Chapter 9 · Seventh Retrieval

The smoke alarm goes off before I even see the fire.

Rowan's already moving. She shoves me back through the dressing room door and slams it shut. I stumble into the rack of costumes, velvet and sequins catching under my nails. My ears are ringing. The alarm won't stop.

"Rowan—"

"Stay here." Her voice comes out flat. Wrong. Like she's reading off a script she doesn't believe in.

I shove the costumes aside and get to the door. Through the gap I can see her standing in the middle of the stage, head tilted like she's listening to something I can't hear. The work lights are still on. Nothing's burning. But the smoke detector keeps screaming, and now I smell it—acrid, chemical, not wood or fabric.

Smoke grenade.

My gut drops.

"Rowan, we need to move—"

"They're here." She doesn't look at me. Her shoulders are locked, her hands open at her sides. "Seven units. Perimeter formed. Exit routes covered."

I don't ask how she knows. I grab my phone. No signal. They're jamming it.

The freight elevator. It's old, analog, runs on a pulley. No network to cut.