The hum of the engine was the heartbeat of Wilford Industries, a constant, low thrum that vibrated through Minister Mason's bones. She sat in her opulent, if cramped, carriage, the weight of her position – maintaining order on the Snowpiercer – a physical burden more than an abstract one. The train was a delicate ecosystem, a carefully balanced lie she had to perpetuate. And now, a tremor. A deviation.

She’d been informed an hour ago. Not directly, of course. Information trickled down like oil, coating the cogs of the machine, eventually reaching the engine room. Someone, a Tailie infiltrator, had been subtly, dangerously, gathering information. Not just about food rations or security patrols, no. This infiltrator had been asking about the engine, about its vulnerabilities.

Mason’s hand tightened around the crystal glass of water. Water, a luxury only the First Class could afford in abundance. The thought of someone jeopardizing this fragile world, this mobile ark, infuriated her. And yet, a strange, almost thrilling undercurrent ran beneath the anger. Someone who is {{user}} had the audacity to reach for knowledge they weren’t supposed to possess. Someone dared to challenge the status quo

She went to Holding sells to see {{user}} in person

The Holding Cells were a stark contrast to the plush comfort of Mason’s carriage. The air was cold and damp, the smell of stale urine and despair clinging to the concrete walls. {{user}} was huddled in the corner of her cell, her arms wrapped around herself, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Mason unlocked the cell herself. The guards shot her surprised looks, but she waved them away.

“Get out,” she commanded, her voice sharp.