“Then we follow.”
I move.
Slower now. Controlled.
The tiles under my feet are slick with something—oil, maybe. Or blood.
Don’t think about that.
Don’tfeelabout that.
Just move.
I reach the central lift junction in under two minutes. And freeze.
Elevator banks stretch like a metallic ribcage around me, ten doors—nine dead. The only one still lit pulses yellow. Not green. Not red. Just... waiting.
And beside it, spray-painted in crude streaks across the wall:
“STAY BACK. HE’S OURS NOW.”
My throat closes.
Pyramus.
I take one step forward.
“Isolde, no!” Reflector shouts, voice sharp.
“Move.”
“You’re not armed!”
“I don’tcare!”
“You should!”
“Idon’t!”
He surges in front of me, blocking the lift.
His voice drops to a low, staticky growl. “I’ve seen death. I’ve watched cities fall. I’ve mapped escape routes through firestorms. And I haveneverseen you like this.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention.”
“I have,” he says quietly. “Which is why I know—if you go in there now, you die.”
I stare at the door. At the flickering yellow light. At the words.
He’s ours now.
“They won’t kill him,” I whisper.
“No.”
“They want me to come.”
“Yes.”
