The factory doors buckled inward.
Netoshka's squad moved through the breach in perfect formation—silent, efficient, already too late.
The smell hit first.
Blood.
Old metal.
Death that had lingered long enough to rot.
Twila gagged, turning away. Genrihk's shadows recoiled instinctively along the walls. Ron swore under his breath.
Then they saw the bodies.
Two small shapes on the floor.
Still.
Broken.
Netoshka stopped.
For half a second—only half.
Her jaw tightened. Nothing else moved.
Surgien stepped forward, voice hoarse.
"Neto… I—"
She didn't answer.
Her eyes were already on Zev.
He stood near the collapsed wall, breathing like a wounded animal, restraints hanging in pieces from his arms. His silhouette twisted unnaturally as moonlight poured through a jagged裂 in the roof above.
The full moon.
Zev looked up.
And screamed.
Bones cracked.
Muscle tore and reformed. His spine arched violently as his body expanded, skin splitting and sealing again in seconds. Fur erupted along his arms and back, claws ripping through concrete as he dropped to all fours.
A werewolf.
Not myth.
Not curse.
A weapon forged from rage and guilt.
"DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!" Spectr shouted.
Weapons came up instantly. Lyra drew her blade, eyes sharp. Zopi activated smoke grenades. Taran braced himself, Wire corruption twitching beneath his skin, others ready for combat.
Zev roared in pure Rage.
The sound shattered windows across the block.
He lunged.
Netoshka vanished.
A glitch tore through reality—static and fractured frames—as she reappeared directly beside him, hand already plunging a syringe into the thick muscle at his neck.
"Go to Sleep kid," she said.
The Sleeper serum detonated through his system.
Zev staggered.
Roared once more.
Then collapsed.
His massive form convulsed, shrinking rapidly, bones snapping back into place as fur receded and flesh smoothed. Within seconds, he was human again—unconscious, breathing, alive.
Silence fell.
Only broken metal and distant sirens answered.
Netoshka straightened slowly.
Her hands were steady.
"Get him out," she said.
Surgien hesitated.
"What?"
"Take Zev," Netoshka repeated, eyes never leaving the bodies on the floor.
"Rendezvous point. Main building. Western Side."
"…You're not coming?" Rue asked.
Netoshka finally turned.
"I'll be there in an hour."
Confusion rippled through both squads.
"That makes no sense," Spectr said.
"We move together."
"No," Netoshka replied calmly.
"You move now."
Something in her voice ended the argument.
Surgien nodded grimly.
"We'll keep him stable."
They lifted Zev carefully and moved for extraction.
As they passed, Lyra paused.
She looked at Netoshka.
Really looked.
There was no grief in her eyes.
No shock.
Only a vast, hollow emptiness—cold, focused, and filled with an insatiable wrath that made Lyra's grip tighten on her sword.
"You're not coming because you're hunting something you can't let go, right?" Lyra said quietly.
Netoshka didn't deny it.
"They took those children's lives," she replied.
Her eyes glitched—just once.
"And they're still breathing."
The squads disappeared into the night.
Netoshka remained in the factory alone, moonlight washing over bloodstained concrete.
Somewhere in the city, gangs celebrated.
They wouldn't for long.