I still went down.
Not by jumping.
There was no leap, no moment of reckless decision.
It was more like stepping into a choice that had already been written—
one I was only now being allowed to read.
The pillar was cold beneath my palms.
Paint had long since peeled away, leaving bare metal exposed. My fingers found seams, bolts, shallow dents where countless repairs had failed. I descended in controlled segments, lowering my weight carefully, never letting momentum take over.
This wasn't escape.
This was compliance with gravity.
Every movement was measured. Every breath timed between the rhythm of footsteps below. I kept my body tight to the structure, minimizing silhouette, minimizing sound, as if the factory still followed the old rules.
As if shadows still mattered.
When I reached the mid-level equipment platform, I paused.
One second.
No more.
Long enough to register heat signatures in my mind. Long enough to confirm where sightlines broke, where light fractured against steel and machinery. The platform smelled of oil and dust, stale and metallic, like something that had been forgotten but not abandoned.
Then I moved again.
A controlled slide along stacked debris—crates, scrap panels, obsolete machinery parts piled without care. My boots barely made a sound when they touched the ground.
The landing was light.
Too light.
It didn't feel like success.
It didn't feel like arrival.
It felt like irrelevance.
Because by the time my feet touched the factory floor, the space had already changed.
The factory wasn't louder.
It wasn't more chaotic.
It was quieter.
Not the absence of sound—
but the absence of randomness.
Every noise had been pressed into order. Footsteps landed in uniform intervals. Commands were short, clipped, efficient. Metal struck metal with purpose, never accident. Even echoes seemed restrained, cut short by the geometry of control.
The space no longer reacted to people.
People reacted to the space.
I pressed myself toward a strip of darkness along the wall, instinct screaming at me to vanish, to become less than present.
I made it half a step.
My wrist was caught.
The grip was immediate.
Clean.
There was no yank, no aggressive pull. Just certainty. Fingers locked around bone, pressure applied at the exact angle needed to kill movement without pain.
Another hand controlled my elbow from behind.
A pivot.
My shoulder met the wall before I could even register resistance.
Plastic tightened around my wrists.
The sound was soft.
Too soft.
It happened close to my ear, a faint mechanical whisper that felt louder than any gunshot.
There was no barrel pressed to my head.
No voice demanding identification.
No question.
I was simply… processed.
Moved to the side.
Secured.
Separated.
Others were placed nearby, each at measured distances, aligned against steel and concrete like objects arranged according to specification. No one touched another. No one overlapped space.
Spacing mattered.
I lifted my head slightly.
The factory was busy.
Bodies moved everywhere. Commands were issued and executed. Units rotated positions. Zones shifted from unsecured to cleared with silent efficiency.
Yet no one looked at me.
Not once.
I wasn't a threat.
I wasn't even a subject of interest.
That was when it clicked.
It wasn't that I had made a mistake.
It wasn't that I had been careless.
From the moment they entered this factory, the concept of "someone hiding" had ceased to exist.
This space no longer tolerated uncertainty.
It didn't matter who you were.
It didn't matter where you stood.
If you were inside, you would be removed.
Cleared.
I had been taken over.
The realization hit harder than the restraints.
Air surged up my chest, sharp and sudden, forcing my breath short. My jaw tightened instinctively, teeth grinding together as pressure built behind my ribs.
No.
This couldn't be it.
I couldn't end here, pinned to a wall like excess material.
My mouth opened before doubt could stop it.
I screamed.
Not words.
Not language.
Pure output.
The sound tore out of me, violent and raw, slamming into the air like a physical force. The atmosphere compressed. The vibration raced outward, climbing beams, ripping along steel supports, shaking the skeleton of the factory itself.
Glass couldn't withstand it.
Lights exploded one after another, sharp cracks echoing as bulbs burst and rained down in a storm of fragments. Shards glittered briefly before shattering against the floor.
This feeling—
I knew it.
Power leaving my body.
Spreading outward.
Unfiltered.
Unrestrained.
But something was wrong.
There was no recoil.
No disruption in the people holding me.
They didn't flinch.
Didn't brace.
Didn't even shift their stance.
Their grips didn't loosen. Their posture didn't change. Their breathing stayed even.
As if this outcome had been calculated.
As if my scream had already been accounted for.
My voice meant nothing to them.
But the factory wasn't empty.
At the edges—where control hadn't yet fully closed—ordinary people collapsed. Hands flew to ears. Bodies crumpled. Some screamed, others simply fell, equilibrium stolen in an instant.
Their pain echoed.
Sharp.
Ugly.
My throat burned.
The sound had torn something raw inside me.
And it had achieved nothing.
The power dispersed uselessly, bleeding into space that no longer reacted to it.
I drew breath again.
Prepared to scream a second time.
Then a hand covered my mouth.
Not rough.
Not panicked.
Just… exact.
The grip sealed my jaw shut, fingers pressing with just enough force to stop vibration, to kill resonance before it could form.
The person leaned in close.
Close enough that I could feel their breath against my cheek.
Their voice was low.
Calm.
Almost gentle.
"You're Jim, right?"
My pupils contracted.
A name.
Spoken without uncertainty.
"Your grandfather has already been brought to Freetown."
The sentence didn't echo.
It didn't need to.
It struck straight through me, bypassing thought, bypassing resistance, and embedded itself deep inside my skull.
A nail driven cleanly home.
"We hope you'll cooperate."
The scream died in my throat.
Not fading.
Not weakening.
It was severed.
Cut off at the source.
I didn't chant again.
Didn't fight.
Didn't test the grip restraining me.
Not because I was afraid.
But because something finally aligned in my head.
This wasn't a raid.
This wasn't a reaction.
Tonight's assembly—
from the very first step into the factory—
had already been under Freetown's control.