Chapter 23: Racing SEREN to Maren

The rain had eased by the time I reached the lower civic sector, but the pavement still held it — that particular sheen that made every surface look like it was thinking about something. Maren's consultation office occupied the ground floor of a narrow building that had once been a notary archive and still smelled faintly of it: paper, dust, the chemical ghost of adhesive binding. The kind of smell that registers in the back of the throat before the nose knows what to do with it.

I arrived at 06:51 and stood across the street for eight minutes.

Two entry points visible from the front: the main door, glass and brushed steel with a mechanical deadbolt, and a side access panel the building's original permit listed as a service corridor. I'd pulled that permit three days ago on borrowed credentials, noted the corridor's dimensions, noted that it debouched into the rear alley where a civic waste-collection vehicle made Tuesday stops. Today was Tuesday. The vehicle was already there, driver inside, windows fogged with breath and the particular patience of someone whose route has not changed in years.