“Do it.”
The effect is immediate.
Comms burst into chaos. Syndicate units start turning on each other mid-assault—thinking their rivals leaked their positions, that they’re being hunted from both sides. Gunfire echoes louder, closer, less organized. The system eats itself from the inside, just like I planned.
Mara chimes in again. “Evac route three is clear. First wave civilians are out. Working on the next group.”
“Good,” I say, shifting maps. “Tur—report.”
“I’m fine,” he pants. “South corridor sealed. Got about five minutes before they breach again.”
“Use that time.”
“Copy.”
I don’t ask what he means. He won’t waste it.
The ground shudders under another blast. This one closer. Maybe twenty meters off. The lights blink once—then go out entirely.
Emergency backup kicks in after a beat too long. Red, skeletal lighting floods the command alcove, turning every surface into bone and shadow. I don’t stop moving.
My fingers fly over the controls, redirecting power to the central passage grid. The node pulses under the floor like a heartbeat on too much adrenaline. I glance at its readings—spiking. Surging. Inputs are colliding. Too many hands trying to access its core all at once. The interface panel bleeds static and heat.
“Node is destabilizing,” I say, loud and clear. “Full access attempts from multiple syndicate uplinks. They’re trying to pull data while breaching. Idiots.”
Tur’s voice cuts in, darker. “They’ll crack it apart. They don’t know what they’re interfacing with.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Welcome to my nightmare.”
Aboveground, entire districts go dark. My secondary map flashes red. Power grids collapsing like dominoes. Panic sweeps social net feeds in real time—rumors of terrorist attacks, of planetary collapse, of Alliance betrayal. One feed says the node’s a weapon. Another says it’s a cure. A third claims it’s an ancient AI that will grant divinity to whoever wins control.
Idiots, the lot of them.
I adjust heat dispersion from the core to delay another surge. It buys us minutes. Maybe less.
Another tunnel collapses behind evac route five. I hear the screaming before the audio feed cuts. I do not cry. I do not flinch. I reroute the survivors and shut the dead end.
“Casualty report incoming,” Ishaan says softly.
“Later,” I answer. “We finish this first.”
More syndicate transmissions pour in. I parse them for leverage—then twist the knife.
I send anonymous alerts through cracked channels that the Nine has sold out to the Alliance. I redirect blame to the wealthiest bosses. I make sure every thug with a gun and a grudge has a name to blame before they die. Let them eat each other.
Mara’s voice again. “Last group is through. Civilians accounted for.”
“Confirm with node signature scans.”
“Already did,” she snaps. “I’m not new.”
“No, you’re not,” I say, and mean it.
She’s more than earned her war stripes tonight.
The node screams.
It’s not sound. Not really. It’s pressure and light and something psychic, like a rage you feel in your bones. Every Reaper-etched line across the floor pulses hot and white, searing for seconds before dimming again.
