The factory's bell rang again, sharp, metallic, and almost painful to hear after the short-lived peace of the mess hall. Hundreds of workers stood and began shuffling toward the main yard with all the enthusiasm of sleepwalkers. I followed closely, staying low in the crowd, my soot-covered face helping me blend in with the men of Unit 7B.
We moved together through a corridor of steel pipes and cracked brick, the stink of smoke and oil clinging to everything. The sun above was a pale disc, barely visible through the rising smog. Coughs echoed all around me, like a sick choir.
As we stepped into the yard, something was clearly different. Instead of returning to work, the workers were crowding into the open space, forming a loose ring around a large stack of crates. A man stood atop them - tall, young, charismatic.
Hallrigg.
Late twenties. Sharp jawline under a beard trimmed just enough to show he cared. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick forearms blackened by work. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were far too alert for a regular factory worker.
He raised a hand, and the murmurs died quickly.
"I won't waste your time," he said. "We all know why we're here. They work us to the bone, raise quotas every month, and tell us it's 'for the Empire.' But when's the last time any of us saw a raise? When's the last time anyone here didn't cough up black at the end of the shift?"
Grunts of agreement rumbled around the yard.
"They say loyalty is paid in legacy. That our children will live better than we do. But how many of you want to raise a child in this smog?"
Someone cursed under their breath. Hallrigg pressed forward.
"We can't keep pretending this is normal. We make the gears turn, yet we're treated like grease. If things won't change on their own, we'll make them change. Together."
No one said the word "union," but the implication was loud enough to echo.
"Some say the world's changing. That even the Veil's chosen now walk among the common folk. That should tell you something, shouldn't it? You don't need noble blood to be worth something anymore. The world's waking up, and we'll be the first to rise with it."
There it was.
A veiled nod to my awakening.
The crowd clapped, some cheered. Hallrigg stepped down, disappearing into the mass of men before anyone could question him. But I didn't move just yet. I waited, watched the group scatter.
Then I followed.
Blending into the stragglers, I trailed Hallrigg through the smoke-wrapped alley behind the west loading shed. The moment I turned the corner, I stopped.
He was already waiting.
Back against the wall, arms crossed, a suspicious smirk on his face.
"You're not one of mine," he said flatly.
From behind me, I heard a soft click. A man in dusty workwear had stepped from the shadows, holding a small pistol at waist level, just low enough that no one outside the alley would see.
"You've got clean posture, clean breath, and too much calm in your eyes for someone working twelve-hour shifts. Who are you?"
I didn't move. My hands stayed down.
"Someone with clearance. Someone who's not here to waste your time."
"So Watch, then?" he said, tilting his head. "Or something nastier?"
"Close enough."
Hallrigg didn't flinch. If anything, he looked amused.
"So what, you tail me through the factory, snoop around in soot, then pop in with vague threats? I've dealt with worse than secret police."
"You've dealt with amateurs. I'm not one."
I took a small step forward, subtly shifting my coat just enough to reveal the faint shape of the revolver at my side. He noticed.
"And you think waving a gun's going to scare me?"
I shook my head. "No. But the people who follow me if I die? That should."
That gave him pause. Not fear. Caution.
"I'm not here to bust your speeches or play moral police," I continued. "I need information. Something deeper than workers' rights and missing pay."
He stayed quiet.
"I know you've brushed shoulders with smugglers. Maybe even bought from them. I don't care. What I care about is what else they've seen."
"I don't deal in shadows," he said after a beat. "But I've heard things."
"Go on."
He scratched at his beard, eyes flicking between me and his armed companion.
"There's been talk near the market border—western fringe of the industrial district. Old rubber yard. Abandoned for years. One of the smuggling groups was using it as a temporary storehouse, but they left quick. Said the place felt cursed. Carvings in the walls, noises at night. Said one of their guys started bleeding from the eyes."
I nodded slowly.
That was definitely what I was looking for.
Reaching into my coat, I pulled out a small folded slip of paper and handed it to him.
He unfolded it silently, reading the short contents, eyes scanning it twice. His expression changed - not fear, not guilt - just awareness. He understood what the paper meant.
"You're letting me go?"
"Not really," I said, turning. "You're just not worth the paperwork. But don't push it."
"Still going to report me?"
"Not unless I have to."
He tucked the paper into his coat and exhaled, muttering something too quiet to catch.
As I left the alley, I didn't look back.
Hallrigg was already moving, fast and quiet. Packing, no doubt.
Smart man.
By the time I made it back to the Inner Rim, the smog had thinned slightly, though it still clung to the edges of my coat like guilt. I climbed the steps to my apartment, already peeling off the flat cap and brushing soot from my sleeves.
The apartment was quiet. Dust filtered through the window in warm light.
I shut the door and walked to the table.
There, waiting as I had left it this morning, was the black envelope. The Inquisition's sigil was faint, but present.
Not a new mission—just a quiet reminder.
The Empire trusts only the unseen.
And today, I had been unseen.