We spilled out into a carpeted hallway.
Thick, plush carpet swallowed the sound of our boots instantly. We had moved from the sterile, white-tiled intestines of the building into its velvet heart. Dark wood paneling lined the walls, interrupted by abstract art that probably cost more than the collective net worth of everyone in Lyon.
The air smelled different here. Not antiseptic and fear. It smelled of leather, furniture polish, and money.
Disgust curled in my stomach, hot and wet.
Down below, somewhere in the concrete basement, men like me were strapped to tables, having their minds wiped blank with electricity and chemicals. Up here, twelve floors above the screaming, the architects of that hell sat in climate-controlled luxury.
They made monsters in the basement and profited in the penthouses.
“Dresner’s office.” Hellhound signaled, hand slicing through the air. “End of the hall.”
We moved. I took the rear, MP5 raised, scanning the empty corridor. My tactical programming whispered angles and drag vectors. But underneath the programming, a deeper, colder memory began to itch at the base of my skull.
We stopped at a heavy oak door. No handle this time. Just a sleek biometric scanner glowing a soft, malevolent red.
“Ninety seconds,” Havoc whispered, already sliding a decoder interface over the pad. His fingers flew. “If his encryption is as pretentious as his decor, maybe sixty.”
I turned my back to them, watching the hallway. The silence wasn’t empty, it was heavy.
Flash.
I was standing here. Right here. My hands were clasped behind my back. My head was shaved, the air cold against my scalp. Waiting.
Enter, Blackout.
The voice in my memory was calm. Possessive.
You’re my finest work.
My hands tightened on the weapon until the polymer bit into my skin. Rage, sudden and white-hot, flooded my chest, warring with sickening horror. I had been his pride. His pet monster.
“Got it.”
The lock chirped. Heavy tumblers engaged with a solid thud, and the door swung inward.
Havoc gestured us in.
The office was a cavern. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls exposed the weeping night sky over Geneva, the city lights blurred by the relentless sleet. Rain lashed the glass, silent and impotent against the insulation. Inside, massive leather furniture sat arranged around a desk that looked less like a workspace and more like an altar.
One wall was dedicated to ego. Framed photographs. Dresner shaking hands with senators. Dresner with generals. Dresner accepting awards from scientific bodies.
I recognized faces. I couldn’t place names, but I knew the shapes of their jaws, the medals on their chests.
“Havoc, the terminal. Xavier, watch the door. I’ll sweep the files.”
“Encrypted. This will take eight minutes. Don’t rush me.”
Hellhound moved to a wall of filing cabinets, sliding drawers open.
I didn’t move to the door.
My feet felt leaden. Weighted magnets pulled me toward the center of the room, toward that massive desk. Familiarity, sickening and deep, tugged at my gut.
“Xavier?” Hellhound stopped, his hand on a file. “You good?”
I stared at the leather chair behind the desk.
