Aya remained crumpled on the filthy concrete floor long after the last echo of her pleas had died away. She hugged herself so tightly her arms ached, nails digging half-moons into the soft skin above her elbows as though she could physically hold herself together. Tears streamed in hot, unstoppable rivers down her cheeks, carving pale tracks through days of accumulated sewer grime. They dripped from her chin in steady little plops, darkening the ground beneath her knees.
She drew in a shuddering breath and forced herself upright, legs trembling beneath her like a newborn foal's.
"Guys, please… Please!"
She lurched forward and grabbed Benjamin's shoulder, fingers curling desperately into the worn leather of his jacket. Then her strength gave out again and she dropped back to her knees, looking up at the circle of shadowed faces.
"We need to help him, please!"
Benjamin stared straight ahead at the cooling ashes in the rusted barrel. After a long, heavy moment he shrugged her hand away as though it were no more than a clinging leaf.
"I'm going to bed."
Milo gave a low, tired grunt. "Yeah…"
One by one the others rose—Alfie Sr. with his stiff, painful limp, Alfie Jr. staring fixedly at his own boots, Diego muttering something soft and bitter under his breath. They shuffled toward their makeshift cardboard beds like condemned men heading for the scaffold, curled beneath thin blankets, and closed their eyes.
Aya's chest heaved. Something inside her snapped like dry kindling.
"What the hell?! SO I'M THE ONE LEFT HERE SULKING LIKE A CHILD?!"
The scream rang off the damp walls and came back to her diminished, swallowed by the indifferent dark. No one answered. No one even twitched. Just the slow, careful rhythm of breathing as seven men pretended to sleep.
High above the city, in the sterile white cube of the isolation chamber, John sat with his back pressed against the wall, knees drawn tight to his chest, forehead resting on folded arms. He kept trying to empty his mind—long, slow breaths, counting the inhale, counting the exhale, the old meditation trick he'd used back when he still wore silk cufflinks and walked marble corridors. But every time the quiet began to settle, the sound returned.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Each one arrived a fraction louder, a fraction closer to the bone. The intervals never changed, yet somehow the volume grew, as though the machine itself were leaning in, pressing its cold mouth against his ear. And Mark—his constant, invisible companion for years—was silent. No soft mechanical hum. No reassuring whisper inside his skull. The AI had simply… vanished, as though the suppression fields had finally strangled him too.
All John could do was think of his so-called comrades. Of Aya's dark eyes. Of Benjamin's scarred fist. Of the others. He clung to the thin, fragile hope that someone—anyone—would come for him.
In the observation suite on the 200th floor, Sovereign stood motionless before the wall-sized monitor, arms folded, watching every tiny movement John made: the slight rocking, the tightening of the jaw, the flicker of silver-blue in eyes that should have been ordinary by now.
A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips. Everything was proceeding precisely as planned.
He spoke without turning his head.
"Ashley, you stay here until…" He lifted his wrist and glanced at the heavy platinum watch. "2:00 AM."
Ashley's voice was small. "But, sir, my shift ends at 12:00 AM—"
"2:00 AM."
"Yes, sir…"
Back in the lair, Aya moved with quiet, mechanical determination.
She opened one of the bags they'd taken from John's basement and began packing what she could carry: one single bottle of water (she couldn't bring herself to take more, not when the others might wake up parched), a few ration bars, the sleek glove-like laser cannon, painkillers, bandages, a small flashlight. Everything she thought she might need to survive one more day.
Then she slung the bag over her shoulder, walked to the tunnel mouth, and left.
After years of shared hunger, shared terror, shared darkness, she walked out alone.
Two figures moved through the twisting sewer passages, boots splashing in shallow black water.
Emma Jackson—twenty-six, former nurse, hands still gentle even after everything—kept pace beside Mitchell Sunny, twenty-six, lean and dangerous, a man who moved like a blade waiting to be drawn.
"I told you we should've left a trace back!" Emma said, voice sharp with exasperation.
"Trust me, I'll find it." Mitch responded reassure her proudly
"Lower your ego, dummy." she responded
"The trace would've disappeared anyway!!" Mitch grumbled
"No it wouldn't."
"Just stop worrying, we'll find it eventually." he said calmly
Aya finished the last swallow from her single bottle. She had taken only one on purpose, thinking of the others back at the base, of cracked lips and empty throats. Four straight hours of walking. No light. No hope of shelter. Her legs felt like lead weights. She was about to sink down against the wall and let sleep claim her when she saw it: a heavy steel door, half-concealed behind dripping moss.
She pushed. It opened.
Inside was a small miracle—crates of food, stacks of bottled water, shelves of supplies. It felt like paradise. She tore into the nearest crate, cramming crackers and dried fruit into her mouth, chugging water until it ran down her chin and soaked her shirt.
Then—footsteps.
"Finally! I told you we'd find it!" Mitch exclaimed happily
"After 4 fucking hours, that is!" Emma responded angrily
The voices grew louder, closer. Aya dove behind a metal table and pressed herself flat against the cold floor.
Mitch stepped inside first. "Home sweet home!"
Emma followed. "Yep…"
Mitch stopped dead. Food wrappers everywhere. Bottles tipped over. The mess was fresh—the spilled syrup still glistened wet under the dim lights.
Emma breathed, "What the…"
Mitch chuckled, low and cold. "You idiot… Whoever is hiding here, you're not getting out alive!"
He followed the wet footprints straight to the table.
"Fucking idiot…"
He bent down.
Aya surged upward—fist smashing into his face, arms locking around his throat. Mitch reacted instantly, rolling, reversing the hold, bending her arm until she gasped and released. She threw a desperate right hook; he blocked, jabbed her face, drove a knee into her chest. Air exploded from her lungs. He slammed her against the wall, right hook, uppercut. She tried to kick his leg—too weak, too slow. Her head cracked against concrete.
"Enough!"
Mitch's fist froze inches from her face.
Emma's voice was steady, almost gentle. "Let her go, she has no weapons and you've beaten her badly enough. She can't do anything, she's not a threat. Just… let her go."
Mitch's eyes were flat. "Who the fuck are you?!"
Aya coughed blood. "I… I'm sorry, I was just really hungry and thirsty and stumbled upon this place… I am so sorry…"
Emma crouched. "What's your name?"
"Aya Suzuki… Please, don't kill me. I'm just trying to survive like you guys."
Mitch snorted. "What, by eating all our damn stuff?!"
"Mitch, calm down! We still have plenty of food left."
"Yeah, less than we originally had! Now we have to cook all that food again."
Aya pushed herself up, swaying. "I'll leave…"
She grabbed her bag and started toward the door.
"Wait."
Aya stopped. "Huh?"
Mitch rubbed his jaw. "Where are you gonna sleep?"
"I'll just sleep anywhere, I guess…"
"You don't have anywhere to sleep?"
"No— But it's alright, I'm sorry for bringing trouble."
Mitch studied her for a long moment. Then he sighed, knelt, and opened a concealed floor hatch. Inside: sleeping bags, rifles, ammo crates, grenades—more gear than Benjamin's crew had ever possessed.
He pulled out a sleeping bag and dropped it on the ground.
"You can stay here for the night."
"Really?"
"Yeah, just don't make a mess like you did just now."
"Thank you so much, this means so much!"
"Yeah you're welcome, I can tell you're tired… Just go."
"But where…?"
Mitch gestured at the bag. Aya nodded, crawled inside, and was asleep almost instantly, exhaustion pulling her under like black water.
Mitch watched her for a second, then muttered, "I wouldn't have needed to beat her up if she didn't attack me first."
Emma smiled faintly. "Look at that, that's the Mitchell I know. You always have a change of heart before killing someone."
"Shut up."
"I've rarely ever seen you kill someone, the furthest you've went in hurting someone is beating the shit out of someone then sparing them at the last second."
"I said shut up! I'm going to bed, hopefully she doesn't take our stuff and dip in the morning."
"Yeah. But I have a feeling she won't, just… She seems so innocent."
Mitch grunted as he climbed into his own bag. "Never judge a book by its cover."
Emma murmured, "Hm, I guess."
At exactly 2:00 AM, Ashley glanced at the clock and felt a wave of relief so strong her knees nearly buckled.
She tapped her comm. "It's 2:00 AM, sir—"
"What happened."
"Oh, right. John didn't do much other than just rocking back and forth, he went to sleep at 1:23 AM."
"Alright. You can go home."
"Thank you, sir."
She ended the call and hurried to the elevator, already dreaming of her bed and the way it would cradle her aching back after the long, brutal shift.
Sovereign lay in the vast darkness of his penthouse bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. Faint stripes of city light moved slowly across his face. He smiled—slow, private, satisfied—then closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
Morning arrived in gold and chrome, flooding the skyline.
Aya woke to a deep, throbbing pain in her side—her liver where Mitch's fist had landed like a sledgehammer. She sat up slowly, wincing, one hand pressed to the bruise.
Mitch and Emma sat nearby, drinking coffee from battered metal mugs.
"Coffee?" Emma asked.
"Good… morning…"
Mitch raised an eyebrow. "Have some manners, Emma. Good morning, Aya."
Emma laughed softly. "Right, good morning!"
Aya winced again. "Ah, fuck… that hurts like hell…"
"I'm sorry."
"No, I am. I attacked you first."
"That was what I was bout to say," Mitch said, and gave a dry chuckle. "My name is Mitchell Sunny, by the way. You can call me Mitch."
"I am Emma Jackson, call me Emma."
Aya managed a weak smile. "I would love a cup of coffee, if that's okay."
"Of course it is."
Emma handed her a steaming mug.
"So, how did you survive for this long without having any resources to survive?"
"It's complicated."
Mitch leaned back. "Not complicated enough for us to understand."
"I— Well I left my group's base cause we had a problem if that's what I'd call it."
"That's dumb, why would you leave if they probably had enough resources for all of you to survive?"
Emma shot him a look. "She said it was complicated, you don't know what happened."
Aya's head snapped up, eyes suddenly wide as memory slammed back into her.
"I left them because they refused to help save my friend. Please, help me! He needs to be saved!"
Emma's face softened instantly. "Of course, we're here to help anyone anytime. Where is he?"
"Somewhere in the surface, the ri—"
Mitch's mug froze halfway to his mouth. "Did you say the surface?"
"Yes…"
Mitch and Emma exchanged a long, tense, awkward glance.
Emma cleared her throat. "Do you know where…?"
"Rich elites took him away."
Mitch exhaled slowly. "I see… Uhh, me and Emma would like to have a talk alone."
They stepped to the far corner of the room, voices dropping low.
"What the hell do we do? Her friend is on the surface, I'm not risking my damn life to save someone I don't even know! And she said he was taken by rich elites, for all we know, they probably have already killed him!"
"I know… But she seems so sweet, I can't say no."
"You can't say no, but we have to say no! We will die for probably nothing cause he's probably already dead."
They walked back slowly, faces tight with guilt.
Emma spoke first. "Look, Aya… We really want to help but—"
"Save it. I already knew your answer."
Mitch rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, we're sorry but we can't risk our lives to save him. If he wasn't on the surface and somewhere around here, sure we'd save him without hesitation but come on… On the surface? That's a death wish."
"Please… That's my lover, I love him so much even though we know each other for 2 days. Please, I'll do anything."
Guilt washed over Mitch and Emma's faces as they looked at Aya's small, broken, pleading expression.
Miles away, in the old base, the crew woke to an unnatural silence.
Milo sat up fast. "Where the fuck is she?"
"Aya?!" Alfie Jr. called.
Diego scanned the shadows. "Where are you, hermana!?"
Benjamin stared at the empty space where Aya's sleeping bag had been. "Let it go, lads. She's already long gone, she ain't never comin' back."
Milo's voice cracked. "She can't survive without food and water!"
"I know, she probably took all our stuff."
Milo lunged, grabbing Benjamin by the collar. "I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you! You're always so calm no matter how harsh the situation is, that's why I hate you so much! Why are you so calm?! Why can't you have a little sense of urgency?!"
Benjamin's fist cracked across Milo's face, clean and hard. Milo staggered back.
"Listen, mate. I don't know what you were thinking but Aya was bound to leave after John was taken away. How stupid can you lot be?"
The ground shivered.
A low, ominous groan rolled through the concrete.
Hairline cracks began spiderwebbing across the ceiling.
Benjamin's eyes widened. "The fuck?"
Alfie Sr. went pale. "Ben… We forgot what day it is today…"
"Dear God, no…"
BOOM!
The far wall exploded inward in a blinding cloud of dust and flying debris.
Two rich elites—armored, eyes glowing behind tinted visors—stepped through the breach like avenging angels descending into hell.
Benjamin barked, "Hide!"
They scrambled behind the nearest support pillar, hearts hammering in their throats.
Today was the bloody Perfect Preparation Day.
And they had forgotten.