The stairwell smells wrong.

  Cameron clocks it halfway up. Gas, yes, but something cleaner layered over it. Fresh. Someone has already tried to make this look handled.

  He takes the steps two at a time anyway.

  Below him, the door closes with a soft click.

  Tony hates doors that close like that.

  “What the fuck does that mean,” Tony shouts as the sound dies. No echo. Just final.

  Arthur skids to a stop beside him. “Tony. Give it a second.”

  “A second,” Tony snaps. “He just ran into a gas leak.”

  “And he chose to,” Arthur says.

  “That’s meant to help,” Tony says. It doesn’t.

  Up above, the alarm screams. Flat. Uncaring. People spill into the hallway in dressing gowns and slippers, phones already out.

  Tony clocks the phones straight away. “Oi. Back it up. Give them space.”

  Some listen. Some don’t.

  A man in a clean jacket steps into the doorway Cameron just went through. Clipboard loose in his hand like it weighs nothing.

  “You can’t be here,” the man says.

  Tony laughs. “Watch me.”

  “This area is restricted.”

  “Since when.”

  “Since it became active.”

  Arthur steps forward. “We’re with him.”

  The man glances at Arthur, then back to Tony. “You’re not listed.”

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  Tony taps his chest. “I’m always listed.”

  The man checks his clipboard anyway. Takes his time. “Not today.”

  Tony feels it then. Not anger. Not fear.

  Irrelevance.

  Upstairs, Cameron slows at the third floor.

  A door is propped open with a chair that does not belong there.

  He moves past it.

  The corridor is quiet in a way that feels staged. Lights on. Doors shut. One woman at the far end holding her phone to her chest like it might protect her.

  She sees him and flinches. “They said you were coming.”

  “Who,” Cameron asks.

  She points upward. “Them.”

  Good.

  That means the system is ahead of him, not in front.

  He keeps moving.

  Behind Tony, another man appears. Different jacket. Same calm.

  The clipboard man checks his watch. “Your friend is inside the window.”

  Tony freezes. “The what.”

  “The intervention window.”

  Tony stares up the stairs. “And I’m what. Audience.”

  The man nods. “Effectively.”

  Tony laughs once, sharp. “That’s mad.”

  Arthur swallows. “He’s trained for this.”

  “Yes,” the man says. “And he’s authorised.”

  Someone pushes past Tony, crying. He catches them automatically and steers them away from the door.

  “Where’s your flat,” Tony asks.

  “Fourth,” the woman sobs.

  “Go down,” Tony says. “Outside. Don’t stop.”

  She listens.

  That’s familiar. That’s his world.

  Cameron reaches the flat.

  Too many plug-in air fresheners. Someone tried to fight smell with scent and lost. The cooker is off. The line above it is not.

  Gas curls along the ceiling.

  Cameron steps under it.

  Heat responds instantly, not flaring, not dramatic. Just enough to change behaviour. The gas recoils and thins, moving where he tells it to.

  Footsteps approach behind him. Measured. Confident.

  “Cameron,” a voice calls. Not Harry. Younger. Cleaner.

  “This space isn’t clear,” Cameron says.

  “We’re aware,” the voice replies. “You’re still inside the window.”

  Cameron seals the line with a twist of heat and a wrench pulled from a drawer that was never meant for this. Metal groans, then holds.

  Two figures stand behind him now. Clean jackets. Cameras clipped to their chests.

  “You can step back,” one of them says. “We’ll take over.”

  “Take over what,” Cameron asks.

  “The record.”

  Tony paces below.

  “Open it,” he says.

  The clipboard man shakes his head. “That would complicate things.”

  Tony grins. “Everything’s complicated.”

  The alarm cuts off.

  Silence drops too fast.

  Tony looks up the stairwell. “That’s it.”

  Arthur checks his phone. “No explosion.”

  “Lucky him,” Tony mutters.

  Upstairs, Cameron looks around the flat.

  The scorch mark that will cool wrong.

  The warped pipe that will be logged as fatigue.

  The woman in the doorway watching him like he might vanish.

  “And if I stay,” Cameron asks.

  The man smiles. “Then it becomes discretionary.”

  Cameron steps past them into the hallway.

  People have gathered now. Phones. Whispers. Someone crying about rent.

  “Everyone back,” Cameron says. “Give it space.”

  They listen.

  That’s new.

  The clipboard man steps aside as Cameron exits the stairwell.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says.

  Tony snaps. “He didn’t cooperate. He fixed it.”

  The man smiles. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

  Cameron meets Tony’s eyes.

  Tony feels the relief first. Then something colder.

  The way people are looking at Cameron. Not grateful. Not relieved.

  Evaluating.

  Arthur tilts his phone so Tony can see.

  A summary.

  Time stamps.

  Language Tony hates.

  “This reads like a drill,” Tony says.

  “It reads like success,” Arthur replies.

  Tony looks back at Cameron. “They take credit.”

  “They take ownership,” Cameron says.

  The sanctioned team packs up efficiently. Radios murmur. Jackets turn away.

  The clipboard man pauses. “We’ll finalise from here.”

  Tony watches them leave.

  The door Cameron ran through earlier is still open.

  Tony knows now.

  Open doesn’t mean allowed.

  He smiles anyway.

  Because if this is how the city is going to run, then someone is going to have to break the clock.

  And Tony is very good at breaking things that think they are precise.

  Cameron watches him smile.

  He feels the window close behind him.

  And somewhere else in the city, another one is already opening.