Ten Hours to Die

The night didn't pass so much as it unraveled.

Adrian didn't sleep. He didn't even try. He sat at his desk, surrounded by half-read legal texts and old Academy notes, the soft hum of the Odyssey's infrastructure filling the silence like a second heartbeat.

The case file hovered in front of him — its pale blue text reflected in his eyes. He'd gone through it five times already. Every word, every timestamp, every clipped line of testimony. And yet, each time, something different stuck. Not in a reassuring way — more like a loose screw in a machine. The shape of the thing made sense. But it rattled.

He sipped cold coffee. It didn't help. Not the taste, not the fatigue. His fingers were shaking again.

He told himself it was nerves.

What else would it be?

He closed his eyes. In the dark behind his eyelids, the dream flickered again — not the whole thing, just the sound. The gunshot. Too loud. Too final.

He opened his eyes. That weird clarity again. His fingers stopped shaking. He was calm.

The same inconsistencies glared at him.

The missing ID. The unknown victim. The stitched collar on a shirt that hadn't been manufactured in decades.

The surveillance glitch made no sense. Cameras didn't just fail. Not in a sector that clean, that quiet. Sector 19-Gamma was residential. Bureaucrats and technicians. People who filed forms about forms.

And then there was the suspect — Kale Virell. Freelance synth tech. Lived in the building adjacent to the alley. No criminal record. No registered ownership of weapons — antique or otherwise.

Adrian rubbed his temples.

It didn't add up. Not in a "clever twist" way — in a too quiet way. The kind of quiet that came when someone wanted you to move on.

He pulled up the autopsy summary again. Internal trauma consistent with a high-caliber projectile. Time of death: 02:36 local.

Estimated interval between death and discovery: two minutes.

Two minutes.

He leaned forward, eyes scanning every detail. He didn't blink.

By the time Ellie messaged, he was already halfway into a rough sketch of the alley — measuring sightlines, estimating distances from adjacent balconies. He didn't know why, exactly. Just that it felt like something he should be doing.

"You awake?" her message read.

"Actually, no — I died and am texting you from the Void."

"Classic."

"Got anything?"

"Just questions."

"Good. Stay sharp. Call me when you burn out."

"Sure.""

You won't, will you."

"Would you?"

"Uh, yeah...? We're not all sleepless zombies that can work for days without sleep."

He put the device down. Stared out the window for a moment. The Odyssey's skyline looked serene under the artificial light, like a model city frozen in time.

Somewhere out there, someone had pulled a trigger.

And someone else had decided that no one should look too closely.

By 09:30, the alley had reopened. Quiet, unremarkable. Just another service lane behind a row of apartment towers in Sector 19-Gamma.

Adrian stood at its entrance, alone, hands in the pockets of a coat he barely remembered putting on. A faded chalk line still marked the body's outline. The surface had been cleaned, but not perfectly — a faint coppery smear remained where blood had pooled.

No officers, no tape, no press.

It had already been filed away. Tidy. Forgotten.

He walked the length of the alley slowly. Narrow. Dead end. Two rear entrances — maintenance access and waste chute — both closed and logged. No security cameras active, though the broken mounts still hung from the walls like dead insects.

He paused.

The camera above the chute wasn't broken. Not entirely. The housing was damaged — warped around the edge — but the lens? Clean. Untouched.

That wasn't weathering. That was heat.

He stepped closer, examining the slight discoloration along the casing.

Melted. Probably by a short-range emitter or industrial-grade tool. Not a glitch. A surgical blinding.

Across from the scene, three levels up, a window sat open. Balcony unit. Clear line of sight. Adrian stepped out of the alley and craned his neck. Directly above him, he saw a janitor passing on a loaded hovercart, unusually high up.

"You lost?" the man asked.

Adrian flashed his provisional badge. "Legal observer. I'm reviewing the scene."

The janitor scratched his head. "Bit late for that."

"You work this block?"

"Every other day."

"Did you see anything strange earlier this week? Deliveries? New faces?"

The man shrugged. "Not really. Oh, wait—yeah. Now that you mention it, there was someone. Day before the killing. Just standing here."

"Standing where?"

"Right about where you're standing. Thought he was waiting on someone, but he stayed there a long time. Had a long coat, stiff shoulders. Didn't move much."

"Did he talk to you?"

"No. Didn't look interested in anything."

"Do you remember his face?"

"Nope," the janitor said. "Didn't look."

Adrian stared at him. "You didn't look?"

The man looked mildly offended. "Look, I mind my business. Half the time you see a coat like that, it's someone with clearance you shouldn't bother."

"I suppose."

He spent another thirty minutes walking the perimeter. A half-scorched cable. A single broken piece of glass near a loading hatch. Minor details — meaningless on their own. But deliberate. Someone had cleaned this place in a hurry. But not perfectly. They wanted it to look mundane.

The building across from the alley wasn't tall — five floors, clean facade, government-issue architecture from the pre-reform era. Functional, boring. The kind of place that was designed to be invisible.

Adrian buzzed four apartments before someone answered. The fifth floor — unit 5B — responded with a sharp tone and a video feed that showed nothing but the top of someone's head.

"Adrian Solis. I'm a legal observer assigned to a case involving the murder in the alley behind your building."

A pause. Then: "Wasn't here."

"You haven't heard what time I was asking about."

"I know what time you're here. And I said I wasn't."

Their voice was low, clipped, neutral. On the screen, Adrian could barely make out anything but the curve of a shaved scalp and a sliver of light behind them.

Then something caught his eye — behind the speaker, reflected faintly in a glass cabinet or monitor panel. A flash of movement. A hand, reaching up. Adjusting something. A small lens, maybe. A camera.

Not hiding. Watching.

He kept his voice even. "Did you notice the cameras went out that night?"

Another pause. "They go out sometimes."

"All of them?"

Silence.

Then the feed cut.

Adrian stood there a moment longer, making a careful note of the unit number. This wasn't just fear. That person was monitoring him. Maybe more than just him.

Unit 3C answered with more enthusiasm.

A wide-eyed child — maybe seven, maybe eight — peered up at him from the screen, chin barely reaching the camera's field.

"Are you security?"

"No," Adrian said. "I'm with the judiciary."

"What's a judichairy?"

"It means I ask questions."

The kid looked fascinated. "Like a detective?"

"Kind of."

"That's so cool."

"Were you home the night of the murder?"

The kid nodded solemnly. "Mom said not to talk about it."

Adrian crouched slightly to meet the camera better. "You don't have to tell me anything. But… did you see something weird?"

The child leaned in, eyes flicking around like they were checking for someone. Then: "There was a man. He was standing in the alley. Real still."

"What did he look like?"

"I dunno. He had a coat, and something shiny on his head. Like a headband or maybe… like a bug?"

"A bug?"

"Yeah, like with eyes. It blinked. I think."

Adrian's heart skipped once. "Did he say anything?"

"Nope. Just stood there. Then he walked away."

"Which way?"

The child thought hard. "That way." A small finger pointed toward the corridor behind the alley — a maintenance route that looped around toward the power substation.

Adrian made a note.

"Thanks," he said. "That helps a lot."

The kid beamed. "Can I be a judichairy when I grow up?"

He smiled faintly. "Hopefully."

Following the child's directions, Adrian found himself walking a narrow back corridor behind the alley. It was technically public access — used mostly by technicians and recycling drones — but the scuffed floor and stale air said it wasn't used often. Dim light panels flickered overhead. The corridor curved slightly, following the outer contour of the sector dome.

Halfway down, something stopped him.

A hatch.

Unmarked. Flush with the wall, but with the faintest outline of fingerprint smudges along the frame.

Someone had opened it recently.

Adrian knelt, brushing his fingers along the edge. Faint heat lingered there. Residual warmth, like from an energy cell or induction seal. Not hours ago — minutes. Maybe less.

He glanced behind him. The corridor was still empty.

He stood and moved on, slower now, heart beginning to thud harder — not from fear, but from that tightening sense in his chest. Like something was clicking into place. Like he was circling something without knowing it.

At the end of the corridor, the power substation loomed — squat, blocky, humming low like a caged engine.

The door to the substation wasn't locked — just slightly ajar, humming with latent power and dust. Inside, the temperature dropped. Concrete, pipework, and metal all gleamed faintly under overhead industrial lighting.

Adrian stepped in, his footsteps echoing too loudly. The hum of electricity ran through the walls like a living pulse.

This was the kind of place the public never saw. Infrastructure nobody thought about. Which made it perfect for someone who didn't want to be seen.

He moved carefully between the panels and backup cells, scanning for anything out of place.

Then he found it.

Near a junction box, tucked behind one of the coolant vents — a discarded tool. Small, square, brushed alloy with a single circular emitter and a cracked housing. It had clearly been dropped in haste.

He picked it up carefully. The label was scorched, but still legible.

Microfield Disruptor — Gen 4-A (Licensed Tool Use Only)

His heart sank.

He recognized the brand. Not commercial. Not black market. This was service-grade. The kind issued to certified synth techs for surge calibration and short-range circuit resets.

Techs like Kale Virell.

Adrian stared at it for a long time.

Then he crouched and looked around. A trail of disturbed dust led back toward the alley entrance. Whoever dropped this passed through quickly. The timing matched.

He stood, frowning.

If this was Kale's… why leave it here? Why not destroy it?

Unless it wasn't his.

Unless it was planted.

But that was a hard sell. The prosecution wouldn't care who dropped it — only that Kale owned one. And used it in close proximity to the crime.

He bagged it carefully and slipped it into his satchel.

Back outside, he leaned against the wall, breath frosting slightly in the corridor's recycled chill.

One step forward, two back.

Now he had a device that explained the surveillance outage… and it could be traced straight to the defendant. He could already hear the prosecutor's voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, he didn't just commit murder — he covered it up."

Adrian rubbed his face, exhausted but burning.

Something still didn't fit. If Kale had planned this, why leave the body there? Why make no attempt to hide it, flee the sector, destroy the tool?

And who was the man with the coat?

Ellie picked up the pouch and turned it slowly in her hands. The device inside gleamed faintly under the overhead light.

"Microfield Gen 4-A," she muttered. "Standard issue for synth techs. I've seen Kale use one."

"I know," Adrian said.

She looked at him, brow furrowing. "Then we've got a problem."

He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Or someone wants us to think we do. Think about it — if Kale planned this, he didn't do a very good job. He left the body. Didn't run far. Didn't even try to hide the evidence."

"He also didn't destroy it," Ellie countered. "He could've thrown this into a heat sink or crushed it. But he didn't. Maybe because he panicked."

Adrian didn't answer right away. He was staring at the device like it might speak if he looked hard enough.

"It doesn't fit," he said finally. "He doesn't fit."

Ellie exhaled, then leaned back. "You're sure it's not just… stress? First case. High stakes. You're trying to win, and that's blinding you."

He almost laughed. "I'm not trying to win. I'm trying not to convict someone for a crime they didn't commit."

There was a long silence between them. The café buzzed softly in the background — cups clinking, low voices, a distant tram rumble.

Ellie lowered her voice. "Adrian… you're not sleeping. You're spiraling."

He rubbed his eyes. "I'm focused."

"You're fixated."

He looked up, and for a moment, there was a strange calm in his face. Not angry. Not frantic. Just still.

"I'm seeing things clearly," he said. Adrian tapped twice on his satchel, then stood.

Ellie raised an eyebrow. "You're leaving?"

"I need to confirm something."

"Adrian—"

"I'll call you if it's important."

She didn't stop him, but she didn't look away either. He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked out into the corridor — shoulders tense, mind already spinning faster than he could follow.

He reached the judiciary's shared diagnostics terminal fifteen minutes later — tucked into a dry, dusty corner of the civic records office. The air smelled like old wiring and sterilizer fluid. The interface flickered to life under his palm.

He entered the device's serial code manually from the evidence pouch.

MFD-2019473-A

STATUS: ISSUED

LICENSED TO: VIRELL, KALE (ID-458-21-779)

LAST MAINTENANCE PING: SIX DAYS AGO

LAST TRACKABLE USE: UNLOGGED

Adrian stared at the screen.

Issued to Kale.

His stomach dropped — not because he didn't expect it, but because of the implication: the prosecution would eat this alive. He could already picture the line of questioning.

"Isn't it true, Counselor, that your client not only possessed the device, but failed to log its last use in a secure area?"

But something still didn't sit right.

He paged deeper. Maintenance logs, calibration history, diagnostic pings.

LAST LOCATION SYNC: SECTOR 11 — INFRASTRUCTURE ADMINISTRATION

That was halfway across the ship.

And Kale didn't work there.

Adrian frowned.

The tool had been synced there two days before the murder — far from Kale's known movement logs. Unless he was lying… or someone else had used his gear.

He saved the log and backed out. His eyes lingered on the screen for a moment longer.

No one could say it wasn't his device.

But maybe Kale wasn't the one who held it last.