Oletta’s thumb froze against Haldon’s temple. The faded serpent, coiled around a jagged tooth, screamed a language her mind couldn’t translate but her gut understood with visceral dread. It wasn’t a scar. It was a brand. An assassin’s mark. Her breath caught, a cold knot tightening in her chest. For a flickering moment, the bubbly mask she wore threatened to shatter, revealing the raw fear beneath. What did *this* mean? And why was it on *his* head? Then, Haldon shifted, his brow furrowing slightly, and her practiced persona slammed back into place. “Oh, goodness, what’s this?” she chirped, her voice a little too bright. She traced the tattoo again, this time with a theatrical flourish, as if discovering an amusing wrinkle. “Did you get into a tussle with a particularly vicious cog-louse when you were a boy, Haldon? It looks like it tried to bite your head off!” Haldon grunted, his eyes still heavy-lidded from the blow. “Just a youth’s foolishness,” he mumbled, waving a dismissive hand. “Some cheap ink that never faded right.” He pulled away slightly, perhaps sensing the subtle tremor in her fingers that belied her cheerful tone. “Well, it’s certainly… distinctive!” Oletta laughed, a light, airy sound that didn’t reach her eyes. She quickly finished wrapping his head, securing the bandage with meticulous care. “There. Rest up. I’ll make sure Bex and Perrin are quiet as church mice. You need your strength for those loud, clanking machines tomorrow, don’t you?” He nodded, already sinking deeper into the cot. “Don’t bother coming down to the factory,” he said, his voice thick with exhaustion. “It’s no place for you.” “Nonsense!” she declared, bustling around the small kitchen, tidying the medical supplies. “A good wife brings her husband a proper lunch, doesn’t she? Especially after he’s been so brave! I’ll bring you some of that hearty turnip stew and a fresh-baked ration loaf.” The lie tasted bitter in her mouth, but her gaze kept returning to the faint outline beneath the bandage. *Youth’s foolishness?* Her own body remembered how to kill with chilling efficiency. Haldon’s grim silence now seemed less about his nature and more about a past he was determined to bury. She needed answers, and the only place to find them was where he’d spend his days: the roaring heart of the city’s industry. The next afternoon, the stench of burnt diesel and spent coal hung thick in the air, a metallic tang that stung Oletta’s nostrils. The rhythmic clang and hiss of the Velmoth Gearworks vibrated through the ground, shaking the very bones of the Rustblock itself. She clutched a dented lunch pail, its contents a carefully assembled meal, and navigated the maze of oily alleyways leading to the factory’s grimy side entrance. Above her, colossal smokestacks belched black plumes that seemed to claw at the perpetually overcast sky. She’d taken special care to look the part of the doting, if slightly bewildered, wife. Her best shawl, mended thrice, was draped over her shoulders, and her smile was dialed to its most airheaded setting. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed no sign of Matron Gorm’s lurking shadow. Good. This was too important. Inside, the noise was deafening. Massive hydraulic presses shuddered, stamping sheets of dull grey metal with ear-splitting force. Conveyor belts snaked through the cavernous space, ferrying parts to grim-faced workers smeared with grease and ash. The air hung heavy and hot, vibrating with dangerous, exposed iron. “Looking for my husband, Haldon Volkov!” Oletta practically shouted over the din to a passing mechanic, her voice falsely cheerful. “Bringing him his lunch, you know. A wife’s duty!” The mechanic, a burly man with a missing finger, merely grunted and pointed a greasy thumb towards a far section of the floor, near a colossal, multi-jointed press that looked like a slumbering metal titan. “The ‘Mangler,’ they call that sector,” he yelled back. “He’s usually running feeder Seven.” Oletta thanked him with an overly enthusiastic nod and headed towards the designated area, her eyes scanning for Haldon. As she drew closer, she recognized the rhythmic thud of the Number Seven press. Haldon, his back to her, was feeding thick sheets of scrap into its maw, his movements precise and economical. His grim profile, smudged with soot, was unmistakable. Before she could reach him, a gruff voice cut through the clamor, just loud enough to snag her attention. It came from a raised gantry overlooking the ‘Mangler’ section. Oletta ducked behind a stack of rusted gears, her innocent expression falling away, replaced by a hawk-like focus. “Listen up, you lumps!” The speaker, a barrel-chested man with a scarred face and a glint of gold in his teeth, stood above them on the catwalk. His voice, though rough, carried an undeniable authority. “We got a problem with feeder Seven, boys. Parts vanish. Expensive components. And the Wardens are sniffing around.” He paused, letting his gaze sweep over a small group of workers gathered below him. “We need to make an example. A loud one. And I want your mechanic to be it.” Oletta’s heart gave a sickening lurch. *Volkov?* This was it. The shift boss, a man named Jarik, was rumored to have deep ties to the Iron Fang Syndicate. She recognized the cold glint in his eyes, the same predatory awareness she’d felt in the eyes of the man she’d killed in the stairwell. Jarik continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. “Tomorrow, you two, Radek and Sidor. When he's got his back turned, you’ll ‘find’ those vanished valves in his tool kit. Then, make sure press Seven ‘malfunctions’ during his shift. A little… *accident*.” He gestured with a chilling nonchalance towards the massive press where Haldon toiled. “Nothing fatal, mind you. Just enough to crush a few fingers, maybe a hand. Send a message. And pin the blame for the stolen goods squarely on him. Make it look like he sabotaged it to cover his tracks.” Ice flooded Oletta’s veins despite the factory's sweltering heat. Frame him. Injure him. They wanted to disable him, brand him a thief, and send him to the labor camps. The thought of Haldon, injured and helpless, sparked a cold fury within her. She watched as Radek and Sidor nodded, their faces grim. Her mind raced. Tomorrow would be too late. She had to act *now*. Press Seven. Haldon was working with it. If they planned to rig it to injure him, it had to be vulnerable. Her gaze darted to the machine’s complex series of pipes and gauges, focusing on the hydraulic line release valves. A quick, clumsy adjustment, made to look like an accident, could throw off the calibration just enough to ruin a batch of parts without causing an injury. It wouldn’t save him from the frame-up, but it would buy time, confuse the issue, and, most importantly, keep him safe for now. Taking a deep breath, Oletta emerged from behind the gears, her face once again a picture of cheerful obliviousness. “Haldon! Dear! Lunch!” she called out, her voice barely audible over the roar. She started towards him, picking her way through the narrow pathways between the machines. As she neared feeder Seven, she deliberately stumbled, letting out a small, theatrical squeak. “Oh, my! Clumsy me!” Her foot tangled in a loose cable, and she pitched forward, catching herself with an exaggerated flail of her arms. Her right hand, seemingly by accident, slapped against a bank of red-painted relief stems on the side of the press. With swift precision, her fingers found the main release lever for the hydraulic accumulator and nudged it downwards, just a hair, causing a tiny, muffled hiss of venting steam. She immediately recoiled, yanking her hand back as if burned. “Blast these cables!” she exclaimed, righting herself with a wobbly grin. “Nearly sent my lovely stew flying! Are you alright, dear?” She ignored the brief, sputtering cough from the ram, the faint drop in its hydraulic line. It wouldn’t be enough to stop it, but it would throw off its force, causing it to mispress the next several batches of material. Haldon, his back still partially turned, spared her a quick, irritated glance. “Stay back, Oletta. It’s not safe here.” He gave little thought to her near-fall, too focused on the rhythm of his work. The next sheet of metal slid under the ram. The colossal press descended, but instead of the crisp, sharp clang that signified a perfectly formed part, there was a dull thud, followed by a slight crumpling sound. The metal emerged warped, useless. Haldon frowned, pulling the sheet out. “What in the—?” He checked the next one. Same result. A ripple of confusion went through the workers in the immediate vicinity. The press, usually so reliable, was spitting out duds. Jarik, still on the gantry, had been watching Oletta’s clumsy approach. His eyes, initially dismissive, now narrowed. He saw the subtle shudder of the press, the ruined parts. His gaze flickered from the shuddering rig to Oletta, who was now innocently offering Haldon his lunch pail. He didn’t see the deliberate adjustment, only the *coincidence*. But it was enough. The gold in his teeth flashed as a cold, calculating suspicion settled in his gaze. Oletta met his stare with wide, guileless eyes, offering a sweet, empty smile. *Just a dizzy woman, sir. Nothing to see here.* But inside, a cold triumph warred with a rising dread. She had bought Haldon time, but she had also drawn the foreman’s attention. She felt his malevolent focus tracking every step she took. She left soon after, her task done, the lunch pail significantly lighter. Haldon’s life was safe, for now. But the walk back to the Rustblock felt colder, heavier. The foreman’s gaze, she knew, would not be easily dismissed. As she finally reached the familiar, creaking door of their apartment, a sense of unease settled over her. The door wasn’t fully latched. A faint scent, not of ash or diesel, but of sweet turnip grease and damp wool, hung in the air. Her hand, instead of reaching for the knob, instinctively went for the small, concealed knife she kept strapped to her forearm. She pushed the door open slowly, carefully. The small living space was a disaster. Drawers were yanked open, their meager contents strewn across the floor. The thin mattress was overturned, the threadbare blankets tossed aside. Someone had been here. Someone had been searching. And then she saw her. Matron Gorm, perched on their overturned dining chair like a vulture, a triumphant smirk twisting her lips. In her gnarled hand, she held a folded, yellowed piece of paper. The forged marriage certificate. “Well, well, Oletta dear,” Gorm purred, her eyes glinting with malice. “What have we here?”

Factory Lines