ENTRY 3

Tunde waited until her breathing evened out, shallow and soft like rustling paper. He pulled the thin blanket over her shoulders, adjusted the bowl catching leaks near her bed, and stood in silence. The lantern's light flickered, then died with a sigh.

The darkness was heavier inside than outside. Sleep didn’t come. Every breath still felt jagged, and lying down only made his ribs throb harder.

So he climbed.

Each movement up the side of the hut made him grit his teeth. The wood groaned in protest under his weight, and he half-expected the rusted nails to give way. The rooftop was barely more than patchy sheets of metal and old tarp but it was the only place that felt wide enough to hold the noise in his chest.

He sat there, legs crossed, staring at the stars barely visible through the smoke-haze sky. The ruins of Quarry 3A stretched out below, quiet, sleeping, broken. The citadel lights blinked far off in the distance, cold and untouchable.

Then, softly, he sang. 

Not loudly, just a thin melody from the old days, the kind his mother used to hum when she braided his hair as a boy. His voice cracked on the high notes. Not from emotion, just fatigue.

The metal beneath him shifted with a low creak. He didn’t move. If it gave out, then it gave out.

He kept singing, barely above a whisper, until the night swallowed the tune whole.

Early Morning

The sky was a dull grey when Tunde climbed down from the roof. His joints were stiff, and every step reminded him of the bruises beneath his shirt. The settlement was still quiet, only the occasional clatter of pots or low voices breaking the silence.

Inside, the hut was colder than before.

His mother hadn't moved much. She lay on her side, blanket twisted around her legs. Her breathing was thin and uneven, a faint rasp in her throat. There were dark stains on the cloth near her pillow — dried blood from the night.

Tunde crouched beside her.

“Ma,” he said softly.

Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn’t open them. Her lips parted just enough to let out a whisper.

“Don’t… be late. They’ll cut your hours again.

He gave a slow nod. “I won’t.”

He sat there for a minute longer, watching her chest rise and fall. Then he stood up, grabbed his bag, and stepped outside.

The path to the quarry was already filling up. People walked in silence, heads down, tools slung over shoulders. Tunde joined them, his steps steady, even though his ribs still hurt with every breath.

He kept his face blank, kept his pace with the others. No one asked questions.

Today, he had to make it through work. Then the real part of the plan would begin.

Tunde didn’t get far before he saw them.

Samuel stood near the edge of the old water tank, his arms crossed, a faded jacket tied around his waist. Abigail leaned against the wall beside him, picking at the strap of her bag. She looked up first.

“You look like hell,” she said.

Tunde gave a small shrug. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Samuel straightened. “Your mum?”

Tunde nodded. “Worse this morning.”

No one said anything for a few seconds. The sound of footsteps and low chatter filled the space between them as other workers passed by, heading toward the quarry gates.

                                ……………….

“We need to get rid of the Fangs,” Abigail said, voice low but firm.

“But they practically run the whole zone,” Samuel muttered, glancing toward the window like the shadows might be listening. Tunde groaned, leaning back on the creaky bench. “Y’all are safe. They don’t know you. I’ll be fine… I’ll just do what they say.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly what they want.” The plan came together in whispers, under the broken light in Abigail’s room. A faded city map lay spread across the floor, with markings scratched in charcoal.

“You steal the adrium,” Abigail said, tapping Quarry Vault C. “Same as before, but this time... make it obvious.”

Tunde frowned. “Obvious how?” 

“Trip a silent perimeter node. Leave a crate half-open. Do anything to get the quarry drones and security sniffing after you.”

Samuel looked uneasy. “And they follow him to the Fangs?”

Abigail nodded. “That’s the point. He takes the stash straight to their hideout, same routine. But this time, he’s got a tail, drones, maybe even patrol bots.” Tunde laughed, no humor in it. “So I’m bait?”

“You’re the only one they trust enough to get that close,” she said. “We can’t take them head on, Tunde. We lead the system to them.”

…………………

The sky burned orange behind a curtain of haze as Tunde slipped toward the side entrance of the vault.

Most workers were gone now, the pit winding down for the day. The clang of metal had faded. Only the whir of the last loader and the buzz of tired insects remained.

He moved like smoke — quiet, quick, but deliberate.

The vault loomed ahead, cold and silent, embedded into the rock wall like a forgotten god’s tomb. He’d been here before, but tonight felt different.

Every step was part of the plan.

Inside, it was darker than usual. He moved past the crates, past the humming sensor banks. Picked up just a few pieces of raw Adrium — unpolished, sharp, glowing like ice with a pulse. Enough to look greedy, but not suspiciously loaded. He tucked them into his cloth bag.

Then, he did the last thing anyone sane would do.

He stepped into the motion field on purpose.

A subtle blink.

Not loud — not dramatic — just a single red light flickering from the ceiling panel. Silent alert.

Then he looked straight up — into the camera eye above — and held up the shard for a second before dropping it into the bag. Let the system see. Let the recording timestamp this.

Then he walked out. Not running. Not hiding. Just... walking.

Like he belonged there.

By the time he reached the outer edge of the quarry, the sky had dimmed to bruised purple. The walkways were almost empty.

Then — a soft whir overhead.

He tensed.

A Citadel drone.

It passed like a shadow — a lazy patrol sweep, not targeting anyone. Its scanner lights panned slowly, scanning heat signatures and movement. Not a pursuit, just a routine pass.

But Tunde’s bag was glowing faintly through the cloth. He stopped under an awning. Waited.

The drone paused mid-air. Tilted slightly. Hovered.

A slow breath. Then another.

It moved on.

No alert. No dive. Just a ghost slipping away into the clouds.

Tunde exhaled — not relief, not fear — just enough breath to keep moving.

He took the long way out. Through broken alleys, collapsed bridges, and a field of rusted signs half-eaten by vines.

Twice more, he saw drones. One over the old pipeline near Block 42. Another scanning an abandoned truck yard.

Neither approached.

Still, he kept his face hidden, his steps steady.

When he finally saw the refinery gates — rusted, cracked, and guarded — he didn’t rush.

He walked forward like someone who belonged to danger. The kind of walk that said: I know what I’m doing. Even if I don’t.

A voice called from the shadows:

“State your name.”

“Tunde,” he replied. “I’ve got something new.” Another pause.

 Then the gates hissed open.

The sky above shimmered. The Citadel still glowed like a cruel dream.

But here, in the gut of the ruins, something else pulsed — real, sharp, and rising. A plan was in motion.

And the eyes in the sky had seen just enough to matter.