No Smoking in the Stairwell
As we pushed through the revolving doors, the clamor from the ticket counters washed over us. A passenger demanding a refund was locked in a furious shouting match with a harried clerk.
The lobby was grander than most station waiting halls. Soaring ceilings held massive clocks and destination boards aloft, while steam pipes gurgled and hissed with boiling water. In front of the ticket booths and cargo transfer desks, a sprawling queue of human, dwarf, orc, and beastfolk laborers surged in endless lines.
Whether the executives on the third floor were busy pocketing corporate funds or deploying death squads, the ground-floor laborers and travelers carried on with their daily routines, desperate only to catch their trains on time.
The guard stationed by the main entrance snapped his posture ramrod straight the instant he spotted Irina’s crisp uniform and the silver insignia gleaming on her lapel. But when his eyes shifted to the long, heavy iron shape wrapped securely in gray cloth and slung diagonally across my back, his hand shot up in alarm.
“Halt! That cargo cannot be brought inside without first undergoing inspection at the ground-floor information de—”
Irina slipped a silver badge from her coat and thrust it inches from the guard’s face.
The guard’s jaw went completely slack the moment he read the sharply engraved titles. His raised hand drifted down in a daze.
“This is specialized equipment for a headquarters audit,” Irina stated calmly. “From this moment forward, all access to the third floor by visitors and junior personnel is strictly prohibited. Keep the main entrance and the ground-floor lobby operating normally, but direct the public quietly so as not to cause a panic.”
While the bewildered guard looked back toward his post, Havel flipped his overcoat open to reveal his inspector's badge. Six plainclothes officers mingling among the civilians slipped official armbands over their sleeves and moved into position at every doorway.
“Belokh City Guard,” Havel announced. “We are executing an arrest warrant. Everyone, please remain by the counters.”
Havel never raised his voice, but the seasoned investigator possessed a crushing, quiet authority that parted the crowded lobby like water. Two guardsmen immediately moved to barricade the foot of the central marble staircase leading up to the third floor.
“Section Chief, I’ll take the emergency stairs.”
“Be careful, Sonya-ssi. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
While Irina and Havel spearheaded the frontal assault toward the third-floor Security Section via the grand staircase, I slipped away toward the second-floor corridor with the Type 91 rifle slung over my back.
Once I reached the second floor, the chaotic din of the lobby died down like a dream.
Through the glass office partitions, clerks were sticking colored pins into rail network maps, while the rhythmic clatter of telegraph keys drifted from an adjoining room. People who had no idea what was unfolding simply went about their daily labor. Nobody spared a suspicious glance for a fifteen-year-old girl striding briskly through the hallway with a gray bundle; to them, I was probably just an errand runner carrying a package.
Behind the second-floor records archive...
It was right where the schematics said it would be. Weaving past precarious towers of weathered document boxes into the deepest corner of the archive, I came upon a heavy iron emergency door with peeling paint. It was a service stairwell, mostly used by maintenance crews and couriers.
Screeech.
I eased the door open and slipped inside. It was narrow. Two people walking side by side would brush shoulders, and raising a rifle upright would scrape against the underside of the stairs above. I kept the barrel angled downward.
Tight close-quarters combat. Long weapons—whether swords or rifles—are going to be a nightmare to swing in here.
Climbing four metal steps toward the third floor, I halted at the intermediate landing where the stairwell doubled back in a sharp turn.
A small transom window opened outward along the wall, and beneath it sat a tin can half-filled with sand. It bristled like a hedgehog with blackened, stubbed-out cigarette butts.
Man... the secret smoking corner tucked away in an office stairwell. Truly the universal sanctuary of working stiffs across every world.
In my past life, section heads and assistant managers used to squat on landing corners just like this, puffing smoke and badmouthing their superiors. It seemed the railway employees of this world were no different, sneaking down here to burn away their stress out of sight of the higher-ups.
I checked the wall clock at the end of the hall. Two minutes until the breach. There was still a brief window before Section Chief Irina kicked down the third floor's front door.
Propping the rifle against the wall, I pulled out the pack of cheap, low-grade Cheonghoecho and the matches I’d pocketed yesterday.
A fifteen-year-old augmented human sneaking a smoke in a fire escape right before a raid...
The thought bore an uncanny resemblance to ditching evening study hall to smoke on the high school roof in my past life, and a dry chuckle slipped out.
Scritch.
I struck a match, cupping the flame in my palm. Catching the tip on fire, I drew in a brief pull.
The bitter, herbal reek scratched my throat. I nudged the transom window open by a couple of finger-widths, and the biting winter draft swept through the crack, vacuuming the pale blue smoke outside into the cold air.
After a few drags, the dull ache in my thighs softened. My stamina hadn't fully returned, but after testing my knees with a quick bend, I immediately snuffed out the smoke.
I double-checked the tin can to ensure no embers remained, then tapped the half-unsmoked butt clean and tucked it carefully back into the paper pack. The frugality of a part-time wage slave endured, even in another world.
Rustle.
I tugged at the leather thongs binding the Type 91 rifle. Three knots slipped free in succession, shedding the gray cloth shroud.
A blued-steel barrel and a dense walnut stock emerged. Five rounds of 7.62mm ammunition were loaded in the internal magazine, though the chamber was left empty for safety.
Right then—
SLAM!
A ferocious shout tore through the third-floor steel door. Section Chief Irina had evidently just shattered the Security Section's entrance with headquarters' direct warrant in hand.
“Whatever drivel headquarters is barking, you have no authority to commandeer branch business like—!”
The branch security chief's rough bellow was severed by the violent crash of another door slamming shut. Moments later, the frantic clatter of three pairs of dress shoes sprinted down the third-floor hallway, rushing straight toward the emergency exit.
Here they come. The overtime-inducing bastards.
I pushed off the window frame and brought the Type 91 rifle up, gripping it diagonally across my chest.
Clack! Crash!
The third-floor door flew open, and a man in a gray overcoat burst out. It was that snake-eyed accounting clerk who had snooped around Orban’s office the other day.
In his right hand was a thick black leather briefcase bursting at the seams with paperwork. Close behind him were two security escorts in navy uniforms. One had already drawn a standard-issue military saber, while the other had a hand buried deep inside his coat.
The clerk took one step onto the stairs before freezing in terror at the sight of me holding the landing.
“Y-You... why the hell are you here?!”
“Heading out early, Clerk-nim?”
I rested my weight on one hip, tapped the rifle's buttstock against the concrete floor, and spat dryly to the side.
“Drop the bag. You two behind him, pull your hands out of your pockets. Keep hesitating and I’ll shoot your hands off first.”
“You crazy brat...! This is restricted ARC territory! External mercenaries have no business sticking their noses in here!”
“I signed with headquarters last night,” I replied flatly. “I’ll be taking custody of that briefcase.”
“Shut your mouth! Out of the way! We are carrying out official duties, transferring archival records to a secure vault!”
“Headquarters ordered them sealed. I’m looking right at you running off with the ledgers, so cut the bullshit.”
The clerk’s face drained of color. Realizing diplomacy was dead, the guard holding the saber charged forward with a snarl.
“Out of the way!”
CLANG—!
The sharpened saber swept down toward my neck in a vicious, angled slash.
I didn't budge. Raising the Type 91 rifle horizontally, I caught the falling blade dead-on with the thick high-carbon steel band wrapped around the forend.
CLAAAANG—!
A deafening ring of shattered resonance reverberated through the concrete stairwell. White scrape marks scored across the steel collar, but just as Uncle Bram had guaranteed, the walnut stock remained pristine without a scratch.
“...—?!”
The guard tried to wrench his blade free. Shoving the rifle forward to pin the point against the masonry, I charged up two steps. Metal screeched right beside my ear.
Driving the front of the rifle with my left hand, I pinned his sword arm flat against the wall, then seized the buttstock with my right hand and twisted it like a crowbar.
CRACK!
“Aaaargh!”
His wrist joint snapped, and the saber clattered to the floor. Keeping my grip on the rifle, I lowered my shoulder and rammed full-force into the guard’s chest.
THUD!
His back crashed violently against the iron doorframe. As he wheezed for air, I drove a short, heavy right hook straight into the point of his chin.
SMACK!
Teeth clicked together with a sickening crunch. His eyes rolled up into his skull, and he slid limp against the wall.
In that exact instant, the second guard whipped a revolver out from beneath his overcoat. Just as the muzzle aligned with my forehead—
Don't even think about it!
Pulling my right hand back, I drove the muzzle of the Type 91 straight up into the underside of his wrist.
BANG—!
The gunshot roared through the confined stairwell. The bullet tore into the ceiling plaster, raining white powder down like a waterfall.
Closing the distance in a flash, I slammed his wrist hard into the brick wall.
Crunch!
His finger joints ground against the masonry, and the revolver slipped from his grasp. With a flick of my boot, I kicked the fallen gun down through the stair railing, swung the rifle sling over my shoulder, and caught the guard by the collar with my bare hand.
“Urk...!”
Hauling him forward, I snapped a compact left hook into his jaw.
Crack!
A tight, brutal punch. The guard slumped against the wall and folded to the floor.
“Eep!”
Pale as death, the clerk spun around to bolt back down the third-floor corridor. Holding the rifle in my left hand, I reached out with my right and snagged the scruff of his overcoat.
His dress shoes squealed helplessly against the flooring, utterly outmatched by the monstrous grip of a ten-year augmented human.
“Let go! Let go of me! Do you have any idea who I am?!”
“Yeah, I do. An embezzling clerk fleeing with stolen ledgers who just earned himself an arrest warrant.”
I yanked him around by the collar, and the clerk hurled the heavy briefcase at my face followed by an elbow strike. Ducking back just enough to let it whistle past, I buried a fist straight into his solar plexus.
OOF!
“Kaaagh...!”
He folded completely in two, his head dropping level with his chest. As his chin descended, I clipped it lightly with the heel of my palm.
Thwack.
The clerk’s legs turned to water. I laid him down and checked the pulses of all three; one guard was still groaning faintly. Weapons first.
Using the tip of my boot, I swept the dropped saber and revolver into the corner of the stairwell, then scooped up the black leather briefcase lying on the floor.
Popping the brass latches and pulling it open, a thick, cloth-bound hardcover ledger spilled out alongside a removal permit stamped with red wax and a heavy ring of keys.
Embossed in gold lettering across the ledger’s cover:
The permit had been approved well after the lockdown order had already been issued. One more official document proving exactly who orchestrated the cover-up.
Got you, you thieving bastards.
A smirk crept onto my face. But right as I moved to shut the briefcase—
BANG—! BANG—!
From the opposite end of the hallway, toward the Finance Section's main archive on the eastern wing, sharp rifle reports cracked in rapid succession.
It didn't stop at two shots. Shoving the briefcase back toward the stairwell landing, I raised the rifle.
...What the hell? Is someone else in the archive room?!
Frowning deeply, I cycled the bolt of the Type 91 with practiced speed.
Clack-clack.
The topmost 7.62mm cartridge in the internal magazine slid cleanly into battery.