We’re deep in the lower decks now. Passageways narrow into long arteries, veins pulsing faint blue from behind the walls. This is the belly of the beast—the maintenance corridors, the repair hallways, places even war engineers avoided. And still, the ship makes way for me. Hatches hiss open without needing codes. Lights flicker only when she steps ahead of me.
She laughs about it, at first. “Guess I’m not on the VIP list,” she mutters, brushing her fingers across a sealed panel that doesn’t so much as twitch. Then she tries to override it—some flashy wrist device clamped to her arm blinking in protest. When that fails, she glares at the metal like it personally insulted her fashion choices.
I step forward. The hatch peels open with a soft exhale.
She doesn’t laugh that time.
Instead, she stares at me like I’ve got a secret I’m not sharing. And maybe I do.
“This ship… you command it?” she asks, voice low, careful.
“I survived it,” I say.
She doesn’t ask more. Just nods, like that’s an answer that makes sense to her.
We move fast. The shadows here are thick and old, and I feel them clinging to her. She walks like she’s done this before—tight steps, low center, all broadcast bravado replaced with something quieter. Smarter. She’s adapting. I approve.
I stop her with a clawed hand across her chest. “There.”
“Where?” she hisses.
“Trip laser,” I say, pointing to a faint red line nearly invisible unless you know what to look for. She squints, then lets out a low whistle.
“Damn. That’s not standard Combine tech.”
“No,” I growl. “That’s Lor.”
“Creepy robot guy?”
I nod. “Minefield. Controlled flow.”
She blinks at me. “Wait—you think he’s trying to direct us?”
“Not us,” I say, crouching near the base of the wall and yanking a panel free with one claw. “Them. Anyone. Traps funnel prey.”
“Like a shepherd,” she mutters.
“Like a spider,” I say.
I find the first mine tucked inside a recessed panel—thin, circular, rigged with a proximity core that would detonate within six meters. Vakutan design, but upgraded with frayvoyan signal jammers and reaper-blend filament triggers. Smart. Almost impressive.
I crush it with my palm.
“Is that safe?” Isolde whispers.
“No.” I crush the next one. “But quick.”
We clear five more traps in the next hallway. Every single one carefully placed where a panicked runner would veer without thinking. Lor’s tactics are surgical. Cold. Effective.
And I’m starting to hate him.
“You’ve fought with guys like this before?” she asks, watching my claws make quick work of another embedded tripmine.
“Lor does not fight. He executes.”
“Great. So he’s a cyborg and a sociopath.”
“Cyborgs don’t feel,” I say. “He can’t be a sociopath.”
