Hydraulics whined—a high-pitched, mechanical screech struggling against the -64°C gale. The lead soldier of the Frost-Line squad took another step, heavy magnetic boots clamping onto the ice-slicked concrete with a dull _thud_.
Motionless, Alex let the wind tear at his exposed face. His thermal scope read the armor signature: _Titanium-Ceramic Composite. Class 4 Environmental Seal._
The MK12 SPR in his hands felt suddenly like a plastic toy. 5.56mm tungsten rounds could punch through a ghoul's skull or a brick wall, but against corporate-grade power armor, they were useless. Shooting would just scratch the paint.
"Weapon on the deck," the lead soldier commanded, voice distorted by external speakers. "You have five seconds before classification as a hostile combatant."
Scanning the hallway, Alex calculated the angles. The Stalker's corpse lay three meters away, twitching as residual voltage from the harpoon cooked its nervous system. Next to the smoking carcass, pulsating with a faint, inviting heat, lay the Level 2 Core.
A jagged lump of biological gold. If Frost-Line realized what it was, they wouldn't just take his fortress; they'd dissect him to see how he survived eating one.
"My hands are frozen," Alex shouted over the wind, keeping his movements stiff and exaggerated. "Don't shoot. The lock is biometric. You kill me, the door stays sealed forever."
He wasn't lying about the lock, but the "frozen hands" were a bluff. 1.5x Constitution kept his blood flowing hot and fast. He needed them to underestimate him. They needed to see a scared, skinny civilian, not a predator.
The soldier on the left dipped his barrel slightly. "He's civilian trash, Captain. Just strip him and breach the door."
"Standard protocol," the Captain barked. "Secure the asset. Secure the resident. We need the filtration codes."
Feigning a stumble, Alex let the MK12 slip from his numb-looking fingers. The rifle clattered onto the ice, sliding a few inches toward the stairwell.
_Clack._
Noise drew the eyes of the two flankers for a fraction of a second. In a high-speed firefight, attention is currency. Alex just spent his savings.
"Moving to secure," the Captain announced, lumbering forward.
The heavy suit was a tank, but tanks are slow. At -64°C, hydraulic fluid in the Captain's joints thickened, turning every movement into a fight against viscosity. Servos strained, a rhythmic _zzt-zzt_ accompanying every step.
Backing up until his spine ground against the cold steel of the penthouse door, Alex calculated the distance. Three feet to the Stalker Core. Five feet to the Captain.
"Hands where I can see them," the Captain ordered, reaching for a pair of magnetic stasis-cuffs on his belt.
"Okay, okay," Alex stammered, raising his hands slowly.
As his hands passed his waist, his right hand blurred.
He didn't reach for the sky. He reached for the "Defensive Purge" valve concealed in the doorframe—the same valve used to vaporize the climber days ago. Instead of opening it, he ripped the external cover off, exposing the high-pressure release mechanism.
"What are you—"
Alex kicked the Stalker Core.
Using the instep of his boot like a soccer player, he scooped the pulsating crystal backward. It skittered between his legs, clinking against the bottom of the steel door.
The Captain's helmet tracked the movement, greed overriding discipline.
"Flash out!" Alex yelled, not throwing a grenade, but triggering the mental command for his _Dimensional Storage_.
He didn't pull something out. He put something _in_.
The heavy MK12 rifle on the floor vanished instantly.
Soldiers flinched, sensors detecting a spatial anomaly but registering it as a visual glitch. In that split second of confusion, Alex punched the keypad code behind his back.
_Beep. Beep. Buzz._
Heavy bolts of the penthouse door retracted with a seismic _thud_.
"Breach!" the Captain roared, raising the harpoon gun.
Alex didn't fight. He fell backward, letting gravity pull him into the airlock of his fortress, grabbing the Stalker Core from the floor as he slid across the threshold.
_SCREEEEEEE._
The ten-inch steel slab of the penthouse door ground against its track, fighting to seal the breach. It failed.
A massive, white-armored gauntlet slammed between the closing slab and the frame. The Frost-Line Captain groaned, his suit's servos whining at a pitch that pierced the howling wind. Sparks showered from the doorframe as hydraulic strength fought the pneumatic pressure of the fortress lock.
"Jamming the lock!" the Captain shouted, helmet speakers cracking with static. "Squad! Deploy breach charges! We have him pinned!"
Lying on the floor of the airlock, Alex felt the cold steel bite into his back. Through the six-inch gap, he saw the Captain's visor glowing with a menacing red tactical HUD.
"You're fast, kid," the Captain grunted, leveraging a shoulder into the gap to widen it. "But you can't fight hydraulics with flesh."
"Physics," Alex gasped, scrambling to his feet. "I'm fighting you with physics."
He lunged for the exposed "Defensive Purge" mechanism uncovered seconds ago. Not a weapon trigger, but the emergency flush valve for the hot water heating system, pressurized at 80 PSI.
He didn't turn the wheel. He kicked it off.
_HISS—BOOM._
A jet of near-boiling water, intended to cycle through the floor heating, erupted from the valve directly into the airlock's mixing chamber. It hit the intrusion gap instantly.
The effect was catastrophic.
At -64°C, boiling water doesn't just cool down. It explodes into vapor and instantly sublimates into ice. The Mpemba effect turned the airlock into a flash-freezing chamber.
Screaming as the cloud of superheated steam hit his faceplate, the Captain was blinded. Then, the cold took over. Water coating the hydraulic joints froze instantly, expanding into jagged, concrete-hard ice.
_CRACK._
Ice seized the servos in the Captain's arm. The sudden arrest of momentum shattered internal gears. Wedged in the door, the limb went dead, freezing in place like a statue.
"Pull back! Pull back!" the Captain yelled, thrashing to free the trapped limb.
Safety protocols kicked in, automatically jettisoning the gauntlet to save the operator's arm from being crushed. With a hiss of depressurization, the armored hand detached.
The Captain stumbled back into the hallway, armless and venting atmosphere.
Without the resistance of the suit, the steel door slammed shut.
_THUD. CLACK. HISS._
Locking bolts engaged. The green light on the interior panel flickered to life.
Sealed.
Slumping against the cold metal of the door, Alex let his chest heave. The airlock began to cycle, sucking out the freezing mist and replacing it with the sterile, filtered air of the penthouse.
On the floor, amidst puddles of rapidly cooling water, lay two things:
1. The severed, white-armored gauntlet of a Frost-Line Captain.
2. The Level 2 Stalker Core, pulsating with a rhythmic, sickly blue light.
Picking up the core, Alex hissed. It was heavy, dense, and hot—hot enough to scorch his glove.
_Thump... Thump..._
Vibrations traveled through the blast door. They weren't leaving.
"Captain, arm is compromised," a voice muffled by ten inches of steel drifted through. "Requesting the Thermal Lance. We're cutting him out."
"ETA on the Lance?"
"Three minutes."
Alex stared at the door. Titan Security built it to withstand bullets and sledgehammers. But a military-grade Thermal Lance? That would slice through the lock like a blowtorch through butter.
Time remaining: Three minutes.
He looked at the Level 2 Core in his hand. Eating a Level 1 Core had been a rush. Eating a Level 2 Core without stabilizing his body first was basically playing Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun. The energy density was too high; it could burn out his nervous system or mutate him into a mindless Ghoul.
"Three minutes to die by fire," Alex whispered, feeling the heat of the crystal seep into his palm. "Or a 50% chance to die by overdose."
No hesitation. No prayers.
Throwing his head back, Alex swallowed the jagged blue crystal whole.
As it hit his stomach, the world didn't turn black. It turned blue. And then, his veins caught fire.