Chapter 306: A Ruined Hideout
We first had to cross the border between sectors if we wanted to make it to Sector 45, though I knew it wouldn’t take long. Unfortunately, the increased security and protocols has likely lead to paranoia in the general populace. Not to mention the traffic it was causing, investigations were lasting upwards of 5 minutes per car.
Thankfully, we had badges, that meant something.
The officer at the Sector 45 checkpoint barely glanced at our IDs before waving us through, calling over two other patrolmen in gray uniforms. They looked young, helmets clipped to their belts, eyes darting to us as they approached.
"You’re the ones looking for the suspect?" one of them asked, voice cautious.
I didn’t answer. Grant nodded for me. "Yeah. We could use backup if he’s here."
They exchanged glances, then fell in behind us as we crossed into Sector 45.
The sector itself was dying in slow motion.
Towering tenements leaned against each other like drunks about to collapse, their windows dark, streets cracked and littered with rusting cans and discarded syringes. Wires hung like black veins overhead, the lights flickering on and off, never bright enough to chase away the shadows between the buildings. You could smell it too—the stale rot of old water, burnt plastic, and something metallic that lingered in the air.
Grant kept glancing at the map on his pad, but I didn’t need it. I’d never been to this place, but I’d lived in places like it for most of my life. You could feel the rhythm of F-Rank neighborhoods if you listened: the way people moved, eyes down, avoiding trouble they could never afford; the way doors shut softly when outsiders walked by.
The others followed as I led them down a cracked sidewalk, past a market stall that had been abandoned so long ago the tarpaulin roof was shredded, past rusting fences and shattered windows.
We found it at the end of a block where the streetlights didn’t reach.