Leah Gagnon — Point of View
The thermal image flashed, and a faint human shape emerged inside the utility shed. Leah narrowed her eyes. Her heart leaped into her throat. Nothing about the scene fit. The man did not do maintenance checks, nor nervous movements. He was not hiding. He was a solitary figure standing in the darkness. Waiting. Watching. Anticipating.
“Eliza,” Leah murmured, “he’s still in the shed. He hasn’t moved more than a few feet.”
Eliza stepped beside her, arms folded tightly. “What’s he doing?”
Leah zoomed in on the heat signature. The quiet man lifted his hand and tapped something against the conduit. Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap.
Leah frowned. “He’s tapping again. Same pattern as before.”
Evan’s voice crackled through the radio from the ridge. “Three taps, pause, two taps?”
“Yes,” Leah said. “Exactly.”
Evan exhaled sharply. “That’s not random. That’s a distress code.”
Leah’s pulse jumped. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Evan said, “he’s telling us he’s here… and he can’t speak.”
Elijah, standing near the door, went still.
###
Elijah Greyhawk — Point of View
Elijah stepped closer to the monitor, eyes locked on the faint outline of the man with the limp. “He’s scared,” Elijah said quietly. “He’s telling us he’s not safe.”
Hayes moved beside him. “Why can’t he speak? Is someone nearby?”
Leah shook her head. “No heat signatures outside the shed. No movement.”
Elijah’s jaw tightened. “Then he’s afraid of being overheard.”
Eliza nodded. “Or recorded.”
The quiet man tapped again. Tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap.
Elijah whispered, “He’s begging us to come.”
###
Leah Gagnon — Point of View
The quiet man shifted, bracing himself against the wall. His left leg trembled under his weight. “He’s hurt,” Leah whispered. “The limp is worse. He’s compensating heavily.”
Hayes frowned. “Someone might have confronted him earlier. Or punished.”
Elijah’s hands curled into fists. Leah zoomed in further. The quiet man reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, rectangular object. Metallic. Reflective. A keycard.
Leah’s breath caught. “He’s holding up an access card.”
Eliza leaned closer. “Why show it now?”
Hayes answered quietly. “He wants us to know he can open something.”
The quiet man tapped the card against the conduit.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Pause.
Tap. Tap.
Elijah’s voice was low and certain. “He’s telling us the card works on the South Corridor.”
Leah swallowed. “South Four.”
Elijah nodded once. “He’s telling us he can open South Four.”
###
Evan Blackhorse — Point of View
From the ridge, Evan watched the shed through binoculars. The quiet man’s silhouette was faint, but the movement was unmistakable. He held the card up again, then tucked it back into his jacket with shaking hands.
“He’s leaving the shed,” Evan whispered into the radio. “Heading toward the pump station.”
Leah’s voice came through, tight with urgency. “That’s our meeting point.”
Elijah’s voice followed, steady and fierce. “Then we move.”
###
Eliza Morningstar — Point of View
Eliza moved away from the monitors. “Gear up,” she said. “We leave now.”
Hayes nodded and grabbed his jacket. “We’ll take the back road. No headlights until we’re close.”
Evan confirmed over the radio, “I’ll monitor him until you arrive.”
Leah shut down the thermal feed and pulled up the map. “He’s moving slowly. You’ll catch him before he reaches the station.”
Elijah didn’t move toward the door immediately. He stared at the last frame on the screen — the quiet man limping into the dark, alone, terrified, but still trying to help.
Eliza touched his arm. “Elijah.”
He blinked, coming back. “I’m ready,” he said.
But his voice carried something deeper — a promise.
###
Leah Gagnon — Point of View
As the team filed out, Leah stayed behind for one last moment, watching the thermal feed fade to black. The quiet man had risked everything to send that signal. Three taps. Pause. Two taps. I’m here. I can’t speak. Signaling that he needed help.
Leah whispered into the empty room: “We’re coming.” Then she shut off the monitors and followed the others into the night.