Imara ran quick fingers over the seam, eyes sharp. “It’s locked, and I don’t have my pick.”
“I got it,” Hawk replied, crouching. He pulled a short-bladed knife and jammed it into the old security plate. Sparks spat as he worked the catch, metal groaning.
Christian leaned against the wall beside Gemma, his breath tight with the effort of moving on his injured leg. She touched his arm, her glow faint. “You should let me wrap that. And your shoulder,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not enough time.”
She was about to argue when the hatch gave way, and Hawk eased it open.
Christian tipped his head forward as if saying “see what I mean?” Gemma’s jaw clenched.
Hawk slipped inside first, his frame barely fitting through. Imara went after him, fluid as smoke even with her prosthetic. Lysa ducked low and vanished next, her staff strapped tightly to her back.
Christian gestured Gemma forward, but she shook her head. “You first.”
For once, he didn’t argue. She steadied him as he squeezed through the hatch into darkness, then she followed.
The corridor beyond was so narrow that Hawk’s shoulders got stuck several times. Pipes hummed overhead. The walls sweated with condensation. But not far down, the passage opened to the basement.
Hawk raised a fist, halting them. His voice was a low rasp. “Watch out for lingering guards. Dad likely sent most of theminto battle; he thinks this house is impenetrable. But I’m sure he kept a few around him for protection. Move quiet and fast.”
“Quiet”—Imara snorted, smirking—“your specialty.”
“Definitely not yours,” Hawk countered.
“You don’t seem to mind when we’re—”
His cheeks turned red. “Shut up and keep moving.”
Gemma smiled.
Step by careful step, Gallowood House swallowed them. They stepped through what looked like a makeshift prison cell, and Imara flicked a tiny device, stating they had thirty seconds to get past a camera. Christian’s limp was small but constant, his body trained to keep moving even when wounded. Every hitch in his step was a twist in her chest.
She tightened her grip on her blades as they climbed the stairs into the heart of Gallowood House.
The fortress was alive with sound: the faint vibration of orders barked through comms, the rumble of boots, the distant scream of gunfire from the streets outside.
Hawk guided them with sure steps, pausing at junctions when the sweep of a security officer passed before pushing forward. Imara took out camera feeds; Lysa covered their backs, her staff at the ready. Gemma stayed at Christian’s side. His limp was heavy now, the pain held in his jaw rather than his stride. She wanted to steady him, but he refused anything more than the brush of her hand when he stumbled around a turn.
Hawk raised a hand, fingers curling in for silence. They pressed tight against the wall, listening. Voices drifted down the corridor ahead, calm and steady. Hawk was right—they never expected Gallowood House could be penetrated.
Hawk nodded at a door. His lips pressed thin, his jaw a line of iron. “Cover me,” he whispered.
Together, they ran out into the open hall, weapons raised. Hawk jammed his blade between the latch and frame, and the lock snapped. The door swung wide, they burst into the office—
Everything stilled.
Governor Philip Gallowood stood inside, his red hair disheveled, his vest half-unbuttoned like he’d been roused from bed. But he was not alone. Across from him, in full Systems black, was the Kaizen. Her uniform gleamed in the low light, stark against her red hair. Her stance was perfect, and her presence filled the room with cold authority.
The air snapped taut.
“Mother,” Hawk spat, his voice a blade of disdain.
Gemma’s head snapped toward him. Her pulse stumbled.Mother?
Hawk was the Trials competitor Phoebe feared would lose.
The Kaizen’s sharp gaze cut across the room, resting on her son as though she’d been expecting him. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes before they hardened to polished obsidian.
