The distant wail of sirens was no longer distant. Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the office, accompanied by clipped voices talking into radios.
Elias shoved the contained courthouse model, heavy and inert within its sphere, deep into his go-bag. The unsettling image of the desolate landscape flickered in his mind, a cryptic breadcrumb left by the dying pulse of the curse.
His head throbbed where it had hit the filing cabinet, a dull, persistent ache that made focusing difficult.
Time to go.
He zipped the bag shut, slung it over his shoulder, and moved silently towards the office door. He pressed an ear against the wood, listening. Voices were closer now, just down the hall. They were systematic, sweeping the floor, checking rooms. He couldn't wait here.
Easing the door open a crack, he peered out. Two security guards, flashlights playing over the walls, were moving away from his position.
He waited until they turned the corner at the end of the corridor before slipping out. The hallway was empty, silent save for the receding sound of their footsteps and the building's ambient hum.
Moving with practiced stealth, Elias hugged the wall, his footsteps barely audible on the tiled floor. He used minor silencing charms on his shoes, a standard part of his infiltration kit. Every shadow felt like a hiding place, every alcove a potential trap. He needed to reach a stairwell, preferably one that led down to the service levels.
He navigated the sterile corridors, his internal map of the building – pieced together from blueprints and past reconnaissance – guiding him. Emergency exit signs glowed green in the dim light. He passed imposing courtroom doors, silent witnesses to countless human dramas, now just anonymous barriers in his escape route.
He reached a service stairwell door, unmarked and easily overlooked. As he reached for the handle, he heard footsteps from the floor above, descending. Too close.
He flattened himself into a narrow recess beside the doorframe, pulling a sheet of reactive fabric from his bag – a cheap illusionary ward that subtly bent light around him, making him difficult to spot unless actively looked for. He held his breath.
Heavy boots clanked on the concrete stairs. Two security guards, shining flashlights ahead of them, passed by his hiding spot and exited onto the floor he was on, moving down the main corridor towards the office he'd just left.
They were thorough. Elias waited until their voices faded before pushing open the stairwell door and slipping inside.
He descended quickly but cautiously, the metal stairs groaning faintly under his weight despite his silencing charms. He needed to avoid triggering any internal alarms the rival might have re-enabled.
He knew some service levels had their own, older security systems, often overlooked in central monitoring.
Reaching the basement levels, the air grew cooler, smelling of damp concrete and machine oil. He followed a less-used route towards the service exit, navigating a maze of pipes and electrical conduits.
He encountered a laser grid in one narrow passage – an older model, likely local to this section. It hadn't been on when he entered. The rival, or someone working for them, must have activated it after deploying the object.
He pulled out a small, pen-like device, activating its low-level energy pulse. It was a frequency calibrator, designed to temporarily disrupt magical or energy-based security systems.
He aimed it at the emitters of the laser grid. They flickered, the visible beams wavering for a second – just long enough for him to dart through.
He reached the service exit door. Getting out was sometimes harder than getting in; internal locks were often more robust. He used his arcane lockpicks again, working quickly, listening intently for any sound of pursuit. The tumblers clicked reluctantly.
He eased the door open a crack, peering out into the predawn alley. It was empty, quiet. No squad cars, no visible patrols right outside. He slipped out, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him with a controlled thud.
He didn't pause. Turning away from the courthouse complex, he broke into a silent run, his go-bag bouncing against his back. He plunged into the network of narrow alleys and service lanes that crisscrossed the district, using the cityscape itself as cover. Dumpsters, fire escapes, the dark spaces between buildings – they were his allies. He ran until his lungs burned and the throbbing in his head intensified with every stride.
Only when he was several blocks away, the imposing silhouette of the courthouse buildings receding behind him, did he slow to a walk, forcing himself to blend back into the gradually awakening city. A few early commuters, a delivery truck, the distant sound of traffic starting to build.
He needed somewhere to think, somewhere safe that wasn't his primary safehouse. He had a secondary location, a small, nondescript studio apartment in a different neighborhood, rented under a pseudonym, bare-bones but clean and warded against basic magical intrusion and surveillance. It was his bolt-hole, rarely used.
He made his way there via a series of bus routes, changing transfers frequently, observing his fellow passengers with weary suspicion. He reached the apartment just as the sun began to paint the sky in bruised shades of purple and grey.
Inside, the air was still and quiet, smelling faintly of dust and ozone from the basic wards. He locked the door, engaged the internal security measures – simple things, but enough to alert him to an unwanted magical or physical breach.
He leaned against the closed door, the contained object in his bag a heavy, silent presence.
Exhaustion washed over him, pulling at his limbs. His head throbbed mercilessly. He carefully took off the go-bag, setting it on the floor. He sank onto the apartment's single worn armchair.
He closed his eyes, focusing past the pain and fatigue, trying to recall the fragmented image that had flashed in his mind when the courthouse model was contained – the towering, empty structures, the desolate landscape, the grey light. It felt like a place of abandonment, perhaps once grand, now broken. A monument to something lost. A place where despair would fester.
The next target. The Despair node.
He looked at the contained object in his bag, then at his wrist-mounted device. The timer for the Despair manifestation was still ticking, though the exact duration tied to the music box's sequence was still uncertain without full deciphering. He had the object, he had the cryptic visual clue, but he was running on empty, injured, and operating from a temporary, less secure location.
He needed rest. He needed to analyze the locket and the visual clue properly. And he needed to figure out where the rival intended to cultivate despair before the clock ran out again.
The escape was successful, but the race was far from over. The Architect was building her emotional map across the city, and he was the only one trying to erase it, one dangerous node at a time.