Adrian's Room, Aveline's Mansion — 5:32 AM
Adrian's phone buzzed on the nightstand, dragging him out of shallow, restless sleep.
He hadn't really slept just drifted in and out of half-conscious paranoia, replaying every cold touch, every impossible feat of strength, every clinical movement that didn't quite fit.
Semi-mutants. Cold body. Enhanced strength. Brain intact.
He grabbed the phone, throat dry.
Captain Elias Ward
He swiped to answer.
"Adrian." Elias's voice was brisk, urgent. "Roads cleared faster than expected. Operation is green-lit for today. Helicopter departs at 06:00. Be ready."
Adrian's stomach dropped. "Today?"
"Today. You won't have to work with Aveline much longer just this mission, then you're back with NPU." A pause. "Get the samples, get the data, get out. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good. Coordinates are already loaded into Garrick's nav system. He'll be there at six sharp."
The line went dead.
Adrian sat on the edge of the bed, phone still pressed to his ear, staring at nothing.
Today.
Just one more mission with her. Then I'm done.
Then I can figure out what the hell she really is.
He forced himself to stand, pulled on his tactical gear NPU-issue vest, cargo pants, belt holster. One Glock. One knife. Standard loadout.
He checked his reflection in the mirror. Pale. Exhausted. Scared.
Get it together. You've done this before.
But he hadn't. Not with her.
He headed downstairs.
Living Room — 5:47 AM
Adrian stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Aveline stood by the door, checking her gear with methodical precision.
All black. Form-fitting. Lethal.
She wore a black tactical turtleneck beneath a lightweight bulletproof vest, barely visible under her black tactical jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, clean ponytail wolf-cut layers framing her sharp features, not a strand out of place.
But it was the weapons that made his throat go dry.
An MP7 submachine gun rested in her hands, matte black and compact. Her gloved fingers black leather so perfectly fitted he could see every crease, every bone shifting beneath the surface as she moved worked over the weapon with practiced ease.
She ejected the magazine, checked the rounds, slammed it back in with a sharp click, then pulled the charging handle. Ch-chk. The sound echoed through the quiet house.
She glanced up briefly when she heard him on the stairs. "Cole."
"Yeah." He stepped closer, boots quiet on the hardwood. "Ready when you are."
Without a word, she reached to her left hip, unclipped one of the walkie-talkies from her belt, and tossed it to him in a smooth, practiced arc.
Adrian caught it. "We splitting up?"
"Maybe. Stay on channel three." She turned back to her gear, adjusting the MP7's sling with small, precise movements.
When she turned, Adrian saw it clearly for the first time:
The shoulder holster straps crossed her back in a clean X-pattern—black leather against black fabric, functional and sleek. The straps sat perfectly fitted against her frame, not shifting even slightly as she moved. Left side: Glock. Right side: combat knife, fully sheathed.
It looked professional. Military. Expensive.
Like something out of a spec ops manual.
Or a spy movie.
Adrian's throat tightened.
Who the hell is she, really?
"Something wrong?" Aveline asked without turning around, still checking the pouches on her tactical belt.
"No," Adrian said quickly. "Just... that's a lot of hardware."
"Redundancy." She picked up the MP7 again, testing the weight, the balance. Everything about her movements was smooth, economical, familiar. "You ready?"
Adrian looked down at his own gear. One Glock. One knife. Standard NPU vest that suddenly felt flimsy and inadequate.
"Yeah," he lied.
Aveline's eyes met his pale, sharp, unreadable. For a moment, he thought she might call him out on it.
Instead, she just said, "Good. Helicopter's almost here."
Footsteps on the stairs pulled their attention. Yuki appeared, wrapped in a blanket, eyes still puffy from sleep.
She stopped when she saw Aveline's full loadout.
"You look like a spy," Yuki said quietly.
Aveline's expression softened just a fraction, barely noticeable unless you were watching for it. "Close enough."
"Are you going to be okay?"
"I always am."
Yuki stepped closer, hesitant, small. Her voice trembled slightly. "Promise?"
Aveline reached out with one gloved hand and tucked a strand of Yuki's hair behind her ear. Her fingers lingered for a moment gentle, careful, despite all the weapons strapped to her body.
"I promise," she said.
Yuki's eyes went glassy with unshed tears. "Come back."
"I will."
Outside, the distant thump-thump-thump of helicopter rotors grew steadily louder, vibrating through the walls.
Aveline picked up the MP7 one last time, checked the chamber with a practiced motion, then looked at Adrian. "Let's move."
Helipad, Aveline's Mansion — 6:02 AM
The helicopter sat on the mansion's private helipad, rotors already spinning in a blur, kicking up snow and dead leaves in violent swirls that stung Adrian's face.
And there, leaning halfway out of the cockpit with his headset askew and a grin splitting his face, was Garrick—NPU's go-to pilot, perpetually cheerful even at six in the morning.
"Adrian!" he called over the rotor noise. "Right on time! Let's get you to—"
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Aveline approaching behind Adrian.
His eyes went wide, taking in the full tactical loadout: MP7 slung across her chest, multiple pistols at hip and thigh, knives, the shoulder holster straps crossing her back, flashbang secured at her belt. All black. All business.
"Holy—" Garrick caught himself. "You didn't mention you were bringing a one-woman tactical unit."
"Garrick, this is Aveline," Adrian said, climbing into the back. The interior smelled like oil, coffee, and faintly of gun oil. "Crime division liaison. She's running point on this op."
Aveline slid in beside him without a word, movements economical and precise, the MP7 resting across her lap like it belonged there.
Garrick twisted in his seat, still staring. "Crime division, huh?" He gestured at her arsenal. "Must be one hell of a promotion. You planning a coup or just a light Tuesday?"
Aveline's pale blue eyes flicked to him briefly. "Tuesday."
A beat of silence.
Then Garrick laughed bright and genuine. "I like her already." He turned back to the controls, still grinning. "Alright, Ms. Tuesday. Name's Garrick. Best pilot NPU's got, if I do say so myself. Which I do. Frequently. ETA to South Metro: twenty-eight minutes. Try not to shoot any holes in my bird, yeah? She's temperamental."
"No promises," Aveline said, already checking her weapon with focused intensity.
"Fair enough." Garrick fired up the engine fully, rotors increasing speed with a rising whine. "So, Aveline—can I call you Aveline? Or is it Agent...?"
"Aveline's fine," she said without looking up from her gear check.
"Right. Aveline. You do a lot of these high-risk ops?"
"Enough."
"Enough to need—" He counted mentally, glancing back. "—at least five guns and what looks like a small armory strapped to your person?"
Silence.
Garrick glanced at Adrian in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised, grinning. Adrian gave him a please stop talking look.
Garrick ignored it entirely.
The helicopter lifted smoothly, the mansion shrinking below them until it was just another gray shape against the snow. The city unfolded in layers gray buildings giving way to brown industrial zones, smokestacks rising like broken teeth against the pale morning sky.
"Seriously though," Garrick continued, adjusting course with easy confidence, "that MP7's no joke. Special forces issue, right? I flew a team once, Delta guys, I think—they had those. Said they could punch through body armor like butter. You ever actually—"
"Yes," Aveline said flatly.
"Oh. Cool. Cool cool cool." Garrick paused for maybe three seconds. "What about the shoulder holster setup? That custom? Looks custom. Very... tactical chic, if that's a thing. Is that a thing?"
Aveline said nothing, still focused on counting magazines.
"I'm gonna say it's a thing," Garrick decided cheerfully. "Anyway, South Metro's a mess right now roads finally cleared but it's still a disaster zone. You been down there before?"
"Yes."
"Right. Dumb question. You've obviously been everywhere." He banked slightly, adjusting altitude. "So what's the op? Adrian won't tell me anything. Very hush-hush. I respect that. But also I'm nosy. Occupational hazard."
Adrian sighed. "Garrick—"
"I'm just making conversation! It's a long flight. Well, twenty-eight minutes. But still. Silence is awkward."
"Only for you," Aveline said, a hint of something amusement? annoyance?flickering in her tone.
Garrick laughed again. "Okay, fair. I'll take that." He adjusted his headset. "But for real though, you two need anything? I've got protein bars. Energy drinks. Terrible coffee. The full pre-mission care package."
"We're fine," Adrian said.
"Aveline?"
She glanced up briefly. "I'm fine."
"Alright, alright. Just offering." Garrick hummed to himself for a moment, then: "You know what I noticed? Your gloves. Those are really well-fitted. Like, tailored, right? Where'd you get those? Because standard-issue tactical gloves are garbage. Always too loose or too tight, never—"
"Garrick," Adrian said firmly. "Focus on flying."
"I'm an excellent multitasker," Garrick said cheerfully.
But he did quiet down.
For about thirty seconds.
Then: "So do you always gear up like this, or is today special?"
Aveline's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She looked up, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.
"I've been on missions where I didn't have enough," she said quietly. "I walked out. The people I went with didn't."
That finally made Garrick pause.
His grin faded slightly. "Ah. Yeah. That'll... yeah."
He turned back to the controls, quieter now.
After a moment, his voice softer, he said, "For what it's worth? Anyone who preps like you do usually makes it back. Good odds today."
Aveline looked at him for a long moment. Almost smiled. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He adjusted altitude with a gentle pull. "Just bring Adrian back in one piece, yeah? He tips well."
"I don't tip," Adrian muttered.
"Exactly. Low standards. I appreciate that in a passenger."
Despite everything, Adrian's mouth twitched.
Garrick kept up a running commentary for the rest of the flight observations about the weather patterns, a story about a bar fight he'd witnessed last week, complaints about NPU's new flight rotation schedules, but his tone had shifted. Less pushy. More comfortable.
Like he'd decided Aveline was okay, even if she barely spoke.
Adrian noticed Garrick kept glancing back at her in the mirror.
Not suspiciously. Not fearfully.
Just... impressed.
Adrian sat quietly, watching Aveline out of the corner of his eye.
She sat perfectly still, one hand resting on the MP7, the other adjusting her gloves with small, precise movements. Her face was calm. Focused. Expression locked into something completely unreadable.
Like she'd done this a thousand times before.
She probably has, Adrian thought, stomach twisting.
Cold hands. Enhanced strength. Faster than she should be. Gear that costs more than I make in a year.
Nexo Pharmaceutical Corporation, South Metro — 6:47 AM
The helicopter touched down on a cleared lot two blocks from the facility, rotors kicking up dust and debris in choking clouds. Garrick kept the engine running, rotors spinning at idle.
"I'll be here when you need extraction," he said, twisting in his seat to look back at them seriously. "Try not to die, yeah? Paperwork's an absolute bitch."
"Noted," Adrian said, unclipping his harness and climbing out into the cold morning air.
Aveline followed, MP7 already up and scanning the perimeter in smooth, practiced arcs before her boots even fully hit the ground. Her movements were fluid, automatic, ingrained deep.
Professional.
They approached the facility on foot, boots crunching over broken pavement and patches of old, dirty snow.
Adrian's stomach sank the moment the building came into full view.
It looked different. Fortified since the last intelligence reports.
Bulletproof glass covered every window thick, reinforced, tinted so dark you couldn't see inside at all.
Security cameras hung from every corner, swiveling in slow, methodical arcs, red LED lights blinking like watchful eyes.
Drones hovered near the roofline small, insect-like, their rotors barely audible over the wind. More red lights. More surveillance. More layers of security.
"They upgraded," Aveline said quietly, eyes tracking the drones with calculated precision.
"Yeah." Adrian pulled out Marcus's keycard the dead worker's ID, recovered weeks ago from NPU evidence lockup. The plastic was scratched and stained, edges worn from use. Marcus's face stared back from the photo tired eyes, a forced smile that didn't reach them.
He didn't know he was going to die when this picture was taken.
"Original plan was stealth," Adrian said, voice tight.
"Stealth's not going to work." Aveline's gaze swept methodically over the cameras, the drones, the reinforced entry points, cataloging threats. "They're locked down tight. We try to sneak, we get caught halfway through anyway."
"So what do we do?"
She looked at him, pale blue eyes sharp and unblinking. "We go in loud."
Adrian's pulse kicked up a notch. "You sure?"
"No." She adjusted her grip on the MP7, checking the chamber one more time with a practiced motion. "But it's faster. And we don't have time to be careful."
She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out two black masks simple, cotton, the kind people wore during the pandemic years. She handed one to Adrian.
"For the cameras," she said, pulling hers on smoothly.
Adrian did the same. The fabric smelled faintly of gunpowder and cold air.
They approached the main entrance together, side by side. The building loomed above them fifteen stories of concrete and steel and secrets.
Adrian swiped Marcus's keycard through the reader with a hand that trembled slightly.
The machine beeped once.
ACCESS GRANTED.
The door clicked open with a soft mechanical hiss.
For one heartbeat, there was only silence.
The calm before the storm.
Then WHRRRRRRRR.
Alarms shrieked to life, piercing and relentless. Red lights strobed violently across the marble lobby floor. Steel shutters began dropping over windows with heavy THUNK-THUNK-THUNKs, sealing the building from the outside world.
"Well," Aveline said, raising her MP7 to a ready position, "so much for subtle."
Security poured through every doorway six, eight, twelve armed guards in full tactical gear, batons raised, rifles aimed directly at them.
Aveline didn't hesitate.
The MP7 barked three times in rapid succession bang-bang-bang controlled, precise, deadly. The first guard's head snapped back violently, body crumpling before his brain could register death.
The second took armor-piercing rounds square to the chest, Kevlar vest doing absolutely nothing against the ammunition. The third fell sideways, blood misting the air in a fine red spray.
"Move!" Aveline snapped, already advancing in smooth, measured steps toward the stairwell at the far end of the lobby.
A guard charged from the left, baton raised high above his head in both hands. Aveline pivoted smoothly, MP7 coming up in one fluid motion. Thunk-thunk-thunk. Three rounds, center mass. He dropped mid-stride, momentum carrying him forward into a sliding heap.
Another guard came from the right, closing distance fast too fast for a clean ranged shot without adjusting stance. Aveline dropped instantly into a controlled slide, her platform boots skidding smoothly across the polished tile as she passed cleanly under his wild swing.
Mid-slide, she twisted her torso with practiced ease, MP7 aimed upward at an angle. Bang. His kneecap exploded in a burst of blood and shattered bone fragments. He screamed, high and broken, collapsing hard.
But he was wearing full body armor—Kevlar chest plate, reinforced tactical vest, ballistic helmet.
No clean kill shot available from her current angle.
Aveline rolled to her feet without breaking stride, spun gracefully on one heel, and slammed her boot into the side of his head with devastating force. The impact was sickening a wet, hollow crack as bone fractured and his neck snapped sideways at an unnatural angle. He collapsed instantly, blood pooling rapidly from his ears, body twitching once before going completely still.
She kept moving, walking backward now toward the stairwell with perfect balance, MP7 never stopping its steady, lethal rhythm. Short, controlled bursts—bang-bang, bang-bang—each one dropping another body with surgical precision.
Adrian scrambled after her, Glock raised but barely firing. He was too busy watching her, unable to look away.
She moved like she had eyes in the back of her head, trusting him completely to guide her movements through the chaos. "Left!" he shouted over the gunfire. She adjusted instantly, smoothly. "Two more, right side!" Her MP7 swiveled with mechanical precision, fired. They dropped in near-perfect synchronization.
A guard broke through the thinning line of bodies, combat knife flashing silver as he lunged desperately for her exposed back.
Aveline's hand shot out no hesitation, no visible fear, no wasted movement and caught the blade mid-strike. Her gloved fingers wrapped tightly around the steel edge, leather tearing audibly with a sharp ripping sound, blood immediately seeping through the torn material in dark patches.
She didn't even flinch. Didn't slow.
With her other hand still firing the MP7 one-handed at approaching threats with barely any loss of accuracy, she kicked the knife-wielder brutally in the stomach hard enough that he folded completely in half like a closing book and flew backward a solid three feet, crashing into an overturned reception desk with a bone-rattling impact that scattered papers everywhere.
A massive guard easily six-foot-five, two hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle and pure rage charged straight at her like an enraged bull, roaring incoherently.
Aveline sidestepped at the last possible second with dancer-like grace, dropped smoothly to one knee in a controlled, almost elegant motion, and raised the MP7 with steady hands.
Bang.
Single shot. Clean. Precise. Through the temple at point-blank range. The guard's momentum carried him forward two more stumbling, uncoordinated steps before his body finally realized it was already dead. He collapsed face-first onto the blood-slick tile with a heavy, wet sound.
"Stairs!" Adrian yelled, finally reaching the metal door.
Aveline backpedaled toward him with measured steps, still firing in controlled bursts, brass casings raining around her boots. Bodies piled up behind her in grotesque heaps. The MP7's rate of fire was devastating 850 rounds per minute and she used every single one with surgical, almost artistic precision.
Then, click.
A tiny, distinct sound. Mechanical. Different from an empty magazine lock.
Aveline's eyes flicked down to the MP7 for a fraction of a second.
Three bullets left.
The custom magazine mechanism she'd had installed a tactile warning system that clicked distinctly when she hit the last three rounds in the mag. No guessing. No surprises. Just cold, hard information.
More guards were flooding in from the upper floors now, drawn like moths to the chaos and blaring alarms.
Boots thundered heavily on metal stairs somewhere above. Shouts echoed and overlapped through the stairwell, urgent and angry.Three bullets. Not enough to clear them all.
Need a different solution.Her gaze locked instantly onto a storage shelf near the seventh-floor landing visible through the partially open stairwell door rows of chemical containers, industrial cleaning supplies, lab overflow materials hastily stored.There.A large plastic gallon jug labeled in bright red warning letters:
ETHANOL - FLAMMABLE. HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE.
She grabbed it with her free hand in one smooth motion, twisted the safety cap off without looking, and hurled it high into the air in a perfect arc toward the descending swarm of guards clattering down the narrow metal stairs above.
The jug spun end-over-end through the air, ethanol already beginning to spray out in a wide, volatile arc as it tumbled through the harsh fluorescent lighting.Aveline raised the MP7, exhaled slowly to steady her aim, and fired.Bang.
First bullet punched clean through the spinning plastic container mid-flight. Ethanol exploded violently outward in a fine, highly flammable misting cloud, drenching the guards packed shoulder-to-shoulder on the narrow stairs.
Bang.
Second bullet sparked brilliantly against the metal railing beside the airborne jug, showering burning sparks directly into the ethanol-saturated air.Bang. Third and final bullet. Center mass of the tumbling jug. Perfect ignition point.WHOOOOMP.
The air itself seemed to catch fire all at once.Flames roared to violent life in a massive, rolling wave crawling hungrily up the metal stairs like something alive and furious, feeding greedily on ethanol vapor and oxygen and screaming men. The guards shrieked in high, inhuman pitches, stumbling blindly backward over each other, arms flailing completely uselessly as fire consumed exposed clothing, hair, skin, everything.
The heat was immediate and suffocating, a physical wall of scorching air that pressed against them like a living force.Aveline shoved Adrian hard through the seventh-floor door with her shoulder just as the massive fireball rolled violently over the exact spot where they'd been standing a single heartbeat before.The heavy reinforced door slammed shut behind them with a resounding metallic CLANG.
Superheated air pressed furiously against the steel like a living thing desperately trying to break through. Muffled screams echoed horrifically from the other side high-pitched, desperate, wet rapidly fading into choking, gurgling sounds before going silent.
Aveline ejected the spent magazine with a practiced flick of her wrist, let it clatter to the floor, and slammed a fresh one home with a sharp, decisive click. Pulled the charging handle smoothly. Ch-chk. Ready again. Locked and loaded.
She reached to her hip and tossed Adrian her backup Glock without even looking at him, the weapon spinning through the air in a perfect arc. "You left yours in the helicopter."
Adrian caught it clumsily, hands still shaking violently from adrenaline overload. His face was deathly pale, eyes too wide, pupils dilated. "I—yeah. Sorry."
"Don't apologize," Aveline said, already moving with purpose down the hallway away from the fire-damaged stairwell. "Just shoot."
They moved quickly through the seventh floor fluorescent lights flickering erratically overhead, abandoned workstations with cold coffee cups and half-written reports still on screens, papers scattered across the floor like disturbed confetti, chairs overturned in hasty evacuation.Behind them, something heavy slammed violently against the sealed stairwell door.
Then again, harder, more desperate.BANG.A bullet punched cleanly through the door's small reinforced window, missing Aveline's head by maybe three inches, embedding itself deep in the opposite wall with a puff of drywall dust and plaster fragments.She spun immediately, eyes narrowing dangerously.
Someone was shooting through the door. Trying to flank them. Pursuing despite the raging fire and charred bodies.The door burst open violently on damaged hinges. A guard stumbled through, smoke-stained and wild-eyed, uniform singed and blackened, rifle raised and aimed with shaking hands directly at Aveline's back.
She was mid-reload check magazine seated properly but chamber status not yet confirmed, stance not fully set.Couldn't shoot yet. Half a second too slow.The guard's finger tightened visibly on the trigger, knuckle going white.
Aveline moved.Faster than Adrian's eyes could properly track, she closed the distance between them in two explosive steps, grabbed the guard's rifle barrel with both gloved hands, and twisted with brutal, efficient force. His trigger finger broke against the guard with an audible SNAP like a dry twig. He screamed, high and broken and agonized
.She ripped the rifle from his useless hands like taking candy from a child, tossed it aside with a metallic clatter, then grabbed him before he could even think about retreating one gloved hand clamping iron-tight around his upper jaw, the other seizing his lower mandible in an unbreakable grip.
And pulled.The sound was infinitely worse than any of the gunfire had been. Wet. Tearing. Organic. Like fabric ripping, but meaty and terrible and wrong. Bone cracking with sharp reports like dry wood snapping cleanly in half.
The guard's jaw came completely apart in her hands upper mandible tearing free from the skull with a spray of blood and broken teeth fragments, lower jaw dislocating entirely with a sickening wet pop, tongue lolling uselessly in the ruined, gaping cavity where his face used to be.
His eyes went impossibly wide with shock and agony. Pupils blown completely black. Blood gushing in thick, pulsing streams from where his face used to be, pouring down his neck in hot rivulets.Aveline let go without ceremony. He collapsed immediately like a puppet with cut strings, choking wetly on his own blood and shattered teeth, limbs twitching in uncoordinated, dying spasms.
Dead before he finished hitting the ground in a spreading pool of crimson.Aveline straightened slowly, deliberately, wiping blood methodically off her gloves onto her tactical jacket with calm, mechanical movements—like she was cleaning dirt off after gardening, not gore from murder.
Then she looked directly at Adrian.Her expression was completely flat. Utterly unreadable. Empty.Adrian stood frozen like a statue.
The borrowed Glock hung limp and forgotten in his trembling hand. His breath was caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, refusing to move.His mind had gone completely, utterly blank except for one thought looping endlessly on repeat:
She just ripped his jaw off.
With her bare hands. She just—
"Adrian," Aveline said quietly, voice flat and calm.He didn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
"Adrian." Sharper now, commanding, cutting through his paralysis.He blinked rapidly. Sucked in a breath that tasted like copper and smoke and death and horror."We need to keep moving," she said, as casually as if suggesting they get coffee.
He stared at her. At the blood soaking into her torn gloves, still wet and dark. At the body at her feet, face torn completely open like tissue paper, jaw bones jutting at impossible, grotesque angles.Semi-mutants. Enhanced strength. Cold body temperature. Brain intact.She's one of them.She has to be."Adrian,"
Aveline said again, stepping closer with measured steps. Her eyes pale sharp, utterly unblinking locked directly onto his with uncomfortable intensity. "Are you with me?"His hand tightened involuntarily on the Glock's textured grip, finger sliding unconsciously toward the trigger guard.For a second just one terrible, suspended second he genuinely didn't know if he should raise the weapon and aim it at her.
Then the alarms blared again with renewed fury, cutting through his paralysis. More heavy footsteps echoed somewhere else in the vast building, overlapping and getting steadily closer.Aveline's expression didn't change at all. Didn't soften. Didn't harden. Just... nothing.
"Eighth floor. Now."She turned smoothly and walked toward the next intact stairwell without waiting for an answer, MP7 up and ready.Adrian stood there for one more suspended heartbeat, staring at the body, at the spreading blood, at the impossible violence.
Then he forced his leaden legs to move and followed her.Because what other choice did he have?What other choice had he ever had?
Seventh Floor Hallway — 7:19 AM
They reached a clear section of the seventh-floor hallway, both breathing hard now despite Aveline showing no other signs of exertion. Adrian's hands wouldn't stop shaking violently. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to physically escape his chest.The corridor stretched ahead into dimness more flickering fluorescent lights casting sickly shadows, more abandoned cubicles with family photos still pinned to fabric walls, more scattered papers covered in chemical formulas and test results he couldn't read.
But the doors were different here. Noticeably different.Reinforced. Heavy steel plating. Keypads with biometric scanners instead of traditional handles. Small windows with wire mesh embedded in thick glass."Specialized labs," Aveline said, voice steady despite everything, scanning the corridor with trained efficiency. "
Six and up are restricted access. Different security protocols entirely."Adrian tried one of the doors, pulling hard on the reinforced handle. Locked completely solid. "We need keycards we don't have.""Or we break through." Aveline tested another door with her shoulder, pressing her weight against it experimentally. Completely solid, didn't budge a millimeter.
"These are bulletproof. Sound-insulated. Reinforced against fire and chemical exposure.""That's..." Adrian paused, brain catching up slowly, thinking through tactical implications. "Actually good for us, isn't it? They can't shoot through these either. Can't hear us coming."
"But we can't use elevators," Aveline added, already thinking three steps ahead strategically. "They could cut power remotely. Trap us inside between floors. We'd be sitting ducks."
"So we keep climbing stairs. Floor by floor. All the way to fifteen."Aveline nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Fifteen floors. That's the target."Finalization Labs. Where the completed enhancement serum and Cauteris antidote samples are stored. Where the critical research data is kept. Where answers wait.
Adrian leaned heavily against the cold wall, trying desperately to catch his breath properly. His hands were still shaking uncontrollably, no matter how hard he tried to stop them, no matter how tightly he gripped the borrowed Glock.Aveline checked her MP7 methodically, counting remaining magazines by touch without looking. Three full mags left secured on her tactical belt. Plus all the backup Glocks and their ammunition reserves.Still heavily armed. Still prepared for extended combat.Still inhuman
."We need a plan," Adrian said, voice rougher and more broken than he intended."We need to move," Aveline corrected firmly, already turning back toward the intact stairwell. "Before they regroup and figure out where we went. Before they adapt."Adrian looked at her. Really looked, forcing himself to see clearly.At the blood still staining her tactical gloves in dark patches.
At the torn leather where she'd caught a knife bare-handed without flinching. At the calm, cold, utterly controlled expression on her sharp face like ripping a man's jaw completely off was just another mundane item checked off an ordinary to-do list.She's not even winded. Hasn't slowed down once. Hasn't hesitated. Hasn't shown fear or doubt or humanity
"Yeah," he said quietly, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat. "Let's move."Aveline gave a single sharp nod of acknowledgment and headed purposefully for the stairs.Adrian followed, Glock gripped desperately tight in both trembling hands, and tried very, very hard not to think about what he'd just witnessed in graphic detail.
Tried with everything he had. Failed completely.The image of that guard's ruined, torn-apart face wouldn't leave his mind, playing on horrific repeat.And neither would the terrible, suffocating certainty growing like ice in his chest:
She's not human. Not anymore.
Maybe she never was.
And I'm trapped in here with her.. Perfect.