Fifteen vials of antibiotics, five of narcotics, ten ampoules of enzyme suppressant for children, a thousand credits worth of meal stamps, and rolls of bandaging tape. He split the items equally, packing everything tight into five separate black padded pouches, checking the seals, then slipping them into the bottom compartment of his duffel bag.

He sat there on the floor in the dim light for a long while, his mind running through the plans.

He’d go to the maintenance levels while the Heart slept, and security was at its weakest, sneak into the garages, and strap the items to the bottom of the Veyra patrol vehicles. The vehicles were weighed upon entry and exit of each of the three rings, so they had to be light. Light enough that the guards at the checkpoints wouldn’t notice the loss of a few extra ounces between rings.

First, they’d stop at the industrial plants in the Cardinal ring, and make their rounds to ensure all chemicals were flowing downstream toward the Boundary. While rounds were being completed, the rebels in the Cardinal would retrieve the first two packages.

Next, they would go to the Boundary.

The Veyra did not leave their vehicles there, it was too dangerous even for the militia. The Daggermouths owned the Boundary, and they did not take kindly to the Veyra coming into their ring.

Greyson flinched at the thought, his hands balling into fists as his knuckles blanched. He hated the Daggermouths with every atom of his being. They were murderers, contract killers, who only answered to one man.

Jaeger Nolin.

They were the reason his brother was dead.

Daggermouths were ruthless mercenaries, hungry for blood, and Greyson saw Jaeger as no better than his father. He saw an opportunity to snatch power and he took it, without caring who it could hurt.

Greyson took a deep breath to steady himself, to quell the fury that was all too easily ignited these days, and refocused his thoughts.

The Boundary—the Veyra.

If they stepped out of their vehicles, there would be a bullet between their eyes faster than they could take their next breath. Their patrols were driven, but they were predictable, and predictability made them an easy target.

The Boundary rebels used the sewage system. They waited until the patrol vehicles stopped over water drains, and snuck up from the pipes to remove their packages. Every time it had worked without fail, and every time Greyson could not rest until the Veyra called in the completed patrols with no issues.

He recited the numbers in his head. Sixteen minutes between patrol cycles, enough for him to get into the maintenance levels if he was not stopped along the way. Five minutes to reach the patrol vehicles, two minutes to secure the packages, and get out before the next patrol came through. He rehearsed it the way other men might rehearse a prayer.

It should’ve felt heroic, but it didn’t. It felt like routine. It felt like the desperate act of a man who couldn’t reconcile the crimes he’d committed against the very people he was trying to help.

Greyson’s involvement with the resistance was the only reason he didn’t fight the masks. It kept him safe, kept him unseen and anonymous. The thought sent guilt churning in his stomach. Anonymity was a privilege the other rebels were not afforded, a privilege he was only given because, in the light of day, he held up the very laws that oppressed them.

He’d just started opening the panel to put the duffel bag back in its hiding place when a knock sounded at his front door. Sharp and loud, meant to be heard.

Greyson froze.

There was nothing overtly incriminating in view, but he was always aware of the possibility of surprise audits, of random searches done by Veyra officers. He pushed the bag into the floorboard then ran a hand over his face as he stood.

The second knock was softer, more polite.

He crossed the living room maskless and peered through the spyhole. A Veyra stood outside, in the small gap between his front door and the elevator, waiting. The officer seemed relaxed, which made the muscles across Greyson’s back uncoil only slightly.

Greyson lifted his mask from its stand, placing it over his face, and opened the door. The officer saluted, then spoke in the clipped tones of a subordinate trained to never meet his gaze.

“Sir. The President requests your presence immediately.”

Greyson nodded, ignoring the sharp uptick of adrenaline in his veins. “Please tell my father I’ll be there in ten minutes. Will he be in his residence study, or Haven Tower offices?”

“Very good, sir. He is in his residence study,” the officer answered, withdrawing into the elevator without turning his back.

Greyson closed the door and took a slow, controlled breath. It was better to get it over with now, than wait for days wondering when the iron fist would fall. He glanced into the mirror hanging above the entryway table, and checked his appearance. Nothing of him existed on the outside, there could be no traces of individuality. He pushed back the deep charcoal strands of his hair, smoothing them into place, then strode out the door.

The private office of President Serel was an architectural relic, unchanged since the first days of New Found Haven. There was no painfully rigid furniture or blinding white lights. The space was filled with deep leathered armchairs, and gold gilded portraits hanging on the walls. The lamps cast a low, yellow light that made the windows at the far end seem like dark mirrors. There were no cameras in this room. No drones. Only the lingering sense that every inch had been measured and approved.

Greyson entered on silent feet, pausing just past the threshold. The doors sealed behind him with a pneumatic sigh.

Maximus Serel sat at a massive desk of polished walnut, the surface crowded with ledgers, printouts, and a tablet blinking with unread messages. His gold mask was off, set aside atop a small stack of correspondence.

When it was just them—when it was just the President and his family—he didn’t follow the laws he enforced on his citizens with cruelty. His face was lined but unbowed, with dark eyes that bored through anything they settled on.

Maximus hadn’t risen to power by intimidation alone—he inspired, dissected, and ultimately consumed those who opposed him.

“Father,” Greyson greeted, dipping his chin as his hands locked behind his back.

Maximus gestured at the chair before his desk and Greyson moved toward it carefully, then sat as his arms folded across his chest.

The silence drew out, unbroken except for the faint buzz of the city below.

“You carried out the executions,” Maximus said at last. It wasn’t a question.

Greyson nodded. “The protocol was followed. There were no complications.”

His father steepled his fingers, gaze fixed on a point just to the left of Greyson’s forehead. “And the broadcasts? Did you observe their effect?”

“I did, sir. The crowd responded as projected.”

“Good.” Maximus’s lips twitched with a fractional smile. “There are some who doubt the necessity of public punishment. I trust you are not among them.”

Greyson paused, just long enough for the question to settle.

“No, Father,” Greyson lied.

Maximus’s smile faded. “Then explain to me why, in the instant before the second shot, you hesitated.”

Greyson felt the air thicken, but he kept his voice measured. “The woman was defiant. I wished to make certain the message was clear, but Captain Mikel took the shot before I could pull the trigger.”

“Hm.” His father leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning under his weight. “You are not here to make messages clear. You are here to make them absolute. Fear is a solvent, Greyson—it dissolves doubt, resistance, the very concept of alternative. But only if administered pure. If you dilute it, even a little, the city will learn to adapt.”