The first thing Kael stole wasn’t food.

  It was cord.

  He didn’t take it from the exchange yard. That would have been stupid. Too visible. Too soon. Instead, he waited three days and lifted it from a repair cache near the maintenance stairs—coarse fiber, rough on the hands, strong enough to bind sacks without cutting into them.

  He took less than he could.

  That mattered.

  Riven noticed immediately when Kael passed it to him in the shelter, folded small and tight.

  “Where’d you get this?” Riven asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  Riven rubbed the fibers between his fingers, testing. “It’s good.”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t answer.”

  Kael leaned back against the wall. “If I tell you where, you’ll think about it every time we pass.”

  Riven snorted quietly. “Fair.”

  They didn’t use the cord yet.

  That was rule one: don’t practice with the real thing.

  Instead, they practiced weight.

  Riven brought back a cracked sack from the Spur one night—empty, useless for work, perfect for them. Kael filled it with scrap stone and broken metal pieces scavenged over a week, adding weight until the sack pulled hard against the shoulder.

  “How far?” Riven asked.

  Kael thought. “Across Seven without stopping.”

  Riven swung it up and staggered slightly. “Fuck.”

  “Yes.”

  They adjusted. Less weight. Better distribution. Knot placement that wouldn’t slip but could be cut fast if needed. Kael timed how long it took Riven to get it on and off without looking.

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  Too slow.

  Again.

  Better.

  They never practiced together in the open.

  One would carry weight while the other walked loose, hands empty, posture neutral. From the outside, it looked like one tired worker and another not involved.

  That mattered too.

  Food came next.

  Not stolen. Traded.

  Kael gave up two work favors in Hall C—took worse cuts so someone else could finish faster. Riven traded a pair of gloves he’d patched carefully and worn for weeks. In return, they got dried strips of something that had once been meat and a handful of hard grain cakes that didn’t crumble when bent.

  They tasted awful.

  That was encouraging.

  “They’ll last,” Riven said, chewing grimly.

  “Yes.”

  They hid the food separately.

  Never in the shelter. Never together. Kael tucked his portion behind a loose stone near the wash troughs, sealed in waxed cloth scavenged from refuse. Riven hid his near the Spur, wedged into a pipe housing that steamed just enough to keep rats away.

  They checked the caches every day.

  Nothing moved.

  Good.

  The first real test came by accident.

  A guard changed.

  Not a full rotation—just one face replaced by another near the eastern seam. Younger. Less bored. Eyes sharper.

  Riven saw him first and didn’t mask it fast enough.

  That night in the shelter, Riven said, “We’re exposed.”

  Kael shook his head. “No.”

  “He watched the crates.”

  “So do they all.”

  “He watched people.”

  Kael thought about it. “Then we change timing.”

  “Forward or back?”

  “Back,” Kael said. “Let him relax.”

  Riven exhaled slowly. “That pushes us.”

  “Yes.”

  Riven nodded. “Fine.”

  Two days later, the guard leaned.

  Not much. Just enough.

  Kael noticed something else that same day.

  A crate near the seam was lighter.

  Not visibly. Not marked. But when it was shifted during redistribution, the sound was wrong. Less dense. Less final when it hit stone.

  He didn’t tell Riven until night.

  “They’re not all food,” Riven said after Kael explained.

  “No.”

  “Which means—”

  “We don’t open anything,” Kael cut in. “We take sealed or we don’t take at all.”

  Riven nodded. “Agreed.”

  The last thing they practiced was running.

  Not fast. Quiet.

  They picked a route through Seven that mimicked the yard’s exits—tight, uneven, crowded—and walked it at night carrying nothing, just learning where bodies naturally parted and where they didn’t.

  Riven tripped once.

  Hard.

  He scraped his palm and hissed through his teeth, blood bright against grime.

  Kael grabbed him immediately, hauling him upright and pressing him into the flow of people before anyone could look twice.

  They didn’t speak until they were safe.

  “That would’ve killed us,” Riven said.

  “Yes.”

  Riven flexed his hand. “Again.”

  They ran it again the next night.

  No stumble.

  On the eighth night after that window, Kael lay on his mat and counted what they now had.

  ? Two sacks

  ? Cord

  ? Food for several days

  ? Water containers scavenged from refuse and sealed properly

  ? A route

  ? A window that was already tightening

  Not enough.

  But close.

  Riven rolled onto his side. “If it doesn’t happen soon—”

  “It won’t happen at all,” Kael finished.

  They lay in silence.

  Outside, the exchange yard would be quiet now. Crates resting. Guards bored. Rats bold again.

  Tomorrow, they would make the last test.

  Not stealing.

  Not yet.

  Just stepping where they shouldn’t and seeing who noticed.

  That would decide everything.