Zubair had always believed that structures told the truth long before people did.
You could dress a place up with banners and slogans, paint the walls and post rules and call it order, but buildings betrayed intent. Doors led where power flowed, corridors curved toward those in charge, and dead ends revealed what was meant to be hidden, not removed.
Hope Sanctuary lied with confidence.
Zubair walked its upper paths with the same measured pace he used on patrols, neither rushing nor dragging his feet. A man who moved too quickly looked guilty. A man who lingered looked curious.
Both drew attention.
So he made sure to match the rhythm of the place and let his eyes do the work.
The air aboveground was cleaner than below, but still not clean.
