Our kin. Our brothers.
One of the Black Fangs drops to his knees.
“By the void…” another breathes.
I don’t speak. I can’t. My claws shake. I push a hand against the glass of one tank. A female. Still young. Barely full-grown. Her face looks like someone I once trained beside.
Ayla touches my back, voice low.
“We stop it. All of it.”
I nod.
We move forward, rage distilled to ice.
Then the alarms scream—full lockdown.
We run.
Down a main corridor. Red lights. Klaxons. Auto-turrets swing toward us. I rip one from the wall with a blade slash. The others fall under Ayla’s return fire and the Fangs' coordinated charges.
We reach the vault.
It opens on a scream.
Chelsea.
She’s in the far corner of the room, knees scraped, face dirty. But her eyes—her eyes glow like mine when I lose control.
And standing between us… is Frederick.
Greasy hair. Wild gaze. Blood on his sleeve and a gun to her head.
“Stay back!” he screams. “I’ll do it! I’ll paint this room with her brain matter!”
Ayla screams. “NO!”
Frederick jabs the barrel into Chelsea’s temple. The girl doesn’t cry.
“She’s defective! You did this to her!” he spits.
I step forward.
“No, Frederick. You did this. With your needles. Your terror.”
“Stay back!” he shouts again, finger curling on the trigger.
Ayla sobs, “Please, take me instead?—”
“You don’t get to bargain!” he snarls.
I throw my weapon down.
Everyone freezes.
Kallus… unarmed.
“I’m here,” I say. “Shoot me.”
