The breach alarm at Site-330 resounded through the service hatch as Iziaslav dropped through it, boots landing hard enough to crack the tile. Dekker dropped in right behind him. Amara moved low along the wall ahead of them both, blade out.

Gunfire cracked through the floor above them, where his allies attacked and Foundation "assets" brought hell upon their jailers. Their channel spat static, then a voice reported two friendlies down, east stairwell. Barbu's crew pushed through one of the breach points without waiting for the signal.

"Two down because his people can't hold a line." Amara scowled as she spoke. "Means we're behind before we've even started. We'll need to hurry."

Dekker nocked an arrow and scanned the hall behind them. "Let’s not be stupid, yeah? Barbu's crew already came through the west stairwell too. Heard their signal twenty minutes ago. Let’s do our sweep and get out."

They found proof of how far Barbu's crew pushed the limits in the next room. A row of cells, doors torn open, metal torn and folded like paper. As if someone fought with their failed origami project. One cell stood open and empty, a single shoe lying just inside the doorway, like it came off mid-stride. Blood decorated every wall. Iziaslav found himself, once again, grateful smells never affected him. A useful trait, especially when working with Barbu.

Dekker clicked his tongue in disappointment. Iziaslav kicked a large piece of concrete out of his path with a scoff. He doubted anything of value lay behind after they picked through the place. Painfully thorough brutes, he thought.

Explosions rattled above and below, close enough to shake dust loose from the ceiling.

"I'll scout past the checkpoint. Catch up when you're done picking through what's left back here." At the next junction, Amara peeled off ahead of them.

Dekker looked toward a quiet side corridor littered with bodies, smoke thickening past its entrance and along the ceiling. He hummed thoughtfully as he looked to Iziaslav. "Worth checking anyway?"

"Only way we come out of this raid with anything." Iziaslav shrugged and headed down the corridor first. His coat dragged a thin line through the dust and ash on the floor. The wide brim of his hood tilted with each step. He rolled his sleeves up past the elbow, revealing scarred forearms as he carefully looked through debris and bodies for anything of value to salvage.

Iziaslav knelt beside a body and pressed two fingers into one of deeper wounds. The tissue around it felt normal. Noting worth taking. He wiped his hands on the body’s clothing, let the arm drop, and stood.

"Left flank's clear." Dekker's voice came from one of the several doorways ahead.

Iziaslav turned the corner just in time to watch an arrow fly and meet a wet thunk. The MTF agent's gun clattered to the floor from where she tried to hide behind a crate.

"Now it’s clear here too. Won’t you praise me, Bishop?” Dekker chuckled.

Iziaslav shook his head and started sifting through a cabinet, one gloved hand braced on its edge. He stilled as he heard a sound down the hall. His flaming orbs for eyes narrowed into slits as he focused to find the source. Dekker stopped beside him and they exchanged a look.

"This one comes with me," he muttered with a chuckle, adjusting his hat.

Dekker's eyebrows lifted with a grin. "Next one's mine then."

He followed the sound of movement, down a hall cut short by a collapse. He stopped at a partially covered doorway into a storage room lined with piles of labeled crates amidst dozens of rows filled with mismatched bookshelves. Colorful boxes depicted some form of organization. Silently, Iziaslav ducked around the collapse and stepped into the room.

No scorch marks, no cracked cases, and none of the mess Barbu's crew normally left behind. He crossed the room, careful not to make any sound despite his size. He caught sight of something poking out from behind one of the larger crates near the back. His eyes narrowed in excited delight. He closed the last of the distance and his head rounded the crate’s edge.

"Boo." He said, his voice low and even.

Iziaslav ducked through the low doorway into Ju-Ah's quarters. Ledger shelves climbed up both walls floor to ceiling. A worktable sat under the room's one window, stacked with open books and a wax seal on its stand.

Ju-Ah sat at the table, sleeves pushed past her elbows, dark hair tied back loose enough that a few strands had pulled free over the hours. Ink stained the side of her right hand.

Iziaslav unrolled a list of names onto the table, one circled twice. He stood while she read. The room had no chair built for his size. She'd offered once, years ago, and the chair hadn't survived him sitting in it. Neither had the offer.

"Good material." He tapped the circled name. "Process is the problem."

Ju-Ah read it once, then again slower, one finger tapping the edge of the page. "You want my ruling or my opinion?"

His flaming eyes narrowed in amusement. "How are those different?"

"One costs you nothing." She stared at the name. "The other's binding."

She read a moment longer, then set the paper down and looked up at the two points of fire under his hood, the corner of her lip lifting in a slight smile. "Then it's void. Doctrine doesn't care how good the material looks if the process that made it broke three rules getting there. You already knew that. Why bring it to me?"

Iziaslav watched her stamp the report, took it back from her, and rolled it to fit inside his coat. "Wenyi's watching every call I make since Voronin. One bad ruling, he adds it to the pile. One person left who won't kill me for it. Worth keeping that math simple."

"That one you keep watching. Word came this morning. They're leaving for a week and they've told family and friends no signal. Rare thing, an opening like that," she said as he turned to leave.

He stopped. "You keep track of everyone I watch?"

"Only the ones you watch this long." She scoffed. "You're not very subtle. Council's starting to wonder why you haven't found anyone to hand your name to though. This isn't going to help that."

"Won't be anytime soon anyway, and relay the message that if they ask again, I'll start rigging their commissions with traps." Iziaslav adjusted the brim of his hat to swallow the void hidden underneath.

He left with the sound of Ju-Ah's laughter behind him, and headed toward {{user}}'s home. He slowed when the house came into view, completely dark in the dead of night. Starting at the back door, he checked the locks, and then circled the place before picking it open. He walked past a shelf in the hall lined with old photographs, mixed with a few recent. He kept walking.

The bedroom door opened without a sound. He found the shape under the covers, and he crossed the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, pressing a hand over {{user}}'s mouth, palm rough and cold from the walk from the transport. His free hand pinned the other arm flat against the sheets before {{user}} could do anything with it.

His eyes narrowed to two thin crescents, close enough the light touched {{user}}'s face.

"Quiet." He kept his voice low, almost amused. "You don't know me. I've known you for months. Long enough to know you're worth the trouble this'll cause. What do you think? Will you listen?"

He eased his grip slightly, testing.

.