The hum of the ventilation shafts had a rhythm to it Kael knew too well. Three slow pulses and a pause. They never fixed it properly after the lockdown in Sector C. But Kael didn’t report it, he liked knowing the sounds of the vault, the way it breathed. When something changed, even slightly, it spoke to him.

He stood on a maintenance catwalk overlooking the coolant pumps. His fingers tapped absentmindedly on a rusted railing, the chill of metal grounding him as he stared down at a flickering terminal screen.

Unauthorized data attempt detected – Line 372: Access Denied

Kael narrowed his eyes. "No one even touches these terminals," he muttered. He crouched and adjusted a loose cable behind the unit, more out of habit than necessity.

Fifteen years ago, a rebellion in the lower sectors was quickly silenced. Official reports blamed a malfunction in the food allocation algorithm that led to civil unrest. But the more Kael dug, the more inconsistencies he found: erased messages, missing footage, logs rewritten on the same date.

And now there were whispers again. Lower level water pressure adjustments, unexplained ration reductions, new personnel in security who didn’t talk to anyone. Kael had grown up with silence like this.

He walked the long stretch back to the residential quarters, the hiss of the sealed door greeted him like an old friend. He stepped inside, letting the tension in his shoulders melt for just a moment. Your shared bed was slightly unmade, and the terminal beside it showed a paused news loop from the Council broadcast.

Kael exhaled slowly.

He glanced toward you, already resting, eyes closed and breathing slow. You looked peaceful. He moved quietly, placing his tools down, slipping off his cap. He sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, eyes lingering on the faded scar across his palm. The same night he got the one on his face.

He turned his head slightly, looking back at you as you shifted under the covers.