Not blank.
Not dark.
Wrong.
Malenkov stands perfectly still as feeds stutter and reorder themselves—camera angles repeating, time stamps skipping, security overlays misaligning by fractions of a second that should not exist.
Systems do not behave like this unless something fundamental has failed.
“Run diagnostics again,” he says calmly.
The technician’s hands shake as he obeys.
“Sir… the detention wing—”
“I know,” Malenkov snaps.
Because hefeelsit now.
The absence.
The pressure that once sat neatly inside his facility—contained, cataloged, obedient—has vanished like air rushingout of a breached hull.
“They’re gone,” the technician whispers.
Malenkov turns slowly.
“What?” he asks softly.
“The prisoners. Cross and Levine. Their biosigns dropped off internal tracking two minutes ago.”
Dropped off.
Not flatlined.
Not terminated.
Removed.
The room seems to tilt.
Impossible.
He steps closer to the main display and expands the eastern corridor feed. Static washes over the image—then clears just long enough to show smoke, shattered concrete, a corridor he personally approved as impenetrable.
Empty.
The locks still readsecure.
The men are not there.
His jaw tightens—not in rage, not yet, but in calculation.
Pierce.
Ronan Pierce has breached the wing.
Not with force.
