"Get out of the car, Jordan—you're late," Kali said, her smile practiced and bright like a cracked mirror. She didn't look at Jordan. She never did. Her hand on the gate's control pad never wavered. Jordan's feet hit the gravel. The gate yawned open, metal teeth retracting with the lazy authority of something that owned the road. A guard in a grey vest glanced up, bored, then down at his tablet. "Names." "Kali Graf," Kali answered, voice syrup-sweet. "Jordan Campbell." The guard tapped. The scanner blinked red once, then green. No IDs. Of course no IDs. Riverside liked it that way. The place kept people as it kept inventory—counted, labeled, moved. Jordan's pulse kicked hard. She kept her face empty. Fear fit too easily in her throat. It used to live there. She'd learned the contours. Teach yourself to look neutral and people will give you neutral. Neutral keeps you alive. A kid with a shaved head stepped forward to check the trunk. "Anything to declare?" "Clothes, shoes, a toothbrush," Jordan said. Her voice didn't tremble. Small lie. It was better than the truth. Kali leaned in, just enough for Jordan to feel breath. "You'll do fine," she murmured. "Smile, byte the right people." Jordan's jaw tightened. There was a memory like a fissure under the surface: a different gate, the same metal, the same hands—only younger, rougher. The memory hit like cold water. She blinked it