Chapter 4
Elena did not answer immediately. She turned back toward the dented steel bucket of water and picked up the grey mop head, wringing out the excess liquid with slow, methodical twists of her hands. The water dripped heavily onto the concrete, forming dark ripples that quickly merged with the damp stains of the floor. Vance remained standing directly in her path, his boots planted firmly, waiting for an explanation that she had no intention of offering freely. In the internment camp, silence was currency, and information was often the difference between a work detail and a interrogation cell.
“I worked the assembly lines before the blockade,” Elena said finally, her voice neutral as she pushed the mop forward again. “When you build the optics from raw glass and brass housings, you learn how the threads wear down after a thousand cycles. This rifle didn't come from a standard armory shipment. It was field-modified in the western sector three years ago.”
Vance’s eyes narrowed further. The western sector was a classified combat zone where irregular units operated outside standard supply chains. Very few records survived from that era, and anyone who had worked in those underground machine shops was either dead or locked deep inside the military prison system under maximum security protocols. He leaned down slightly, invading her personal space, trying to read any micro-expression that might betray a false identity or a hidden agenda. But Elena’s face remained a blank slate, weathered by pale skin and dirt smudges that made her look both fragile and unbreakable at the same time.
“You’ve got a dangerous memory, Parker,” Vance murmured, his voice laced with warning. “Out here, people with memories tend to get reassigned to the front-line salvage crews. You know what happens to salvage crews when the border skirmishes start heating up again, don’t you?”
“They don’t come back,” Elena replied softly without looking up from the floor.
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“Exactly,” Vance said, straightening up and turning his back to walk toward the edge of the covered range. He looked out across the desolate stretch of dirt and concertina wire that marked the outer perimeter of the base. A cold wind swept across the compound, rustling the dry weeds growing through the cracks in the concrete. “Which is why you’re going to keep your head down, clean these floors until they shine like polished glass, and forget you ever touched a rifle today.”
He started to walk away, signaling for the three junior soldiers to fall in behind him. But before he reached the heavy steel doors leading back into the command block, a sudden, sharp crack echoed from the eastern watchtowers. It wasn't the dull thump of a training round; it was the high-velocity snap of a live combat round impacting metal less than a hundred yards away.
