Meanwhile…
Grey patrolled the first floor of the fortress, his power armor's servos humming with every step.
His HUD pulsed with data, tactical overlays highlighting possible breach points, motion trackers scanning for activity, threat vectors calculated and updated in real time.
If the heretics attacked tonight, they would find him waiting.
He approached the largest chamber on the level, a cavernous room half-converted from a civilian auditorium into a makeshift command post. As he neared the reinforced doorway, a familiar smug voice called out to him.
Grey turned.
It was Laun. The regimental commander stood in the doorway, smiling.
"Got a moment to talk?"
Grey narrowed his eyes, his gut instinct lurching like something rotten had turned in his stomach. A reflex born in the underhive whispered: Don't trust him.
But then something crossed his mind.
He hesitated.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I suppose I do."
Laun gestured him inside, the heavy bolt-locked door sealing shut behind them with a resounding clang.
Walking over to a small, scarred table, he uncorked a bottle and poured a glass of liquor.
One for himself.
One for Grey.
"What is this?" Grey asked, gaze locked onto the drink, suspicion sharp in his voice.
"Just wine." Laun replied with a smiled, offering the cup with both gauntleted hands.
Grey stared at the glass. The liquid inside was clear, unnaturally so. No hue, no sediment.
He had seen black wine. He had seen rust-red amasec. He had even seen the orange rotgut that passed for celebratory drink in the lower hive.
But clear wine?
His instincts screamed caution.
"I've never seen a drink like this before," he said, his voice low, probing. "I didn't read much growing up… so don't bother lying."
Laun chuckled quietly but didn't answer. He simply waited.
Grey raised the glass to his helmet, drawing in the aroma through its filtered vents.
The aroma hit him instantly sweet, sharp, impossibly refined. For a heartbeat, his limbs tensed, expecting poison.
Instead, his mind fogged—not from toxin, but memory. Desire.
It was exquisite.
After a long, weighted pause, Grey unsealed his helmet.
Then, in a single fluid gesture, he brought the glass to his lips and drank.
The taste was a symphony of luxury—cold and smooth at first, followed by notes he had no words for. It didn't burn. It didn't sting. It simply… enveloped him.
"By the Emperor…" he muttered, voice trembling despite himself.
"What… what in the Emperor's name is this…?"
The sheer luxury of the flavor startled him.
He feared how much he liked it.
He feared wanting more.
"Poor soul," Laun murmured, smiling as though watching a child taste real food for the first time.
"It's just wine, soldier. A simple fruit fermentation. A trivial indulgence."
He leaned back in his chair.
"But of course, to a gutterborn like you, it must taste like a dream."
Then, he did something unthinkable.
Laun handed him the rest of the bottle.
Grey hesitated.
For a moment, his mind raced through memories and the hard-edged lessons of the hive.
Then—
"Thank you, sir."
He took the bottle with both hands, carefully storing it inside his jump pack as if it were a rare relic.
Their conversation shifted in tone.
Grey no longer glared.
His hostility softened, if only slightly.
Laun observed his reaction with the precision of a master manipulator.
He had baited the hook.
Now, it was time to reel him in.
"Did you know," Laun said casually, pouring himself another glass, "the Governor's cousin's wife is my sister?"
Grey's expression shifted.
"Then why are you here? Why would a noble like you be thrown into this mess?"
Laun's smile didn't falter.
"The Marshal was to blame," he said, brushing the air dismissively. "He misplayed his hand. Tried to outshine the High Command. He was reckless. He overextended. The Governor had nothing to do with it."
He let the excuse hang.
Then, smoothly—he transitioned to his true proposition.
"When we get out of this mess…" Laun leaned forward slightly. "I will personally recommend you for promotion."
He let the words linger.
"A general's rank, no less."
Grey stared, his eyes burning with a hunger that belied his conditioned stoicism beneath the helmet.
A general?
A noble?
That was everything a lower-hive soldier could never dream of.
If he accepted—
He could take his family.
He could leave the filth of the lower hive behind.
Forever.
"But you understand, of course."
Laun's voice softened, his words weaving an insidious net around Grey's troubled thoughts.
"This is a transaction. A trade. You give something in return. Something meaningless to me—yet vital to our shared moment."
Grey's fingers curled into a tight fist.
"…What?"
Laun leaned in close. His eyes gleamed.
"Loyalty."
Grey remained silent.
He looked down, lost in thought.
Laun wasn't troubled by the pause. He was a master manipulator.
To him, Grey was simply an unrefined mind, bound by worthless relationships holding him back from making the logical choice.
All he had to do was apply a little more pressure.
"No need to answer now," he said, voice confident and smiled knowingly.
"Tomorrow, I will visit the other defensive positions. I will introduce myself.
I will make it clear to every soldier that a true commander has arrived.
That commander is me."
Grey remained mute.
"You should come with me."
Laun finally made his move.
"Bring your armor. Bring the others. Stand at my side."
Then, he waited.
If Grey agreed—
Then he desired power.
He might not be ready to betray Qin Mo just yet.
But eventually, he would.
Laun was sure of it.
Grey slowly rose to his feet.
He walked to the door.
Laun sighed, a hint of disappointment in his measured tone.
He thought Grey was going to reject him.
But then—
Grey pushed the door open.
He gestured outward with a measured firmness.
"I am a soldier. It is my duty to obey orders, sir."
Laun smiled in triumph.
"Excellent, soldier!"
He strode into the corridor, hands clasped behind his back, his gait exuding the arrogance of one accustomed to command.
The sheer arrogance in his stride was amplified by Grey walking behind him.
Laun was pleased.
He never noticed the sheer hatred hidden beneath Grey's helmet.
....
Next Door
In her private quarters, Riley sat alone.
Unlike Laun, she had been given a fully equipped suite, a leftover from the building's pre-fortress days.
She had locked the door securely.
She had showered.
The fortress still had running water.
Not clean water, it reeked of chemical filtration.
But in the Underhive?
It was a luxury.
Now, she lay on her narrow cot, replaying the day's grim events in her mind like a broken holorecord.
Then—
She remembered something.
When Qin Mo removed his helmet, revealing his face... she had recognized him.
Not as a savior.
Not as a hero.
But as someone she had seen before.
As someone Dangerous.
Her instincts screamed a warning like the klaxon of a malfunctioning servitor.
She reached for her Arbites-issued dataslate, activating it with a code etched into her muscle memory.
Her fingers danced swiftly through the labyrinthine legal archives.
She searched for one name.
Qin Mo.
One result.
[File: Prisoner 444]
[Name: Qin Mo]
[Crime: Unauthorized psyker activity. Attempted murder via warp-based abilities.]›
A mugshot loaded onto the screen.
It was him.
Her blood ran cold.
"Prisoner 444…"
Her hands trembled.
She had been there. She had helped capture him.
And now, inexplicably, he was here. In uniform. Commanding forces.
She bolted upright, hastily donning her uniform.
Then, she rushed out into the dimly lit hall.
She needed to warn Laun.
She needed to tell him.
Qin Mo was a psyker.
A criminal.
A monster.
But as she burst into Laun's chambers—
It was empty.
"Laun already left."
A rumbling voice echoed behind her.
It was Grot.
The battle-worn, power-armoured veteran peered down at her with a mix of disdain and duty.
"If you have urgent business, report it to Qin Mo."
Riley's throat constricted with dread.
She tried to retreat.
But another voice, smooth and chilling, whispered—
"Why not tell Laun in person?"
She froze.
She turned slowly.
Qin Mo smiled—a smile both disarming and foreboding.
He offered his hand.
"Come with me, miss."