The Earth First compound is built into the side of a glacier—half subterranean, half cloaked by tech veils. Only reason we found it was thanks to Zib’s smarmy brilliance and a very expensive bribe. The outer turrets are down, fried by our EMP burst. But time is short. They’ll reboot. And I know Chelsea’s in there. Somewhere.
Kallus’s voice comes through the bone-comm implant nestled in my ear. “South corridor. Tertiary access hatch. Go silent.”
I nod even though he can’t see me.
The hatch is half-buried in ice. I carve through with the short plasma torch and we slip inside, one by one. I can hear the hum of buried generators. The sterile tang of processed air. The scent of antiseptic and fear.
My chest tightens.
And then I feel it.
Like a spike through my skull.
A scream—not out loud, but in my bones. My blood.
Chelsea.
I stumble, one hand gripping the wall, the other clutching my stomach as if that can stop the pain.
“Ayla?” Kallus’s voice is a snarl now.
“She’s screaming,” I whisper. “She’s in pain.”
Kallus puts his hand on my back, grounding me. “Then we end this.”
I nod, throat tight. “Now.”
The tunnel breathes frost. Ice coats the walls, slick and jagged, a maze of frozen veins twisting beneath the Earth First compound like arteries of some ancient, buried beast. I lead the way, thumb shaking slightly as I slot in the noble override chip. Kallus retrieved it from my father’s cache. It glows red, then flickers green. The steel door hisses open.
“In,” Kallus growls.
We move in silence. The Black Fangs fan out, disappearing into side halls with deadly grace. One flashes a hand signal at Kallus—All Clear. For now.
The passageways inside are stark, inhuman. White walls, humming lights, antiseptic air that burns the nose. The only warmth in the compound is the chill rage rising from my gut. Every surface looks scrubbed of joy, of memory, of mercy. The walls smell of bleach and old screams.
A soft, high-pitched cry echoes down a corridor. I freeze.
“That way,” I whisper, already running.
We pass a series of rooms. Some sealed, others cracked open. I glance inside one—see a child curled on a slab, strapped down, veins running black with suppressant fluid. Not Chelsea. Not mine. But someone’s.
“Oh gods,” I choke.
“Eyes ahead,” Kallus says. His voice trembles, but not from fear.
We reach a door with a biometric lock. My palm opens it.
Inside… Chelsea’s room.
Small. Sterile. The cot is perfectly made. There’s a single blanket, folded in quarters. Her stuffed reaper-bear sits at the corner. She never sleeps without it.
But she’s not here.
“She was here recently,” I whisper, stepping in, heart shattering with every echo.
Kallus’s eyes burn red. He scans the wall feed. A small screen flickers on—a looped feed.
Frederick’s face appears, pale, cold, too calm.
