He raised the rod and backed to the wall. A shape slid across the passage ahead, pale wrists, a lean shoulder, then gone. To his right, something scraped softly along a maintenance grill. He spun. Nothing. Water slid under his shoe, shallow and greasy, loud as broken glass in the tight passage.

"I know you're there," he said.

The words fell flat. Stupid words. Surface words, meant for rooms where being heard had power.

A loop of cable dropped from above and whipped around his rod arm. He jerked back on instinct and pain cut from shoulder to hip. Before he could wrench free, a second figure came low through the dark, aiming for his knees. Elias slammed the rod down. Metal hit metal with a crack that jarred his hand to the wrist. Someone hissed. He stumbled away, boots skidding on wet floor, and hit the wall hard enough to knock air out of him.

Three of them now. Maybe four. He could not hold the angles. One moved high, one low, one ghosted behind the pipe bank. He yanked the cable free, lost the rod in the same motion, and fumbled for the second length of metal at his belt. His bandaged palm slipped. A hand snatched his satchel strap and tore him sideways.

He got an elbow into a body he never clearly saw. Thin ribs. Fast breath. Human. Another shape darted in and struck his injured side with brutal accuracy. White light burst across his vision. He folded over it, one arm locked over his ribs, and the second rod swung wild and useless through empty air.