line, hands shaking. Pressed until the stone gave and the drift sighed and let go. Dust fell like it remembered where down was.
Silence. The bad kind that checks its watch.
Marla arrived at a run, breath sharp. "What happened."
I pointed. "Drift."
She saw the chalk, the wrench jam, the scrape marks. She saw the Mimic.
Her jaw tightened. "Did it interfere."
"It" I stopped. The Mimic made a small noise. Loyal. Gross. "It was in the way."
Marla closed her eyes. Opened them. "Auditors can't see this."
"I know."
She knelt by the Mimic, poked it with her boot. It groaned. "Idiot," she muttered, not unkind.
"Is it"
"It's fine," she said. "They're tougher than they look. And they look like trash."
Relief hit me hard enough to make me dizzy. I sat back against the wall.
Marla stood. "You don't touch Shaft C alone again."
"I rang."
"You wait," she said. "You don't be a hero."
"I wasn't."
She snorted. "Good."
The Mimic righted itself with effort. Thump. It leaned into my leg and stayed there, dent warm.
I didn't push it away.
The bell rang once, quiet this time.
The drift was logged.
And somewhere above us, a clipboard scratched.