The klaxon’s scream vibrated through my bones, a physical assault that snapped me out of the archival echo’s spell. Szymon was already scrambling, his usually meticulous hair now dishevelled, eyes darting from the flashing red lights to the empty space where the ghostly figures had just been.
“We’re compromised,” he hissed, pulling me back from the shelves. “That wasn’t a standard alert. That was a high-level security breach.”
“No kidding, Sherlock,” I retorted, wiping grease off my sleeve. My mind was still reeling from the image of young Zofia, a silent scream frozen on her face, watching her parents reduced to dust. This wasn’t just a frame-up; it was a massacre, hidden and twisted. “We need to move. Now.”
Szymon didn't argue. For a man who lived by regulations, the last few minutes had clearly shattered his perception of order. He led the way, navigating the maze of forgotten histories with an uncanny familiarity that belied his current panic. We ducked into maintenance shafts, squeezed through ventilation conduits, the blare of the alarm rattling the zinc panels around us.
“The signature,” I gasped, struggling to keep pace, the stench of dust and old metal filling my lungs. “Did you recognize it?”
Szymon paused at a grate, listening intently to the distant shouts of security patrols. “The raw acoustic signature… it was unlike anything in the public records. Pure destructive output, but with a unique tonal bleed. I’ve never seen anything so… clean in its devastation.” He pushed open the grate. “Yet beneath the surface lay a secondary trace, an aftertaste that registered a partial match.”
“To whom?” I demanded, crawling through after him.
He hesitated, his face grim in the low light. “Krystyna Jabłoński.”
The name struck hard, even if suspicion had already pointed there. Krystyna. The city's golden idol. The woman whose measured voice had warned me off Zofia with manufactured warmth. “Partial?”
“Her public profile is built on balance and calming intervals,” Szymon explained, his voice hushed. “Yet down in the archived baseline… faint spikes linger. Smothered, almost masked, but real. A trace of that same destructive bleed.”
We emerged into a deserted corridor, the polished linoleum slick under flashing red beacons. “It’s circumstantial,” I said, steadying my tone. “A fragmented overlap. It won’t prove anything to the board. They’d just claim an unregistered pulse corrupted the sensors, then speed up Zofia's execution.”
Szymon ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed. “Then we need more. We need her to reveal it herself.” He looked at me with none of his usual contempt, only stripped-down calculation. “You think Zofia can do it, don’t you? Provoke her.”
My mind raced. Zofia. She’d shattered reinforced glass but spared me. She’d maintained an orphanage with a fearsome reputation, all to protect children. She was a master of control, a Dissonant using her power for good, or at least, for a cause. If anyone could push Krystyna, it was Zofia. The thought was audacious, reckless, dangerous. Perfect.
“She can,” I confirmed, a plan already beginning to form in the chaos of my thoughts. “But we can’t just waltz Krystyna into Zofia’s cell. We need a reason, a plausible scenario.”
“The pacification date is approaching,” Szymon said, his voice quiet. “Perhaps a final ‘psychological evaluation.’ A last-ditch interview. Krystyna holds enough Conclave rank to justify sitting in on the session. Public optics demand a show of mercy for someone as infamous as the ‘Shrike’.”
“And then what?” I pressed. “Krystyna is too careful. She’ll maintain that saintly mask.”
“Zofia is… exceptional,” Szymon admitted, shifting his weight. “Her ability to project pressure, even through glass, can break a person. If she angles it right, she might pry open the cracks in Krystyna’s control.”
The plan was flimsy, a house of cards built on speculation and hope, but it was all we had. We spent the next hour in a disused storeroom, meticulously outlining the 'psychological evaluation' request, forging the necessary access codes, and mapping out escape routes. Szymon’s detailed knowledge of the Institute’s inner workings was invaluable. My own experience with pushing boundaries and exploiting weaknesses was equally crucial. We were an unlikely pair, a rule-breaker and a rule-maker, united by the common enemy of a corrupt system.
By the time we were done, the klaxon had stopped, replaced by an unsettling silence. We had to move fast. I had to talk to Zofia. I needed her to understand, to trust me, to play the most dangerous game of her life.
I found my way back to the secure wing, using a maintenance override Szymon had provided. The guards were tense, their eyes scanning every shadow, but the incident in the archives had yet to be linked directly to me. I slipped past them, a ghost in my own right, until I stood before Zofia’s cell. The reinforced glass shimmered, holding her captive, yet she looked utterly serene, a book open in her hands. She glanced up as I approached, her expression unreadable.
“You look like you crawled out of a storm drain,” she observed, her voice even.
“Something like that,” I admitted, leaning against the cool wall. “I have some information. Important information. About your parents. About Krystyna Jabłoński.”
Her fingers stiffened against the paper, freezing mid-turn. She closed the book slowly, placing it beside her on the bench. Her gaze, usually so guarded, held a raw intensity. “Tell me.”
I laid out the record: the projection of her family's parlor, the masked figure, the signature tracing back to Krystyna, and the setup we had cobbled together. I laid it all out, no embellishments, no softening of the edges. Her jaw tightened, the lines around her mouth sharpening into cold iron.
When I finished, the hum of the cell's suppression field filled the room. “So,” I concluded, my voice raspy, “we need you to provoke her. To make her drop the act. It’s the only way to expose her, to clear your name. To save you.”
Zofia studied my face. I stood ground against the glass, letting her see every scrap of truth and the strain under my ribs.
A long moment passed. Then, she nodded. “I’ll do it.”
My knees unlocked as the tension broke. “Thank you, Zofia. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Her lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile, but there was no warmth in it. Only a chilling demand. “If the plan fails, Emil, if she doesn't break, and they come for me… you will use your skills. You will ensure I don’t feel a thing. You will give me peace before the Conclave can take me.”