The interior of Z-Tech was a cathedral of chrome and shadow. Zeeshaan led the girl—Zhuo—to a worn leather armchair.
"Sit," he said. He went to the sink, scrubbed his hands, and returned with a first aid kit. Zhuo sat stiffly, the oversized leather jacket still draped over her. On her lap, the silver box sat. It was beautiful, etched with vines that seemed to move when the light hit them.
"It isn't a lock," Zhuo said, her voice trembling slightly. "It is a promise. My family has guarded it for three hundred years. They call it the 'Whisper Box'."
As her fingers made contact, a low, resonant hum filled the room. Zeeshaan felt the hair on his arms stand up. Suddenly, the sound of a heavy engine idling echoed from the street. A black sedan with tinted windows sat at the curb.
"Wardens," Zhuo breathed. "They found me."
Zeeshaan didn't hesitate. He reached out and grabbed the silver box. He shoved it into his tool bag and grabbed Zhuo's hand. "My loft is upstairs. There's a freight elevator that leads to the old sub-tunnels. If we stay here, we're cornered."