Chapter Text
The lock clicked under Zoe’s key, and the door swung open into silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the kind that pressed against the skin, heavy and airless, like the apartment itself was holding its breath.
She stepped inside.
— Serena?
Silence answered her. Not the usual lazy quiet of a Sunday evening, but the kind that pressed in from every wall, suffocating, heavy.
She set her bag down by the door and froze. Something felt wrong.
The apartment wasn’t messy—if anything, it looked suspended in the middle of a life that had been paused without warning. A mug of tea sat on the coffee table, the surface of the liquid scummed over, long since cold.
She took two steps forward. A tiny LED pulsed on the laptop—screen asleep, but the steady whir of the fan sounded like a faint, foreign heartbeat. When Zoe nudged the mouse, the wallpaper appeared—a panoramic view of Skyhaven. The flicker of the screen reflected in her eyes. The image looked almost alive, as if someone had captured the breath of another world and sealed it in a frame. Skyhaven glowed on the glass like a window she couldn’t open.
Her throat closed. For a moment she just stood there, trying to convince herself she was overreacting. Serena probably had her earbuds in, probably napping, probably—
The bedroom door was ajar. A slice of shadow cut across the hallway floor.
Zoe’s stomach dropped. She shoved it open.
The quilt was twisted into a knot across the mattress. Serena lay on top of it, one arm draped limply toward the edge of the bed, her hair fanned across the pillow like she’d dropped there mid-step. Her chest rose and fell, but too evenly. Too shallow. Her face was pale, slack in a way that sleep never looked. Her eyes stayed half-open, lashes almost resting still against her cheeks.
Just beneath her hand, on the floorboards, lay her phone. Dropped, face down, ordinary in its stillness. So close it looked as if she could have reached for it at any moment—and yet she hadn’t moved for hours.
Zoe stumbled forward, knees bumping the edge of the mattress as she leaned over her. Her hands hovered above Serena’s shoulders, afraid to touch, afraid to find her cold.
— Hey, wake up. Please. — Zoe shook her shoulder gently. — This isn’t funny. Serena, please!
There was no response. Not to her voice, not to her touch.
— No, no, no, no. Not you. You were supposed to watch me. You… oh my God… — she whispered, pressing her hand to her mouth. — I always thought you’d be the one to find me… not the other way around.
With effort she found the strength to reach for her own phone. Her fingers trembled so hard she had to dial the number twice.
The wait felt endless. Every second stretched too long, every tick of the clock hammering into her chest. She kept whispering Serena’s name, shaking her gently, pleading for even the twitch of a finger. Nothing. Just that shallow rhythm of a body alive without anyone behind the wheel.
When the paramedics rushed into the apartment, she felt like she might go down to the floor herself.
— How long has she been like this? — one asked, already kneeling by the bed. The latex snap of a glove sounded louder than any answer.
The other flicked on a penlight and lifted Serena’s eyelid. The pupil reacted, but sluggishly.
— I don’t know! — Zoe sniffed, her voice breaking. — We talked last night… today I checked, last activity eighteen hours ago. That’s not like her.
— Is she on any medication?
— No.
— Alcohol? Drugs?
— No. No… nothing like that. — She wiped her eyes, but the tears returned immediately. — No pills, no alcohol, she doesn’t—
The medic nodded, set the flashlight aside, checked her pulse, strapped on the blood-pressure cuff. The second was already fitting the oxygen mask.
— She’s breathing. Blood pressure normal. Heart rate stable, — he said, glancing at the small monitor. — No response.
— What does that mean? — Zoe pressed herself to the wall as if it were the only thing holding her up.
— It means the body is functioning, but she isn’t waking, — the medic said gravely. — We’re taking her in.
The stretcher squealed as they slid it under Serena and buckled the straps. The oxygen mask was already in place, electrodes fixed to her temples and chest. Zoe couldn’t stop staring—every strap, every band looked like a boundary she shouldn’t have to cross.
— You can ride with us, — one of the paramedics said, giving her a sympathetic look.
Zoe nodded quickly, though her throat felt dry, as if she’d swallowed ash.
The phone she’d just picked up from the boards slipped out of her hand, clacked against the floor before she could tuck it into her pocket. She snatched it up fast, clutching hard. It felt like if she let it go again, she’d let Serena go too.
The elevator howled under the weight, the doors closing behind them.
Zoe walked beside the stretcher, with each floor feeling her heart climb higher into her throat. She looked at her friend, who seemed to be dreaming so deeply no voice could reach her.
The ambulance stopped with a long screech of brakes. The doors opened, and the sharp smell of heated dust and disinfectant rushed Zoe’s nose. The paramedics slid the stretcher down the ramp in one practiced motion. Serena lay slack, her face covered by the oxygen mask, electrodes feeding a small monitor that beeped its steady, indifferent rhythm.
Zoe ran alongside, trying not to lose sight of them. Every step echoed down the corridor.
— Please wait here, — a nurse called, pointing to a bench at the ER entrance. But Zoe walked on, as if she hadn’t heard. Waiting had never felt so much like being left behind.
—
The intensive diagnostic room was bright to the point of pain. Fluorescent lights bit into the skin and made Serena look like porcelain. The doctors moved mechanically: quick commands, the clatter of equipment being rolled, the crackle of electrodes peeled from foil.
— EEG, — one snapped. — Hook her up immediately.
Zoe stood by the wall, fingers digging so hard into her bag strap they went numb. She watched as more wires appeared across Serena’s head, silver sensors gleaming on her temples. On the screen beside them, a line unfurled—wavering, alive.
— Brain activity is present, — the doctor muttered, leaning over the monitor. — Doesn’t look like a traumatic coma.
— Poisoning? — a nurse asked, jotting in a chart.
— No traces of drugs on the breath, zero alcohol. Pupils reactive, blood pressure stable. — He shook his head. — The organism is functioning, but the patient is not regaining consciousness.
Zoe went cold.
— What does that mean? — Her voice cracked, echoing off the tiles. — She’s alive… so what? She just won’t wake up?
The doctor glanced at her—professional, but with helplessness tucked under it. — For now, yes. We need to observe her, run a CT. The brain is active, but… it’s as if it’s in sleep mode.
— No… — Zoe dragged a hand through her hair, trying to catch her breath. — That’s impossible. She was talking to me last night. She was texting me just yesterday evening…
Her eyes fell to the phone still in her hand. Dirty from the floor, the screen scratched.
They transferred Serena to intensive care. She was strapped to the monitors like to invisible chains—IV in her vein, oxygen mask on, safety straps across the sheets. Around the bed, green and amber indicators blinked.
Zoe sank into the plastic chair beside her. She watched her for a long time, in a silence broken only by beeps and the respirator’s hush.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and fell onto Serena’s hand. Her skin was warm. So alive. And so absent.
Two orderlies pushed the rolling bed toward imaging. The casters squealed at every turn, and Zoe walked close, as if the weight of her body alone could keep Serena anchored to this world.
— Family? — the attending asked, already on the move.
— Friend, — she answered without hesitation. The word sounded too light, like it couldn’t carry what she felt.
---
The CT room was cold, overly sterile, the smell of plastic and cleaner pushing into the sinuses. In the center stood the machine—a white cylinder open at one end, ready to swallow Serena like something that belonged only to it.
— Remove jewelry, watch, anything metal, — the technician said, his voice practiced by hundreds of such procedures.
The nurse deftly unclasped a thin bracelet with a silver apple from Serena’s wrist and handed it to Zoe. The metal was warm from skin. Zoe closed her fingers around the gleam like around a relic. The tiny apple winked in the harsh light, a private symbol no one else spoke the language of.
The stretcher halted at the machine; the tray slid out and the staff began moving Serena onto the rigid CT bed. They adjusted the oxygen mask, secured the EEG leads so they wouldn’t interfere with the scan.
— Please step back, — the tech told Zoe with a nod.
She stepped back a pace, then another, but couldn’t look away. The bed began to slide, Serena’s body gliding slowly into the cylinder. Her hands lay at her sides, fingers slack and straight.
---
The machine squawked, then filled the room with a monotone buzz. On the monitor next to it, the first slices appeared—ashen images of brain layers. Lines, shadows, pulsing patches.
— No signs of mechanical trauma, — one doctor said, clicking to advance the images.
— Hemorrhage?
— No. All clear.
Click, advance. Another layer. Another.
— Structures preserved, perfusion stable… — He leaned closer, frowning. — That’s abnormal. With a presentation like this, we should see damage. There is… nothing.
Zoe swallowed, struggling to understand. — Then what does that mean?
A second doctor sighed, eyes still on the screen. — It means the patient is… asleep, in a way. The brain is working. But it isn’t cooperating with consciousness.
When the bed began sliding back out, Zoe only exhaled once she saw Serena whole again, her hair spilling like a black fan against the white plastic.
The technician nodded. — Back to intensive care.
They set off, and Zoe followed with her eyes, feeling as if something invisible—something the doctors had no name for—held Serena in a place no one could reach.
The bed rolled back into intensive care. It was dimmer here than in diagnostics, light pooling only above the machines, casting green and amber reflections over the walls. Monitors blinked steadily: pulse, oxygen saturation, the rhythm of breaths pulled through the mask. Each beep pricked Zoe’s skin like a needle.
The staff swapped the transport equipment for the stationary monitors. A nurse adjusted the IV, checked the cuff pressure, scribbled quickly in the chart.
— Blood pressure stable, sats good, — she murmured to the on-call physician.
He nodded and turned to Zoe. — At this time we don’t see trauma or a clear cause of sudden loss of consciousness. The brain is functioning, but there’s no response to stimuli. — The doctor’s tone aimed for steady; it landed somewhere near sorry.
— Will she… — Zoe hesitated, her throat tight. — Will she wake up?
The doctor sighed. — We don’t know yet. In cases like this, all we can do is support and wait. Observe.
The word wait hung in the air like a sentence.
Zoe sat at the bedside, in a chair too hard and too low to be comfortable. She braced her elbows on her knees and stared at Serena. Her face was calm, almost like sleep, but the silence filled the whole room.
— We always joked you’d be the one to call an ambulance. And now… — she whispered, her voice crackling like paper. She clenched the blanket as if she could shake it awake. — Now I’m the one who has to sit here and watch you not wake up.
The corners of her eyes burned, but she didn’t let the tears fall.
The nurse checked the readings once more, glanced at Zoe. — If you want, you can stay the night.
The doctor stepped away from the workstation and came closer, his tone matter-of-fact but softened, as if he were trying to pad the edges of the facts.
— I need to ask you a few questions. — He studied Zoe’s face. — Do you know how long she might have been like this before you found her?
Zoe swallowed. — I don’t know. We last talked last night… and this morning she didn’t reply. So it could have been… a dozen hours or so.
He noted it in the chart. — Do you know if she was taking any medication? Anything prescribed or over the counter?
— No. — Zoe shook her head too quickly. — I mean… vitamins, sometimes a painkiller, but… nothing that could… — her voice trailed off.
— Alcohol? Recreational drugs? — he asked neutrally, as if ticking boxes.
— No! — Zoe lurched up from the chair, too fast, as if the question insulted her. — Never. She barely drank at all, and drugs, absolutely not…
— I understand. — He lifted a hand, gentling her rising panic. — These are important questions. We have to ask.
The nurse added quietly: — Any neurological issues before? Seizures, fainting?
Zoe hesitated. — No… at least nothing I know of. She was healthy. Normal. — The last word rang hollow, as if it had suddenly lost its meaning.
When the doctor stepped away to discuss the results with another team member, Zoe leaned over the bed.
— Do you hear them? — she whispered, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. — They’re talking like you’re a medical riddle. Like you’re a test they have to solve.
She squeezed Serena’s inert fingers tighter, her nails dimpling the skin.
— But I know you’re here, just… stuck somewhere. — She drew a rough breath, her voice breaking halfway through. — Serena, wake up…
The monitors beeped evenly, indifferent.
She felt that if she didn’t do something, she’d fall apart. She pulled out her phone and automatically found Alex’s number.
— Hello? — his voice sounded groggy with exhaustion, like he’d just come off shift.
— Alex… — Zoe swallowed; suddenly the words wouldn’t come. — Serena’s in the hospital. We found her unconscious.
Silence on the line, then a quick, sharp inhale. — What? Unconscious how?
— I don’t know, the doctors don’t either. Her brain is working, but she… she isn’t responding. — Zoe pressed her back to the cold wall. — I need to ask you something… You saw her last, at the air show. Did she seem… off to you?
Alex hesitated. She could hear him scratch at his neck, searching for words. — She was… thoughtful. Like her mind was somewhere else. But it’s Serena, Zoe. You know her. Whenever she looked at planes, she had that goofy smile. She’d blush, like they were more than machines. — He exhaled. — But nothing that looked like she was sick. I swear.
Zoe squeezed her eyes shut. — Thank you.
She hung up and immediately called Maya. Her friend picked up at once.
— Zoe? What’s going on, why are you crying?
— Maya, it’s Serena. She… didn’t wake up today. She’s in the hospital, hooked up to machines.
— God… — Maya sucked in a breath; in the background a chair scraped back. — I’m coming. Where?
— General Hospital. Intensive care.
— I’ll be there. — Short, no questions, no hesitation. The line clicked off.
When the door finally opened again, a tall, graying doctor in a white coat approached with a tablet in hand.
— Ms. Zoe? — he confirmed, and when she nodded, he leaned in, lowering his voice. — Serena’s condition is stable.
— Stable? — Zoe repeated, as if the word could mean anything. — She isn’t responding.
He sighed, scrolling through the results. — That’s true. The brain is working, we have bioelectrical activity. Her heart is beating on its own, she’s breathing on her own. But… no response to stimuli. We can’t call it deep coma; it’s closer to a state we refer to as coma vigil.
— Vigil? — The word felt foreign in Zoe’s mouth.
— The body is functioning, but the consciousness… is absent. We don’t know if it will return, or when.
Zoe felt something inside her crack. — And what… what now?
He hesitated. — We’ll keep monitoring. IVs, hydration, full support. But you should be prepared that this state may last days, weeks… or longer. It’s best if you go home for now. Please take care of yourself.
The tablet went dark, and the doctor set a hand on her shoulder in a gesture that was meant as comfort and felt only like weight.
No one here knew that, not long ago and far from this room, Serena’s eyes were wide open—lit with gold, warping space in a med bay under three astonished stares.
---
At first it was only warmth. The blanket, the low hum of monitors, Gideon’s quiet presence in the corner. My breath evened out, and I let the dark take me, gentle and slow.
Then—
"Serena, wake up."
The voice cracked through the silence, sharp with panic, familiar in a way that made my chest seize. Zoe. It was Zoe. The echo clawed at me. I felt the ghost of hands shaking my shoulders, the ache of someone crying my name.
And then it was gone. Just the dark again. Just Skyhaven, the hum under my ribs, the steady breath of a body that wasn’t the one Zoe was begging to wake.
I woke with a start.
The med bay was dim, washed in blue shadows from the monitors. My throat felt tight, my chest pulled taut like a bowstring. For a moment I thought I’d find her there, Zoe, still whispering, still crying—but it was only the quiet machines and Gideon slumped in a chair, his head tipped back, his mouth slack with sleep.
I pressed the heel of my hand to my sternum, trying to steady the wild rhythm under my ribs. My eyes burned, though I hadn’t been crying. The ghost of her voice still clung to me, sharp as broken glass.
I realized it wouldn’t stay hidden. Not the silence, not the body I left behind. Someone would open the door—Zoe, maybe Maya, maybe even Alex—and they’d find me. Not this me, not the one sitting here in Skyhaven with golden light under her skin, but the husk that was left behind. Breathing. Warm. But gone.
The thought wrapped around my chest like barbed wire. They would think I’d collapsed, overdosed, fallen asleep and never woken. They’d try to shake me awake, call my name, cry, scream. And I wouldn’t answer.
The cruelest part was knowing it wasn’t death. Death leaves something final, a line drawn in the sand. This wasn’t final. This was a body waiting for a soul that had no intention of returning.
Sooner or later, someone would find her. Find me. And I couldn’t decide what terrified me more—that they would believe I was gone forever, or that they would believe I could still be saved.
The chair creaked. Gideon stirred, blinking blearily, the edge of alertness snapping back into place even before he’d fully woken. His gaze found me immediately.
— You good? His voice was rough with sleep, but sharp enough to cut through the quiet.
I hesitated, then nodded. — Yeah. I’m fine.
His eyes searched mine for a beat longer, like he didn’t quite believe me. Then he rubbed a hand over his face and let out a low hum, half a sigh, half a growl. — Try to get some sleep, Solstice.
I nodded again, pulling the blanket higher around my shoulders, forcing my body back down against the mattress. The machines hummed, Gideon’s chair creaked, and the dark folded over me once more.
---
Serena had fallen asleep again in the medical bed, her breathing steady, her hand resting loosely against the sheets. The bitterness in Zayne’s heart had long since given way to professional focus. Caleb knew he had left her in the best possible hands.
Almost two hours had passed since he had started his next shift at the base. The red indicators by the doors blinked in a rhythm Caleb could swear he knew by heart. Glass walls mirrored his silhouette—shoulders tight, stride even, fists clenched. His watch beeped with the pulse of a shift change; he answered with silence. He issued short, clipped orders; walked the main corridors twice, the storage ring once, the service platform once. Face—regulation. Step—unhurried. The storm behind violet irises never leaked outward. When he was sure his routine presence had been noted, he took the elevator down to the nonexistent floor to pay his prisoner a visit.
The lab doors shuddered, the lock yielding. The key he’d taken earlier slid into the slot smoothly, as if the doors themselves welcomed his touch.
Lucius had expected him. He lay restrained on one of the Fountain of Atei platforms. He looked as though he had spent the entire time analyzing his own failure. When Caleb entered, Lucius turned his head, a thin smile cutting across his face. Crooked, like greeting an old, not-so-pleasant acquaintance.
— Colonel. To what do I owe the pleasure? — His voice was hoarse, but still carried that same defiance. — Did you come because you missed me, or just to clean up?
Caleb didn’t answer. He stopped just short of the frame, eyes burning.
— You came back, which means she’s alive and well — Lucius stated, not asked.
Caleb stepped close enough that Lucius had to tilt his head back.
— She woke up. And almost died in agony. — Each word landed like cold metal. — What the hell did you do? — His voice was low, coiled like a fist. — I found an Aether Core inside her.
Lucius blinked once, then laughed—short, brittle, like glass shattering. — What kind of question is that? I did nothing to her, she was only sedated. As for the Aether Core, you knew damn well 01A carried one. Without her, the bridge would’ve collapsed instantly.
— Don’t play the idiot. I’m not talking about 01A. — Caleb didn’t raise his voice. — I’m talking about V-771. The vessel you had prepared. It was supposed to be clean. What the fuck is an Aether Core doing there?
Lucius stilled. For a moment, no reaction at all. Then his brow twitched, as if the meaning finally clicked.
— V-771…? — he repeated slowly. — That’s… impossible.
His face froze in genuine, offended shock.
— Impossible. I personally verified the metrics. The vessel was clean. This is nonsense.
— It’s fact — Caleb snarled. — It woke inside her, nearly killed her. Explain.
— I… — Lucius fell silent, his mind accelerating like a supercomputer. Anger gave way to cold analysis. — I didn’t put it there. Which would mean…
Caleb’s gaze didn’t waver.
— Why would I? — Lucius didn’t raise his voice. — To make a replacement for 01A? Risk everything on a variable outside my control? — The trace of a smile died. His gaze emptied as realization struck. — Not me. EVER. Sabotage — he whispered, more to himself than Caleb. — The bastard wanted me to fail. They planted an unstable core to destroy the vessel and compromise me completely. That would explain why the transfer held despite low sync. Two Aethers resonating—sum, not average.
Now his full attention snapped back to Caleb. His face twisted with a blend of fear and unnatural, predatory curiosity.
— She woke up? V-771…? Silence fell. True silence.
Lucius blinked, as if someone had shifted the puzzle a row lower. It should not have worked.
For a moment, Lucius looked genuinely lost. Then, so slowly you could count the breaths, curiosity lit his eyes. Pure. Scientific.
He exhaled. Another piece clicked into place.
— If V-771 carried what I think it did, once the bridge closed, the core should have devoured the vessel. — He spoke more to himself than to Caleb. — Impossible. A raw, unshielded core should have eaten her alive.
No subject had ever synchronized with a naked Aether Core. None. By design—and by protocol. If V-771 truly carried that core, then at the moment of bridge closure she should have simply… unraveled. Or burned out from the inside. Unless… — he broke off.
He stilled. A shadow of fascination flickered across his face like a live wire.
His gaze, once ironic, sharpened inward. Running through reports. Numbers. Inconsistencies.
— It was a second reference vector. A core already synchronized, feeding this fragment a work pattern. — He lifted his eyes to Caleb. — 01A. Her Aether provided the settings. V-771 copied the pattern. That’s why the bridge didn’t collapse.
His stare lifted, gleam of unnatural fascination in his eyes.
If she copied the method of binding to a host… — he cut himself off, a ghost of a smile tugging his mouth. — Curious if she copied also—
— You won’t test that. — Caleb sliced the thought clean.
Lucius looked him over, as if the last piece of the puzzle had snapped in. — Ever baked bread, Colonel?
— I make black holes now and then, but by all means—enlighten me with gluten.
— 01A is sourdough starter—mature, stable, memory of the process. V-771 was flour with fresh yeast: raw, hungry, consuming without order as soon as it touched water—consciousness. The starter gave it structure, but it still would have gone wild. — Lucius tilted his chin a fraction. — What was missing was a barrier for the core—salt. Salt doesn’t flavor. Salt controls. It slows fermentation, stabilizes the mesh, keeps yeast from running mad. You forced the reaction down until it stopped biting. — He tilted his head, as though peering through Caleb. — Your gravity bound her system so the core wouldn’t tear the host apart from inside. Without it — he blew out air — she’d be an empty shell. And that was the point. Control. Someone in EVER decided why add salt, when the asset would be theirs to carve before disposal anyway.
You accidentally baked the best bread of your life — he sneered, though the scientific awe stayed.
Caleb didn’t blink.
Lucius fell silent for half a beat, something unpleasant glinting in his eyes.
— Accidentally, you’ve stoked exactly what EVER will kill every man to claim. If they learn someone in Skyhaven carries a synchronized Spatium Core, they’ll burn the city just to sift the ashes.
— Then I’ll burn them first. — Caleb said it quiet, flat, fact. — If I have to, I’ll do it with my bare hands until their servers run on blood.
Lucius studied him, then smiled crookedly, venomous, like he couldn’t resist testing the edges of Caleb’s patience.
— Every woman, Colonel? First 01A, now V-771. Is it them, or the Aether Cores you want?
The answer was silence—heavy, ready to strike. The air itself thickened, dragging Lucius down like invisible hands. Caleb hadn’t moved—a gravity obeying anger before it found words.
Pinned, Lucius spoke low, clinical, without pleading. For the first time, his arrogance cracked. Not fear, not exactly—more the raw calculation of a man who realized he was checkmated.
— I’m burned. Even if I had their Core, I’d never hand it to EVER. And even if I did—they’d snuff me out anyway, because I’m proof. Which is why you need me.
— Ten seconds, then you stop wasting air.
— First: hard needs. Kill me and burn the instruction manual to your miracle. The Fountain, the transfer, mapping, corrections after integration—it’s my engineering start to finish. If V-771 falters in ways you didn’t plan—without me, you’re only guessing.
— I can guess for a very long time.
— Or you don’t have to. Second: exit protocol. Only I know if a road back exists—and if it does, how to open it.
— Tell me what I gain if I don’t slam you into the floor right now. Strategy, not theory.
— Theatrics. A living, fugitive Lucius is the perfect lightning rod. Official version: “he uncovered EVER sabotage, stole the results, fled.” That shadow follows me—not you, not V-771. If I die in this base, they’ll dig every centimeter of these halls until they find something they like.
— Sounds like a plea for mercy.
— It’s risk math. And logistics: the paper trail must close. I rewrite “Nullifying Variable” for 01A. I write the “failure” of V-771. You plant a body with protocrystal scarring in a dual biohazard capsule. Capsule returns to EVER as ‘evidence.’ Data matches. Procedure protects you. Erases me.
— Think corpes come from vending machines?
— In Farspace Fleet, research floor, after the purges—you’ve got perfect exhibits. Crystals in tissue, nice signature on scans. EVER sees no core, assumes I extracted it and shipped the corpse. They get the story they deserve.
— And I get… a fugitive I’ll have to hunt when he stops being convenient?
— You get insurance. Place me somewhere outside EVER’s reach, where no sun rises.
— N109 Zone? And you say I’ve lost my mind? You think it’s an amusement park, stroll right in?
— Help me get entry. Then I breathe, you call when the tech misbehaves. I’m your scapegoat outside the system.
— And if Sylus sells you to the highest bidder?
— He’d sooner sell a piece of my brain, not my location. He knows the price of the right information.
— You overvalue yourself. — Caleb leaned in by a hair. — I set terms. You write. I decide when you breathe deeper. And if you try once to stay two steps ahead of me…
— I believe you. That’s why I propose a simple contract. I know the cost of your revenge. Choose the ones you can afford.
— You’ll do as I say.
— I’ll do anything not to see your gravity up close a third time tonight. — Lucius tilted his head back, shaking tension off.
Caleb didn’t answer. The datapad in his hand lit his fingers with cold blue. Lines of code flickered across, data packets twisting paths, burning traces behind. The encrypted channel opened slowly, as if even it questioned whether the sender was worth notice.
The chat window blinked with a waiting cursor. Caleb typed, each word cold, deliberate:
> Surplus asset from EVER protocols. Priority clearance. Offering anomaly synchronization telemetry (fragmentary). Final key provided upon safe handoff. Interested?
He set the datapad aside and waited.
Seconds stretched into minutes. The fluorescent hum filled the lab. Lucius watched him sideways, as if recognizing the familiar tension of a gambler before the throw.
The reply came fifteen minutes later, like someone always waiting on the other side, racing to snatch the commission first. Short, encrypted, clear. Not Sylus—never directly. His courier. The same shadow Caleb remembered from earlier dealings.
> “The wine collection is open. Vintage negotiable. Price?”
The corner of Caleb’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. A few more messages exchanged. For a moment, even the concrete walls seemed lighter. As if they knew the first anchor had been thrown for an operation that would decide everything.
Terms accepted.
Caleb shut the datapad; the screen went dark. He walked up to Lucius, each step striking the floor with a heavy echo.
— You’ve got your passage. You’ll leave with friends.
— What do you mean?
— At five forty-five a batch of waste goes out. You’ll be in it. You’ll fit right in—and now you’re going to clean up. First the body into the capsule, then the reports, — he snapped. — Before the trash rolls out.
— I’ll need my terminal — and at least my right hand unfastened, — Lucius met his gaze. — Unless you’d prefer I type with my nose.
They stared each other down for a long second. At last, Caleb released the restraints on Lucius’s hands.
— Move, Lucius, — he muttered. He stopped close enough that his shadow swallowed half of Lucius’s face, then leaned in. — The biohazard capsule cannot go back empty. EVER has to get a body. You’ll tell me how to make it look like V-771—and don’t try to provoke me.
Lucius snorted a laugh. It was rough, joyless.
— Now I’m to be a gravedigger? I see you’ve already learned no one notices blood if you wash it right.
Caleb didn’t answer—he just increased the pressure of his gravitational field. The air around Lucius thickened; his shoulders pressed harder into the stone slab.
Lucius hissed in a breath, but the smile stayed.
— Fine, — he lifted his eyes. — One level up, on the Research Floor, Fleet keeps frozen specimens from the purges. All with crystalline overgrowth in the tissues. That’ll do for disposal. You’ll just need a cut that looks like someone really extracted a Protocore. At EVER the tech scans the sealed capsule to confirm contents, then sends the whole thing to the incinerator.
Caleb gave a short nod. His stare didn’t soften even for a heartbeat.
— Then you’ll order a pickup of samples from the Research Floor to EVER. Larger volume. Mixed container sizes. Among the materials, that post-protocore-disease body. Priority. Put me down as supervising officer. In parallel, schedule the waste transport from the research floor. Both transports at the same hour. The waste run is to be received by a C-4 technician. Several waste crates and one empty crate. These boxes aren’t large, so you shouldn’t have a problem. You’ll get the rest of the instructions when I come back for you to put the scalpel to work.
Caleb waited until Lucius entered the orders on the terminal; then he slid the device out of reach, turned without a word, and headed for the door.
---
The corridors of the Research Floor were clinically clean. At night, the only sound was the steady hum of the air systems.
Moments earlier, Caleb had collected a load designated as research material for the EVER group—among it, a body sealed in a biohazard capsule. The mag-cart glided over the floor without a whisper. On the manifests: samples for disposal. Contamination risk.
He passed technicians who averted their eyes—his presence was reason enough not to ask what he was moving.
The lift sank to the nonexistent floor. The doors opened with weight, admitting the mag-cart into a space where no procedures applied but those Caleb imposed.
The cart halted; Caleb lifted the capsule with his evol as if it weighed nothing, setting it beside the second biohazard capsule—the one Serena’s body had arrived in yesterday, now empty. He went down for Lucius, and when both stood in the choking greenhouse air, he released the lock and raised the lid.
A body lay within. A young woman, pale-faced, dark traces at her temples where protocore disease had seeded crystals. It looked like an exhibit—something that lost the right to be human the moment the sickness ate it from the inside.
Caleb angled the tool toward Lucius; the metal flashed under the artificial sun. — Cut.
With one precise motion, Lucius scored the chest, leaving a mark as if a Protocore had truly been removed.
The blood had long since stilled. This wasn’t violence—it was staging.
Buoyed by gravity, the body shifted from the standard capsule into the dual unit. Lucius shut the lid and armed the biohazard seal. The lock’s click rang through the empty lab like a stamp on a sentence.
He stood over it a moment, eyes fixed on the red diode that meant: ready for transport.
There was no relief in his gaze. Only cold.
— Now the report. Back downstairs, — Caleb ordered, voice cool.
They took the stairs again. A moment later, Lucius’s lab flared with the hard glow of a holoscreen. Lucius sat straight-backed, almost stately, like a professor at a lectern. The shadows under his eyes made him look burned out, but his hands moved fast, exact.
On one display the new “Nullifying Variable” report took shape. Stark, dry language, clinical tone: Object 01A — no usable potential. Aether core functions only within a limited band; no path to expand range. Further investment not recommended.
On the second, a new document: “V-771 — Final Report.” The lines cut like a scalpel: The experiment resulted in total failure. Attempted transfer synchronization led to destabilization and destruction of the object. Disposal per protocol. Cause: defective biological substrate.
Lucius paused, ran his fingers along his cheek, then keyed the final lines. His eyes had a brittle shine, as if he were convincing himself he still held the reins.
Caleb stood a few paces back, in shadow. He neither spoke nor commented. He only watched—and under that gaze, even the keystrokes sounded like confession.
Lucius felt it on his neck. He glanced back, forcing a thin smile.
— You have what you wanted, — he said evenly. — Two reports.
Caleb stayed silent a beat longer, then spoke, glacial:
— Schedule transmission for five forty-five. The delay buys us time.
Lucius nodded and entered the command. Confirmation flashed on-screen: Message scheduled. Authorization: granted.
— Done, — he leaned back as if ending a lecture.
Caleb stepped in, bending over him. Only inches separated their faces.
— Listen, — he hissed. — I run this theater. You’re a pawn who hits his marks. Try to step off-script and there won’t even be ash to find. Now you’re going to stay here and wait for me. With that, Caleb shoved Lucius into an empty slot of the Fountain of Atei, where he lay again, strapped like a dog on a leash.
Caleb straightened and turned away, ending the exchange. But the air still vibrated with tension—like smoke after a gunshot whose echo hadn’t died.
The capsule was set back on the mag-cart.
Caleb had to deliver the load to the warehouse, where it would depart for EVER at 05:45. He rode the lift up with the transport and exited onto the storage level to hand the shipment over to C-4.
The storage hall pooled with the dull glow of artificial lamps. Concrete threw back the footsteps like an empty well, and the air smelled of cold metal. The shipment for EVER slid onto the deck. Mechanical rails squealed, as if they themselves objected to the farce.
Caleb followed a few steps behind the transport crew. Hands linked behind his back, face set, gaze as cold as steel. He didn’t have to say a word. His presence alone made the techs move faster, more carefully, avoiding his eyes.
The mag-cart braked in the receiving bay. The terminal’s diodes blinked green. One of the technicians nodded and signed to confirm delivery. Caleb waited for a stumble—any stumble.
He waited until the tech signed, then stepped in close enough that his shadow took half the man’s face.
— This is biohazard and you didn’t bother to check a single seal, — he said softly, voice like a knife. — Get me the shift supervisor.
Liam arrived at almost a run. He stopped hard, trying to steady his breath. His face had gone pale, as if he’d left all his blood somewhere in the corridor.
— Colonel… — he began carefully, but the words stuck.
Caleb didn’t turn from the cart. His fingers slid over one of the seals on the dual biohazard capsule, as if testing its integrity, before he spoke, toneless:
— Tell me, Liam—does your job description include signing anything blind?
Liam swallowed. — It wasn’t me, sir. The tech—
— The tech? — Caleb finally looked at him. His eyes were cold steel, his voice dropping so low Liam felt each word drive into his spine. — The tech does what oversight allows. And oversight… is you, right now.
Silence filled the room for a heartbeat, heavy as concrete.
— Sir, it won’t happen again—
— You’re right, — Caleb cut, icy. — It won’t, because from now on you will personally stand by every damn container coming off the research floor.
Liam blanched even further. — Personally, Colonel?
Caleb took a step, collapsing the distance to inches. — As punishment for incompetence, you will supervise tonight’s waste run. Every container, every code, every seal. You will make sure everything goes exactly where it’s meant to go. If I see your signature one more time on something you didn’t check… — he let the threat hang, then added, cool as frost: — You won’t have to worry about your next shift.
Liam managed only a nod, his throat tightening with fear.
— Yes, sir.
Caleb turned away from him and back toward the exit, as if Liam had ceased to exist. — Get out of my sight. And have a report on warehouse procedures on my desk by six a.m.
Liam ducked his head and almost fled down the corridor, the cold echo of Caleb’s voice still ringing in his ears.
---
Caleb returned to the nonexistent floor. He unfastened Lucius again, who rolled his eyes, irritated.
— I was starting to think you’d changed your mind.
— Don’t piss me off. We’re leaving.
The door shut behind them for the last time. Caleb slid the authorization key into his pocket and pulled out a small data drive—partial, encrypted experiment data—a buy-in for a spot in the N109 zone.
— And the decryption key?
— You’ll get it when I decide you will.
Together they rode up to the research floor and crossed into the hangar, which smelled of disinfectant with that tang that makes metal corrode even when it shouldn’t. Rows of metal crates and containers sat on platforms waiting for the morning transport. Every one of them labeled, sealed, secured—like nameless graves bound for incinerators beyond the rim of Linkon City.
A research-floor tech appeared. Clearly half-asleep, coffee cup in hand. He stopped when he saw the colonel and the professor together at the containers. He tugged at his sleeves, nerves showing.
Lucius and Caleb stood at the first crate. Lucius held his ID—a thin card that, in the system, was the key to lock and authorize. He entered codes with nonchalant finesse, like a professor correcting a student’s paper. Each lock blinked green, sealing from the outside.
Caleb didn’t move an inch. He stood right beside him, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze heavy, appraising. Weighing Lucius’s every gesture. He watched in silence like an officer overseeing an execution.
— All per protocol, — Lucius muttered, sliding to the next capsule. — I’ll finish authorizing this nonsense and finally take a little vacation. I’ve had enough of tonight’s shift.
Caleb tipped a cool nod. — Less talk, more codes.
Lucius arched a brow but obediently keyed another string. The terminal chirped, confirming the lock.
— Professor… — the tech hesitated, scanning the list on his tablet. — Why is one of the containers going out empty?
Caleb turned his head slowly. His look cut like a blade. He didn’t speak—he left it to Lucius.
Lucius didn’t even blink.
— It’s a test, — he said with the kind of certainty that makes a thing sound obvious. — After the last fiasco in C-4 we decided—with the colonel—to see if anyone there still knows the procedures. We’ll find out whether they can flag an anomaly. Tag it “integrity validation unit.” Let’s make it… educational.
The tech opened his mouth, but Lucius lifted a finger.
— And now… don’t ask me stupid questions—bring the colonel a coffee. He looks like he hasn’t slept in two nights.
The kid flushed, dropped his gaze, and walked off in silence.
Caleb leaned toward Lucius, his voice so low it came out like a growl.
— You use my name like that again and that crate won’t be filled with air.
Lucius smiled at the corner of his mouth. — Ever so sensitive about the details.
— Get. In.
Lucius stepped up to the crate marked “empty.” Up close it looked even tighter—like he’d be laid out in it as an exhibit. He lifted the lid.
— Not the first time I’ve gotten into a box, — he murmured. — But the first time I lock myself in.
He slid inside as if lying down in a prepared coffin. Drew up his legs, folded his arms over his chest, set his head against the side.
— Comfortable? — Caleb asked, ice-cold.
— Well, I don’t end every day in a box, — Lucius half-smiled. — But this beats a plastic bag.
— The key’s the same as your authorization code. — Caleb shut the lid. Metal caught; the terminal lit. He entered Lucius’s auth code, confirming the lock. Red diodes came up in a steady glow.
A few minutes later the tech returned with coffee. He looked around, frowned.
— Where’s the professor?
Caleb stood at the console, arms folded.
— He finished authorizing and left, — he said in a tone that brooked no argument. — The authorization codes are on every crate. See?
The tech glanced at the blinking lights. Sure enough—each one pulsed with Lucius’s signature. He nodded, a little dazed.
— So… Colonel, will you sign for the pickup?
Caleb turned slowly, his gaze like a blade.
— You must be joking. I don’t sign off on trash runs. Let the idiot from C-4 who doesn’t know what seals are for do it.
The tech swallowed and stood in silence, waiting until the C-4 technician came to take the load under Caleb’s supervision. The two of them stood watching the line of containers. One empty crate, locked and sealed, held a man he should have killed—and was now letting loose into the world like smoke you can’t push back into the match.
A few minutes later the C-4 technician arrived to receive the load.
The technician double-checked each authorization code, his lips pressed tight as he signed off the handover from Research. A moment later the cargo, stacked on the mag-cart, began its slow crawl toward the C-4 warehouse—an unusual route for waste, but everyone here knew it was part of their penance for the last shift’s blunder.
Caleb’s eyes followed the cart, then cut back to the technician.
— Make sure your people remember why this load goes through C-4 tonight, — he said quietly, the weight of command sharpening every syllable. — Mistakes don’t vanish with the trash. — Caleb watched his every move and followed him like a shadow to the C-4 warehouse.
The shipment rolled onto the loading pad. Overhead fluorescents burned unevenly, throwing long shadows over the metal floor. The air already carried the slow scent of morning as the night transports readied to depart.
Two transport craft stood at the pad. Behind them—platforms with cargo.
On one: a biohazard capsule with the prepared body, sealed, marked with red warning sigils. Destination: EVER — disposal unit.
On the other: a row of lab crates, identical, cold, anonymous. In one of them—Lucius, curled like a biological sample, covered by a lid like a coffin lid. Destination: Linkon — waste incinerator.
Caleb stood a few steps back in shadow, hands clasped behind him. His posture was perfectly straight, eyes fixed on the pad. He tracked every movement of the techs, but didn’t step closer.
The technician who had just stamped the manifest edged up to him.
— Colonel… both transports are ready.
— Good, — Caleb replied coolly, eyes back on the pad. The techs cinched the last tie-downs.
Liam reported in a whisper at the ramp: — Linkon convoy under supervision, Colonel.
Caleb nodded, not taking his eyes off the crates. — You stand that run through to handoff in Linkon and then bring me a report in person.
— Yes, sir. — The colonel had already warned him twice. He knew a third failure wouldn’t mean paperwork.
Engines rumbled low; the air shook with their snarl. The EVER transport craft lifted first—its frame heavy, designed for hazardous payloads. The biohazard capsule shimmered under the warning sigils as it rose into the dawning sky, red lights flickering against the clouds like a warning that would not fade.
The second aerial carrier powered up, its turbines sending a sharp vibration across the pad. Magnetic straps held the row of metal crates steady as the craft tilted for ascent. In its cabin, Liam sat stiff-backed, eyes locked on the manifest in his lap, his presence a silent guarantee that the cargo would reach Linkon without incident.
The crates shuddered as the carrier rose, turning eastward. One diode—the one on Lucius’s crate—blinked a steady red. It pulsed like a hidden heart Caleb could see, and that only he knew was still beating.
The pad was empty again, just echo and wind.
Caleb stood in silence until both loads were out of sight.
Now Skyhaven was “clean.” The reports would send themselves in five minutes. The paperwork would close without his name.
He turned from the bare pad and headed for the corridor. His stride was even, measured, like he’d just finished another routine task. But his mind held only one question:
When he returned to Skyhaven Medical, would he find her still in that quiet sleep—or waiting for him with her eyes open.