The walk back blurred past in cold, echoing segments. Skadi found her thoughts snagging on the report she'd filed before leaving the hub. A dry, cautious document that didn't come close to the sick pulse of fear twisting in her gut.

Haven might read it. Might even send someone. In a month, maybe two, by the time the paper stacked its way through half a dozen bored clerks. And if they did? If inspectors started sniffing around?

Fenrik would be waiting for them long before they ever reached the door.

Skadi stepped through the hatch into her family's quarters, boots heavy with fatigue. The warmth hit first. A welcome contrast to the cold, industrial corridors outside. The scent of stew lingered in the air, faint but comforting. From the common area came the low murmur of conversation.

She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the wall hook, pausing as her mother's voice carried around the corner.

"Fenrik, I'm serious. Whatever you're doing out there, you need to stop before it gets worse."

Fenrik's chuckle followed. His voice was light, casual, just shy of smug. "Relax, Ma. You worry too much. I'm just keeping an ear to the ground, nothing more."

"You're not fooling me," Yrsa replied, her voice firmer now. "I know when you're up to something. And with the Hold stretched this thin, the last thing we need is you stirring the pot."

Skadi stepped into view, gaze flicking between them. Yrsa stood at the kitchen counter, towel in hand, halfway through drying a dish. Fenrik leaned against the wall, arms crossed, expression painted with that familiar charm he wore like armor.

"Stirring the pot?" Skadi said. Her voice came out sharper than she'd meant. But she didn't take it back. "Try dumping it out entirely. You should've seen the chaos at the plant."

Yrsa turned, frowning. "You mentioned that before. What happened?"

Skadi tossed her gloves onto the table, raking a hand through her hair. "The protest turned into a riot. People scrambling for water like it was oxygen, which, let's be honest, it practically is. And Fenrik here? Right in the middle of it."

Fenrik raised his hands in mock innocence, grin unfazed. "Now hold on. I didn't start anything. I was just… there."

"Just there," she repeated, her tone flat. "You were egging them on, Fenrik. Don't act like you're some bystander."

Yrsa's gaze shifted. "Fenrik?"

He shrugged, still smiling. "Ma, people are angry. They've got a right to be. All I did was speak the truth."

"The truth?" Skadi snapped. "You mean fanning the flames until the whole plant was inches from collapse?"

His grin faltered enough for the edge beneath to show. "You think I don't see what's happening out there? People are starving, freezing. Dying of thirst. If I don't speak up, who will?"

"That's not what this is about," she said, stepping forward. "You're not standing up for them. You're using them."

"Enough." Yrsa's voice cut through the room like a blade.

Skadi stopped. Her hands had balled into fists. Fenrik, ever graceful, leaned back against the wall again, the grin sliding back into place.

"Fenrik," Yrsa said, quieter now, "I'm asking you. Stay out of trouble. Please."

Fenrik tilted his head, just enough to sell the sincerity. "Of course, Ma. You know I'd never do anything to put us in danger."

Skadi rolled her eyes and turned away. She knew that look. Knew exactly how he twisted his words to keep their mother from seeing the frayed edges beneath. He was lying. Or worse, he believed what he was saying.

She ducked into her room and let the door slide shut behind her. The tension didn't ease. If anything, it knotted tighter in her chest.

She slumped onto her bed, hands covering her face.

The riot. The creature in the pipes. Fenrik playing hero while the world unraveled.

None of it added up.

The rest of the night passed without incident, but not without weight.

Skadi slept fitfully, her thoughts circling the splash, the shadow, the echo in the pipes. No dreams came, only fragments. Cold metal. Running water. The hush of something watching from the dark.

When morning finally came, it was with no sense of rest. Just the faint hum of heaters and the press of another day against her ribs.

The chime of Skadi's morning alarm buzzed in the room. She blinked once, then twice, eyes gritty with half-sleep, before dismissing the alarm with a groan.

The Hold lights had shifted to their dim, rust-colored day setting. Barely enough to call it morning, but the schedule didn't care how well you slept.

She stretched stiff limbs, sat up, and pulled her work shirt from the bedpost, already bracing herself for the chill. Her breath puffed faintly as she padded across the room, stepping into her boots and tugging on the thermal overshirt she usually left by the sink.

She turned the tap.

Nothing.

She twisted it again. Back, then forward. Waited for the telltale sputter of air pressure and rust-tinged flow. But only silence answered. No hissing, no pipes groaning. Just the hollow click of the valve and the echo of something not working.

Skadi leaned closer, listening. Nothing. Not even a drip.

She tried the kitchen line next. Same result. No warning on the wall console, no ration alert. Just… nothing.

She cursed under her breath and crossed to the front hatch. Maybe a junction failure. Maybe something worse. Before she could dig up the contact code for maintenance, a knock sounded. Three quick raps on the hatch.

Skadi opened it to find Lina Hallvik standing there, bundled in her long shawl, hair still damp from the night's humidity. The woman's brows were drawn, lips tight.

"Morning," Lina said, skipping the formalities. "Do you have water?"

Skadi shook her head. "No pressure anywhere in the unit. You?"

"Same. Whole corridor's dry from what I can tell. The Spensers are already heading to Block Twelve to ask around."

Skadi stepped aside to let her in, though she knew Lina wouldn't stay long.

"There weren't any ration alerts," Lina muttered, frustration leaking into her voice. "And they're supposed to reroute if a line goes down."

"I know. Could be more fallout from yesterday. Or the system's just shot and no one's said anything yet."

Lina crossed her arms. "What do we do?"

Skadi rubbed at her temple, then pointed toward the console. "Check with the relief orgs. Lifeline Zephara might've stockpiled something. If not, the Jurgens usually keep backup drums."

Lina hesitated, then nodded. "Right. Thanks."

"If you don't find anything, ping me. I'll ask around at work."

Lina offered a thin smile, one part gratitude and one part weariness. "We'll manage."

Skadi lingered for a moment, the door sliding shut behind Lina with a pneumatic hiss that echoed too loudly in the silence.

She stared at the still-dry tap, then turned away, tugging on her jacket with a grunt.

The corridors beyond her home were hushed, neighbors moving like ghosts in the dim light, faces drawn and cautious. A few glanced her way, but no one spoke. It was the kind of silence that came not from peace, but from the fear of drawing attention.

She didn't blame them. Her boots crunched against frost-rimed metal as she approached Hub 7.

The maintenance sector was quiet. Too quiet. The usual hum of machinery had gone still, replaced by a heavy silence. Armed guards in pristine Haven uniforms flanked the walkways, visors gleaming beneath the pale industrial lights.

A knot tightened in her gut.

A crowd had formed near the perimeter, workers murmuring in hushed tones. Eyes flicked toward her as she passed. Some curious, others wary.

"Skadi!" Halvar called from a knot of techs near the fence. "You better brace yourself. The suits are looking for you."

She frowned, quickening her pace. "What the hell's going on?"

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"They shut the whole hub down. Won't say why. But they asked for you by name." His expression was grim. "Be careful, kid."

Skadi swallowed hard and nodded. As she approached the checkpoint, a Haven guard scanned her badge and waved her through without a word.

Inside, Hub 7 didn't look like itself. Every pipe and conduit was crawling with Haven engineers and security personnel. Comm chatter crackled through the air. The walls felt narrower somehow. Claustrophobic, stripped clean in a way that scraped at her nerves. Sterile by design, like the personality had been scrubbed from the system on purpose.

And then she saw him. A man in a crisp black suit, incongruously clean in the middle of the grime. His posture screamed authority. No badge, no insignia. Just presence.

"Miss Eisfall," he greeted. His voice was smooth. Clipped. Cold. "Marcus Vehrin, Haven Corporate Oversight."

He didn't extend a hand.

"Let's have a word."

He turned and walked toward a prefab maintenance shed now converted into a temporary office. Skadi followed, noting the guards posted at its corners. There was no pretense of overseeing the repair of the lines, at least not yet. They were just locking it down.

Inside, the shed was cramped but surgical. Everything bolted, sorted, wiped clean. Vehrin gestured for her to sit across from the metal desk.

Skadi hesitated, then sat.

Vehrin folded his hands, voice even. "I understand you were working on Hub 7 yesterday when… irregularities were first logged. Care to elaborate?"

Skadi crossed her arms. "I flagged a blockage. Something weird in the pipes."

"Weird how?" Vehrin tilted his head. His tone was neutral, but not relaxed.

"It wasn't debris. Or a valve issue. It moved. Like it was alive."

That caught his attention. Barely. "Alive?"

She nodded. "Fast. Sleek. I saw it on the inspection screen."

Vehrin regarded her for a long moment. Then he leaned back, expression unreadable. "So you're claiming you saw a biological contaminant in Haven infrastructure."

"I'm not claiming anything. I'm reporting what I saw."

"And you're certain?"

Skadi held his gaze. "Yes."

His tone cooled further. "Miss Eisfall, I advise caution. Spreading unverified claims in a system as strained as Zephara's could have… consequences. Particularly given your family's history."

She stiffened. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing," he said smoothly. "Just that your brother has developed something of a reputation. He's charismatic. Polarizing. Publicly critical of Haven's presence here. With your brother's record, the last thing Haven needs is another firebrand."

"I'm not my brother," she snapped.

"And yet your name is attached to this incident," Vehrin said, rising. "Which means your story carries weight. Possibly too much."

Skadi stood as well, her fists clenched at her sides. "What about the blockage? The hub?"

He gave a cold smile. "Handled. This is no longer your concern."

And that was it. The conversation was over.

She stepped out into the cold with her pulse still hammering in her ears. The hub behind her was locked down, silent. Haven had shut her out completely. And whatever was in those pipes, they weren't going to share it with anyone.

Skadi kept her head down as she walked, hands buried deep in her jacket pockets. Her breath fogged the air in front of her, curling like smoke against the faded steel of the district walls.

The cold bit harder today. Or maybe it was just the way his voice still echoed in her ears.

With your brother's record, the last thing Haven needs is another firebrand.

The silence of the street wasn't the normal kind. This wasn't a quiet morning, it was the hush of a neighborhood holding its breath. No one was talking over their tap flows because no one's taps were running.

The encounter with Vehrin left her skin crawling. She'd reported something strange in good faith, and now she was being watched for it. Not believed. Not even questioned like someone whose word carried weight, just quietly threatened and dismissed.

The idea of going home with that taste in her mouth made her stomach twist.

She turned onto Vintar Row, drawn by the familiar blue tarp of the Lifeline Zephara station. A long line snaked out from the relief kiosk, plastic containers and repurposed jugs arranged at people's feet like offerings. Every face wore the same expression. Quiet endurance, edged with fraying patience.

Skadi joined the line, folding her arms tight across her chest. The air smelled faintly of failing air filters and too many bodies packed into too little space. She focused on her breath, on the dull ache behind her eyes, on anything but the way the Haven rep had said her name like it was already a problem.

The line was moving slowly, and she couldn't help but let her gaze drift across the families gathered around her, each of them clutching jugs and canisters, faces drawn with worry.

A little girl, probably no older than six or seven, stood at the front of the line, clutching a jug almost as big as she was. She kept glancing up at Skadi, eyes wide and expectant. Finally, the child's gaze flicked to Skadi's jacket, and her face lit up.

"That's the patch!" she said, tugging at her mother's sleeve, pointing at Skadi with a small, trembling finger. "That's the one who fixes the water!"

Skadi blinked in surprise. Hadn't expected to be recognized in the middle of the line.

Her heart clenched for a moment, both from the weight of the girl's hopeful gaze and the sharp reminder of how badly things had gotten. But she forced a smile, crouching down to the girl's level.

"Hey there," she said, voice soft. "I do my best. But it's tough when the pipes freeze up like this."

The girl's eyes widened with awe, as if Skadi had just confirmed she was some kind of hero. Her mother, a woman worn thin by worry, smiled faintly as she took a step forward, clearly grateful for the reassurance.

"You'll fix it, right?" the girl asked, eyes full of innocent trust.

Skadi hesitated. For just a moment, the weight of that question pressed harder than the pain in her body. "I'll try," she said, more honestly than she intended. "But no matter what happens, I promise we're all in this together, okay?"

The girl nodded, clutching her jug closer. Her mother offered Skadi a quiet, grateful nod.

But before the moment could settle, someone further back in the line raised their voice.

"Wait a second. I know that voice."

Skadi turned instinctively, heart already sinking.

"That's Fenrik's sister, isn't it?" the man said, stepping forward a half-pace.

His tone wasn't aggressive, not yet, but loud enough to draw attention. "It's no wonder things are falling apart. Haven's too busy clamping down on protestors to fix the damn pumps."

A few mutters of agreement rippled through the line. Another voice chimed in, an older woman clutching a tin pail.

"The riot last week broke three intake valves," she snapped, then cut Skadi a look that was all thin ice and anger. "Your lot still hasn't fixed it. We've been hauling from neighbors ever since."

Skadi opened her mouth to reply, to explain that she wasn't part of the protest, that she'd spent the last week crawling through frozen shafts and jammed maintenance hatches trying to patch this broken system back together, but the girl's mother spoke first.

"She's not the problem," the woman said firmly, one hand on her daughter's shoulder. "She's one of the few still trying to help."

The man frowned but didn't press further. The mood didn't turn into a mob, but it simmered, a subtle shift in how the crowd looked at her, the way they stood, a growing unease.

The woman glanced at Skadi, then at the girl's jug. "We've got enough to get by," she said. "If you'd rather not wait... we can walk with you. It's not far, right?"

Skadi's throat was dry. She nodded once. "Just a few blocks."

They stepped out of the line together, quiet footsteps crunching on frost-dusted pavement. Skadi didn't look back.

The walk was quiet at first, their footsteps muffled by the frost-laced streets. The air was thin, brittle with cold. Skadi hugged her jacket tighter, feeling the ache settle deeper into her muscles.

"I'm Mirelle," the woman offered after a block, her voice low and steady. "And this little one's Elvi."

Elvi gave a shy wave, her half-empty jug sloshing in her grip. Skadi managed a tired smile.

"Skadi," she replied. "It's good to meet you both."

"Your brother's name gets thrown around a lot," Mirelle added, not unkindly. "But it's good to put a face to a name that isn't shouting."

Skadi huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh. "I get that a lot."

They reached her building a few minutes later. It was older than most on the block, the siding dark with years of Zepharan frostbite, but the windows were patched, and the front access lock still buzzed when Skadi keyed in her code.

Inside, the heat was just barely working. Yrsa's voice called from the back.

"Skadi?"

"I'm home," Skadi called back. "And I brought some help."

"There's no water," Yrsa said, her voice heavy with frustration. "I was about to start dinner, but… well, the tap's been dry all day."

"That's why we're here," Mirelle said gently. "We've got a little to share, if it helps."

Skadi passed her a grateful glance.

Yrsa's expression softened immediately. "That's more than generous. You're both welcome to stay. We've still got rice and some vegetables. Might not be much, but it'll stretch with good company."

Elvi's eyes lit up. "Can I help cook?"

Yrsa's lips curled into a smile. "Only if you don't mind peeling carrots."

As they moved toward the kitchen, Skadi lingered for a moment, her hand brushing the empty faucet handle. She could still hear the memory of the man in the line, the suspicion in his voice. But here, at least, things felt real.

The scent of boiled root and seared meal paste began to fill the narrow apartment, steam curling from the old pot Yrsa had coaxed into grudging service. Elvi stood on a rickety stool near the counter, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she sorted carrots with a practiced seriousness that made Skadi's chest ache.

She and Mirelle had drifted to the side, tucked into the corner of the room where the heat leaked a little less from the walls. Neither spoke much.

Skadi watched the girl work, her small hands nimble and precise, even when the carrots slipped from her grip. Yrsa praised her gently, warm in a way Skadi hadn't seen in weeks.

Children did that. They steadied the air around them without meaning to. Reminded everyone that survival wasn't just about ration quotas and missed shifts. That there were still things worth shielding from the worst of the world. Even if the world didn't make room for softness anymore.

Skadi's fingers curled around the edge of the counter. She wasn't good with children. Never had been. But she understood this. The quiet realignment of a room when a child was present. Everyone's posture softened, voices dipped. Tensions paused, just long enough to remember the shape of kindness.

They sat down together around the narrow fold-out table, bowls clutched in their hands, steam curling through the air like a fragile truce. Elvi chattered about the carrots, proud that she'd helped.

Yrsa listened with gentle nods, occasionally sliding a glance toward Skadi as if daring her to find fault in this peace.

Skadi didn't. Not yet.

The meal was passable. Salty from the concentrate but warm, and warmth counted for a lot these days. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of spoons against metal and soft murmurs of thanks.

But the silence that followed was too clean. Too rehearsed.

Skadi stirred the last of her meal and set the spoon aside.

"Where's Fenrik?"

Yrsa's hand paused mid-reach for the kettle. "Out," she said. "With his friends, I'm sure."

Skadi met her gaze. "He's not a boy anymore, Mamma. He doesn't do sleepovers."

Across the table, Mirelle looked up, caught between politeness and discomfort. Elvi had started humming quietly to herself, oblivious.

Yrsa's smile thinned. "You always assume the worst."

"I assume the obvious," Skadi said, voice low. "The Hold knows he's mixed up in something. Haven knows it too. And every time something goes wrong, his name's whispered before the smoke clears."

"He's not a criminal," Yrsa snapped. "He's angry, yes. But that doesn't make him wrong."

Skadi swallowed the retort burning her throat. Not with guests at the table. Not with a child still chewing contentedly beside her.

The rest of the meal passed in a strained quiet.

Mirelle tried once to steer the conversation toward lighter things, mentioning the relief station's upcoming supply run, but the warmth had already bled from the room.

Yrsa busied herself with cleaning as soon as her bowl was empty, her movements brisk, efficient.

Skadi offered to help, but her mother waved her off with a clipped, "You've had a long day."

Eventually, Mirelle stood. "We should get going before it gets any colder."

Elvi whined faintly, but Mirelle gave her a gentle nudge, and the girl wrapped her arms around Skadi in a sleepy hug before following her mother to the door.

"Thank you again," Mirelle said, voice soft at the threshold. "For everything."

Skadi nodded. "Stay safe, alright?"

Mirelle gave a tired smile. "You too."

The door slid shut behind them, leaving Skadi in the silence of her own home. Yrsa didn't speak as she rinsed the remaining dishes with what little water they had left. Skadi lingered a moment longer, then turned and headed for her room.

The door hissed closed behind her, muffling the world.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, boots still laced, hands idle in her lap. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, and though the walls hadn't changed, the house felt smaller than it had that morning. Tighter.

No resolution. No answers. Just another night on borrowed time.

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