The doors sealed behind them with a hydraulic thud that echoed up the spine of the building.
Too loud.
Netoshka felt it immediately—the shift.
The air pressure changed. Temperature stabilized unnaturally fast. White noise bled into the background, too uniform to be coincidence.
"This place is awake," Circe murmured over the comms.
Netoshka didn't answer. Her eyes were already moving.
The interior wasn't corporate.
It was clinical.
Concrete walls reinforced with black composite ribs. No windows. No signage. The lights weren't mounted—they were embedded directly into the ceiling like veins, pulsing faintly in sync with something deeper.
A heartbeat.
"Stack up," Netoshka ordered quietly.
Inferius moved like a machine that had learned fear but discarded hesitation.
Zev wasn't with them.
The empty space where he should have been burned in her peripheral vision.
Focus.
They advanced.
Floor 1 — Intake
The first room opened into a wide processing hall. Rows of metal desks bolted to the floor. Screens dark. Chairs overturned.
Signs of evacuation—but not panic.
"Too clean," Rue muttered, sweeping her rifle across the shadows.
Netoshka crouched beside one of the desks. Her fingers brushed dried residue along the edge.
Blood.
Not splatter.
Dragged.
"They didn't run," she said.
"They were taken."
Surgien scanned the walls, eyes narrowing.
"Look at the restraints."
Metal clamps folded flush into the desks—wrist-sized. Old. Used often.
Circe's voice sharpened.
"Picking up residual bio-signatures. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. But no recent vitals."
Netoshka stood.
"They're below us."
A sound answered her.
Footsteps.
Too many. Too synchronized.
"Contacts," Lyra warned.
The lights dimmed.
Panels slid open along the walls and Synarchy soldiers poured in—black armor, matte helmets, white lenses glowing like dead stars.
"Engage," Netoshka said.
Inferius exploded into motion.
Gunfire tore through the hall—short, controlled bursts. Synarchy troops moved with algorithmic precision, suppressing lanes, forcing angles.
Netoshka didn't bother trading fire.
Reality skipped.
She vanished.
Reappeared behind the left flank.
Her blade opened the first soldier from shoulder to hip before his nervous system could react. She twisted, fired point-blank into the second, kicked the third into Rue's firing lane.
Bodies hit the floor before echoes faded.
But more kept coming.
"They're testing us," Circe shouted.
"Rotating formations!"
"Then keep failing them," Netoshka replied coldly.
Lyra's blade ran through her armor. Rue dropped to a knee, firing through gaps Netoshka created. Surgien moved like a butcher, efficient and brutal.
Within seconds, the hall fell silent again.
Only the hum remained.
Netoshka stared at the far wall.
A door hadn't opened.
It had watched.
Floor 2 — Records
They ascended the stairwell—no elevators. Netoshka didn't trust them.
The second floor was worse.
Rows upon rows of archive servers. Physical. Deliberate.
"Why keep hard data?" Rue whispered.
"So it can't be erased remotely," Circe replied. "Or because it's illegal even by their standards."
Netoshka walked between the aisles.
Names.
Dates.
Project codes.
She stopped.
Her fingers clenched.
Children.
Not subjects.
Not assets.
Inventory.
Surgien swore under his breath.
Netoshka didn't move for a long moment.
Then she ripped the server rack free from the floor and slammed it into the ground.
Metal screamed.
"Copy everything," she ordered.
"Burn the rest."
Circe hesitated. "Net—"
"That's an order."
The room filled with sparks as data cores overheated and collapsed.
As they turned to leave—
A voice echoed through the speakers.
Smooth. Calm.
Almost amused.
"You're very thorough, Netoshka."
Her blood went cold.
Malicer.
She didn't respond.
"You've already seen enough to know this building isn't the heart," he continued.
"Just the lungs."
Lights flickered.
Doors sealed.
"Floor lockdown," Circe warned.
Netoshka smiled faintly.
"Good."
Floor 3 — Containment
The doors opened into hell.
Cells lined the corridor—glass-fronted, reinforced. Inside them—
People.
Alive.
Barely.
Some restrained. Some sedated. Some staring straight ahead, eyes hollowed out by prolonged exposure to something unseen.
Netoshka's chest tightened.
"Damn…" Rue whispered.
One of the prisoners turned.
And smiled at Netoshka.
Her vision fractured.
Numbers tried to surface.
She crushed them back down.
"Open every cell," she said.
Surgien snapped his head toward her.
"Neto—protocol—"
"OPEN THEM."
Alarms screamed as locks disengaged.
The prisoners collapsed, cried, laughed, screamed.
Chaos.
And through it—
The SAU arrived.
Special Attack Unit.
Heavier armor. Neural-linked squads. Adaptive shields.
"Contacts, high-grade!" Lyra shouted.
Netoshka stepped forward alone.
"Evacuate the prisoners," she said calmly.
"I'll hold."
Rue hesitated.
"That's not a suggestion."
Inferius obeyed.
The SAU advanced.
Netoshka walked toward them.
Reality broke.
She glitched between frames, tearing through shields that hadn't recalibrated yet. Her blade struck joints, visors, throats.
The SAU adapted fast.
Too fast.
Rounds clipped her side. Pain flared.
She welcomed it.
She moved faster.
By the time Inferius cleared the floor, only bodies remained.
Netoshka stood amid them, breathing slow.
Malicer's voice returned.
"You see why I needed you alive?"
Her jaw tightened.
Floor 4 — Offices
Executive level.
Clean. Polished. Empty.
Personal effects still on desks. Coffee still warm in one cup.
"They left recently," Circe said.
Netoshka felt it too.
A presence pulling upward.
"He's above us," she said.
They moved room to room.
Each office revealed fragments—psych evaluations, combat simulations, profiles.
Netoshka stopped again.
Her own face stared back at her from a file.
Annotations.
Capabilities.
Failure points.
Surgien looked over her shoulder.
"…They've been studying you for years."
"No," Netoshka said quietly.
"They've been waiting."
She closed the file.
Burned it.
Floor 5 — Observation
The final floor before the director's level.
A wide chamber with a circular glass wall overlooking the city.
Cerevra burned below.
Synarchy troops stood waiting.
Not in formation.
At ease.
Malicer's voice came not from speakers—
But from behind the glass.
"You're late."
Netoshka raised her weapon.
The glass didn't shatter.
A silhouette stood beyond it.
Watching.
"Search every room," she ordered without looking back.
"He's here."
The hunt wasn't over.
It was tightening.
And Netoshka could feel it—
The wrath she'd been holding back
was starting to answer her.