Jane felt the rain stop before she understood why.
The cold had been steady enough that her body had started to accept it. Water ran down her face. Into her collar. Along her wrists. The kind of discomfort that became background once there was nothing left to argue with.
Then the wetness eased.
Jane blinked and looked up.
Black fabric hovered overhead. An umbrella, close enough that she could see the thin metal ribs holding it open. Rain slid along the edge and spilled past her shoulders instead of onto them.
“Jane?”
The voice landed sharply, close and controlled.
Jane flinched and opened one eye.
A man stood over her, holding the umbrella in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He wore a dark coat suited for weather and shoes suited for long corridors. A headset looped over one ear, the wire disappearing beneath his collar.
Recognition came slowly, like warmth returning to numb fingers.
“Greg?” she said.
He exhaled, long and audible. “Yes. Hi. It’s me.”
Jane pushed herself up on one elbow. The world tilted, then steadied again. Her stomach rolled.
“You look prepared,” she said. “I don’t.”
Greg glanced down at her, then back up the street. “We’ll fix that.”
“Why are you here,” Jane asked, then paused. “Actually. Why are you dressed like you expected this.”
Greg tapped the headset. “Found her. Sector four. She’s cold.”
Jane watched his mouth move as he spoke to someone she could not hear.
“She’s responsive,” he continued. “No visible injuries. Just exposure.”
She cleared her throat. “I can hear you.”
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“That’s intentional,” Greg said. “It helps.”
“Helps who.”
“Everyone.”
Jane sat up fully. Her head swam. She planted one hand on the ground and waited for it to pass.
“Why are you here,” she asked again.
“You’re off position,” Greg said.
Jane frowned. “I’m outside.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
He crouched in front of her, adjusting the umbrella so it covered them both.
“Can you stand,” he asked.
Jane tested her legs by shifting her weight. Pins and needles flared, then dulled.
“Yes,” she said. “I can stand.”
Greg held out a hand.
Jane looked at it.
Hands had come with conditions recently. Rules. Corrections. Expectations she only discovered after agreeing.
“You know me,” she said.
Greg blinked. “Of course.”
“I mean you know me as me,” she said. “Not as a problem.”
He hesitated. The pause was brief but real.
“You’re the Lead,” he said. “I know you.”
That answered something adjacent to her question.
Jane took his hand.
Greg pulled her up with more force than she expected. She stumbled, then steadied herself, gripping his sleeve until the pavement stopped shifting beneath her feet.
“Easy,” he said. “We’re moving.”
“Already,” Jane said. “That seems fast.”
He started walking without asking which direction she preferred. Jane followed because stopping felt worse than moving.
They headed down a street she did not recognize. Sodium lights cast long shadows. Shopfronts reflected their movement without offering entry.
Jane looked down at the tablet in her hand.
76%.
The number stayed where it was.
Greg noticed her glance.
“Don’t fixate,” he said.
“It’s difficult not to,” she replied.
“I know.”
They reached a building with blank windows and a door that opened after Greg swiped a keycard. Warm air spilled out into the street.
Jane inhaled sharply.
Inside, the lobby smelled of cleaning solution and old carpet. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A bench sat against the wall with a stack of folded blankets beside it.
“Sit,” Greg said.
Jane sat immediately. Her legs shook once, then settled.
Greg draped a blanket over her shoulders. Then another.
She accepted them without comment.
“That’s better,” he said.
Jane watched him pace while speaking quietly into the headset.
“Yes. I have her. No, she hasn’t rolled back since earlier.”
Jane looked up. “Hey.”
Greg covered the mic. “What.”
“I heard that.”
“Good.”
“I was being careful.”
Greg lowered his hand. “That’s what triggered the alert.”
She frowned. “Careful triggers alerts now.”
“Careful without authorization does,” he said.
Jane pulled the blanket tighter around herself.
She looked at the clipboard resting against his leg. Papers peeked out, dense with headings and boxes.
“Am I in trouble,” she asked.
Greg considered the question. “You’re in scope.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It’s more precise.”
Jane glanced down at the tablet. It sat heavy in her lap, warm and inert.
“This was a mistake,” she said. “I did not ask for it.”
“I know,” Greg said.
“And now I’m paying for it.”
“Yes.”
She waited for something else to follow. An apology. A reassurance. A timeline.
Nothing came.
“Why am I the Lead,” Jane asked.
Greg took a breath. He chose his words.
“You noticed patterns,” he said. “You kept notes. You stayed present.”
Jane laughed softly. “Low bar.”
“You would be surprised.”
She leaned her head back against the wall.
“I thought this was a rescue,” she said.
Greg winced. “This is containment.”
“That’s honest.”
“Honesty helps.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. The warmth seeped slowly back into her fingers.
When she opened them again, Greg was watching her closely, like he expected her to vanish if he looked away.
“What happens now,” she asked.
Greg picked up the clipboard.
“Now we bring you into the problem space,” he said.
Jane swallowed. “And after that.”
He met her gaze.
“After that we see how much load you’ve already absorbed.”
Jane looked down at the tablet again.
76%.
“Efficient,” she said.
Greg tapped the headset. “I’ve got her. We’re moving.”
Jane stood. The blankets slid off her shoulders and pooled on the floor.
She felt steadier now. Not safer. Just able to remain upright.
“Where,” she asked, “exactly.”
Greg opened the door and gestured for her to follow.
“Inside the problem,” he said.
Jane glanced once more at the tablet.
76%.
She stepped through the doorway anyway.
