I look down at my side.
The bleeding has already slowed. Not stopped—but controlled. The edges of the wound have darkened, thickened faster than they should. I press lightly. It hurts, but it holds.
Faster clotting. Healing. Just efficient.
My breathing evens out. The heat under my skin hasn't faded yet, but it's stable now. Whatever the leechsteel did during the fight, it isn't escalating.
Good.
I stand up and move toward the door Ashlynn dragged Gary through.
Inside the room, Gary is slumped against the wall. Ashlynn has his arm braced against her knee, cloth already wrapped tight around what's left of his wrist. She's pressing hard.
"Luckily it's the hand that already lost two fingers," Gary says, forcing a weak chuckle.
"Stay still," Ashlynn snaps. She doesn't look at him.
The bleeding slows. Not fast enough to be comforting, but enough to buy time.
I watch for a moment.
"Are they supposed to talk?" I ask.
Gary exhales. His humor drains out of him.
"No."
A beat.
"I was wrong. We were wrong."
I look at him. "About what?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Just stares at the floor.
"That feral," he says finally. "It wasn't degraded enough. It shouldn't have been able to do that."
Ashlynn finishes the wrap and ties it off. There's no hand left. Just clean pressure and cloth.
"We need proof," Gary continues. "Evidence. Before we leave this floor."
"Leave?" Ashlynn says. "I thought this was the bottom."
"It is," Gary says. "Which is why it matters."
He braces himself. "Help me up."
Ashlynn and I take either side and pull him to his feet.
"This is the fifth floor," Gary says once he's steady. "I suspected it earlier, but I'm sure now."
He looks toward the corridor. From one end to the other.
"This is where the prison— the master of this place keeps his notes."
We open one of the doors along the corridor.
Inside is a cell—defined by a line of thick steel bars set into the floor and ceiling. The space beyond them is vast. It's big enough you can put 3 buses.
Buses?
Another word with hollow meaning.
The word comes easily enough, but the image behind it is faint, incomplete. I let it go.
On our side of the bars, the floor is fitted with restraint mechanisms: locking braces, anchor points, clamps designed to immobilize limbs or torsos. Heavy-duty. Overbuilt.
Beyond the bars, centered in the chamber, stands a raised platform. Chains hang from above and from the platform itself, their ends fitted with clasps and locking rings.
Nothing is bound.
The cell door stands open.
"A containment chamber," Gary says.
"For what?" I ask.
"Inhumans," he replies. "People who've undergone alchemical body alteration."
He pauses.
"Willingly," he adds. Then stops.
A brief silence.
"Or not," Ashlynn finishes.
So that's what inhuman means.
We step inside. The chamber is empty. Near the entrance, a single paper is clipped to a metal board bolted into the wall.
"Combat Project," I read aloud.
"Read it," Ashlynn says.
The document is clinical. Procedural. I skim, then slow.
"Human neural structure implanted into a feral combat frame. Cognitive retention: partial. Physical output: extreme. Notes on obedience degradation. Failure thresholds."
Near the bottom, a designation.
Specimen traits: triple caudal extensions.
Three tails.
The chamber is empty.
"Let me take that," Gary says.
I hand him the note. He folds it once and slips it into the inner pocket of his coat without comment.
We leave the chamber and open another door. Then another—checking layouts, restraints, configurations.
More cells. Different configurations. Same purpose.
"This whole section is for containment," I say.
"So it seems," Gary agrees.
We continue down the corridor.
"Where are we going?" Ashlynn asks.
"I need to bring something valuable back," Gary replies.
"But you already have the note," I say.
He nods once. "That was one experiment."
He pauses.
"There are others."
The corridor changes before we reach the end.
The stone here is lighter, cut into uniform blocks instead of rough slabs. The seams are precise. Maintained. Shallow channels run along the floor edges, sloping toward narrow metal grates. Old stains cling to them despite repeated cleaning.
Pipes run overhead—thick metal lines bolted directly into the ceiling. Some are wrapped in insulation. Others are bare, fitted with valves and pressure wheels etched with numbers instead of labels.
"This is an alchemy wing," Gary says.
I already know.
Every door here is reinforced. Thick hinges. Sealed frames. Small glass panels set at eye level, each protected by a sliding metal shutter. Most of them are closed.
We stop in front of one door.
A blue eye is etched into the metal plate above it. The same blue eye that also appears on one of the page in the red notebook. Allen's notebook.
Not decorative.
Deliberate.