The question pounded behind my temples against the silence of The Nest: *Why fabricate her whole life?* Jabłoński’s sweet smiles and calculated warnings took on a foul sheen. Zofia wasn’t some wild acoustic freak spawned in an alley; she was an inconvenient survivor of a quiet slaughter, and I intended to pry the lid off.
Official queries would earn me a sealed file or a patrol escort to a cell. The real paperwork slept five floors down, buried in the low vaults of the compound. Access was restricted, of course, a labyrinth of biometric scanners and retinal locks, but a decade of navigating Wislany’s underbelly had taught me that every lock had a pick, every system a glitch.
Polished limestone sent a biting chill up my boots as I slipped past midnight checkpoints. Consultation credentials got me across the perimeter gates; reaching the basement required a gray janitorial tunic and two magnetic badges I'd lifted off an orderly's belt during afternoon rounds.
The lift descended with a metallic groan, carrying me deeper than I’d ever been, into damp bedrock. The air turned stale, reeking of old paper and copper wire. A brass slab barred the threshold, stamped with the seal of the city magistrates. My stolen keycard hissed through the scanner, the green light flashing an almost mocking welcome. Inside, towering metal racks receded into the shadows, stacked with boxed dockets going back fifty years.
I skipped the ledger kiosk, heading straight for the lineage tier reserved for purged staff. Cardboard boxes gave off a sour musk of mildew. I flipped through manila folios labeled with obsolete sector stamps, my calluses catching on rusted metal staples while grease pencils scratched out old assignments.
“Orłowski,” a voice cut through the stillness, sharp as a blade. My hand froze on a file labeled ‘Niemczyk, Elian.’
I wheeled around, boot heel scraping loud on the concrete floor. Szymon Brzezicki stood framed in the entrance, his arms crossed, a look of cold wariness on his face. He wore his tailored grey tunic, posture rigid as a ruler.
“Brzezicki,” I replied, trying to inject a casualness I didn't feel. My thumb hooked casually into my belt to hide the slight tremor in my fingers. “Fancy meeting you here. Doing some late-night… research?”
He pushed off the doorframe, advancing slowly. “I could ask you the same. This tier is locked to staff without bench sanction. What are you rummaging for, Orłowski? Another reckless stunt to throw at your patient?”
I gripped the file tighter, the flimsy paper crinkling under my fingers. This was it. The confrontation. “I’m looking for the truth, Szymon. Something the high council seems very keen to keep buried.”
“Truth?” He scoffed, stopping a few feet from me. “Your truth is usually a reckless shortcut to disaster.”
“Is it a disaster to discover that Zofia Niemczyk, the infamous Shrike, isn’t who they say she is?” I pulled out the photograph from my pocket, the one from The Nest. “Is it a disaster to find this?”
Szymon took the photo, his brow furrowing as he studied it. His chin dipped; he took in the young girl, then the silver embroidery gleaming on her guardians' collars. “This… this is impossible. The official records state her parents abandoned her, that she was found…”
“A stray found near the docks,” I cut in. “A sanitized smear to make her execution go down smooth.” I tapped the back of the print. “They erased her family name. She didn’t rise out of gutter filth—her folks wore the high badge. And right now she's feeding twenty runaways in Ostrów whose families got ground up in those so-called accidental surges.”
Szymon’s gaze snapped from the photo to me, a sudden intensity in his eyes. “An orphanage? In Ostrów? You’re telling me that all the ‘blood money’ that funded her criminal empire was actually…?”
“Feeding orphans who would otherwise end up in workhouse cages,” I snapped. “Look at the date stamps, Szymon. Why scrub two decorated specialists out of the roster and brand their kid a feral lunatic?”
My temper slipped. A static spark snapped from my fingertips, striking the metal casing of the nearby filing tier.
The air hissed in response. Latent charge stored in the acoustic dampening tiles flared, vibrating through the iron uprights. Gray walls dissolved under an amber projection—a retained imprint preserved in the quartz substrate of the flooring.
The room dissolved into a wood-paneled parlor. Two figures in gray wool stood shielding a trembling child with bright, terrified eyes—Zofia. Her mother and father had palms raised, casting frantic golden shields between her and the hallway.
“Get Zofia out!” the woman cried, her voice thin with terror. “He’s too strong!”
A third figure stepped past the doorway in a heavy black cowl. The intruder's aura didn't shimmer; it sucked light out of the room, an absolute, freezing vortex that sucked the warmth straight from the rug. It was calculated, artificial carnage.
Her mother fired a bright blast of pitch, but it shattered against his field like glass on iron. The intruder closed a gloved fist. The air around the two adults imploded with a flat snap. They crumpled into ash and scattered wool, crushed instantly into nothing.
The shadowy figure turned slowly, his hood still obscuring his face, but I could feel his gaze, a chilling, triumphant presence. He looked not at the empty space where Zofia’s parents had stood, but directly towards a small, hidden alcove, where a younger Zofia, her eyes wide with unshed tears, her mouth a silent scream, was desperately trying to make herself invisible.
The projection flickered out, returning us to cold concrete and the scent of damp mold.
Above our heads, an acoustic klaxon howled to life, red emergency lamps bathing the aisle in blood-colored strobe light.