The amber relay starts strobing like a dying beacon. Dallas has the primary feed loose, and the corridor answers with a hard shudder that rattles dust from the ceiling.

A hidden panel clacks open beside the containment unit. Inside, a cramped service schematic flickers into view, showing the annex tied into a line that runs under the city and back toward Pier Nine.

The warning light spikes red. Down the corridor, a steel door slams somewhere out of sight, and the hum deepens into a pressure in the bones.

Dallas gets the final cover off the relay. Tucked under the wiring is a stamped transfer slip naming the customs annex subfloor as the master junction, the place where the citywide circuit is being powered and hidden.

Dallas twists the cut lead free. The moment it clears the terminal, the whole relay bites back with a sharp crack and a wash of red light.

The schematic panel jitters, then stabilizes on a new route, one branch blacking out while another flares toward the city feed. The junction has chosen a path.

A relay box in the wall slams shut with a metallic thunk. Somewhere deeper in the annex, a heavy lock engages, echoing down the corridor like a courthouse gavel.

The stamped transfer slip slips from Dallas’s hand and skids under the unit. In its place, a torn page from the Liber Signorum Rubrorum flutters loose from the wiring, soot-darkened and damp with heat.

Then the corridor lights die in sequence behind them, leaving only the red strobe and the low, vicious hum of a sealed system. The steel door at the far end starts to unlock from the inside.