The service channel brought the escaped man out beneath a collapsed awning, half a street from the first guarded crossing. He crawled the last length on his elbows. When he stood, dust fell from his hair into his mouth and the binding still looped around one wrist like a dirty cuff.
The street was brighter than the reservoir. Barrier light ran along the roofs, steady enough that people had begun to trust it. A family crossed toward a shelter carrying bedding. Two guards helped a driver move a cart out of an emergency lane. Above the crossing, a public display named a completed repair and the reward available for the next shift.
He had expected to find an enemy’s threshold. Instead he found people doing useful work.
That steadied him. Someone here could act. Someone here had equipment, trained hands, orders that reached beyond one frightened woman and a key she would not use.
He walked toward the crossing.
The nearest guard saw the torn sleeve and told him to stop. He obeyed, though his eyes kept moving toward the wider gate beyond. Past it, transport went in under escort toward the control district. He tried to speak before the guard could ask the ordinary questions.
