Deep Karakorum smelled of wet stone, forge-smoke, and life.
Mara sat on a smooth obsidian bench near the edge of the Black Pool, her spine pressed against the cool, fossilized rock of the alcove. At thirty-two, she had spent more than half her life becoming a ghost, a woman who could disappear into any role, any lie, or any room. But sitting here, watching the "workday" of the Faction, her professional mask felt strangely heavy.
Around her, the stronghold was buzzing with the blue-collar hum of the Wednesday shift. Near the glowing water, survivors ran bundles of Star-Moss through filtration rigs. Further down, the heavy clang of Bram's hammer echoed—a steady heartbeat for a society built in the dark. It was messy and loud, the complete antithesis of the sterile, silent P.A.C.I.F.I.C. bunkers she had called home.
"You're thinking too hard again."
