The square filled with noise and panic. Men in gray coats moved like a hunting pack. Nets rose on poles. Lanterns swung. People shoved and screamed. The scene changed from a slow crowd to dangerous chaos in heartbeats.
Arin felt Lysa's hands tighten. The cord sewn behind his fur tugged, and he knew it meant run. He wanted to obey, but his small body pressed into the crate as if roots held him. The papers on the stage had shown faces and facts. Those pages had opened a wound the city did not want visible.
Haroun shouted orders. Clockwork members pulled ropes, set down smoke pots, and guided people toward side streets. Their plan was quick and sharp, built for breaking away fast. But the institute moved faster. Soldiers pushed forward in neat ranks, shields held like a wall.
A man in a tall coat stood on a balcony overlooking the square. He wore no armor, but his presence made the traders hush. He raised a hand and smiled with a cold calm. The voice that came from a mounted speaker echoed and cut the air. "Begin the harvest," the Curator said.
The words landed like a command that had power. The soldiers obeyed. A heavy machine rolled into the square, its surface bright and smooth, and it opened like a mouth. Nets, cages, and small gleaming traps slid outward on rails. People shoved away. The machine's lights reflected in the hopes and fears of the crowd.
Arin watched. His heart beat like a small drum. He felt the Predator's Mind sharp, as always, but fear made thoughts jagged. He had seen traps and hunters before. He had never seen such clean, cold control.
Haroun moved closer to the stage. "Get him out," he said, nodding at Arin. His voice was rough with strain. "Take him now."
Lysa did not hesitate. She snatched Arin and lifted him. Her fingers closed around the cord hidden in his fur. She pulled the small coil that would hoist him up behind a banner and away from the crowd. For a second, she looked relieved. Then the machine turned and the instruments on it swung like bright mouths.
From the balcony, a man in a white coat pointed at the stage. Soldiers aimed devices that flashed blue. Small bots lowered in quiet hums and hovered above the stage. One shot a thin net that fell like a sleeping blanket over the stage area. Another released a line of smoke grenades that spread a choking cloud.
People coughed and stumbled. Haroun's people began their drill to clear the square. They shouted, "Now! Move! Out!" Children were dragged gently, traders pushed their carts, and a circle of bodies formed to lead the crowd out.
Arin felt Lysa pull him hard. The cord burned at her fingers. A small pulley creaked and lifted him up along a rope toward the folds of a cloth banner. He hoped it would hide him, but the banner wavered and showed him to one man who watched from below.
A soldier pointed. He barked a command. More machines blinked and directed bright threads toward the banner. A thin beam of light stabbed up and pinned the fabric like a needle. The rope that held Arin shuddered.
"Hold steady!" Kael yelled from the edge of the square. He and others pushed a cart between the soldiers and Haroun. Sparks flew as metal met metal. The clockwork people shoved and shoved, trying to make space to pull Lysa back.
Then something odd happened. The machine on the square let out a low sound, a note that made the cobbles hum underfoot. The effect traveled quick. Pets in the crowd froze. Men wavered. A few hands dropped. The noise matched lines Arin had seen in the old map—the leylines. The machine had found a rhythm that pulled at the city's currents.
Arin felt it in his chest. Predator's Mind showed a map of small vibrations: where the machine touched a current under the ground and where the currents branched. The device had a name painted small on its side. PROMETHEUS UNIT.
His small paws tightened. He knew the word from papers and from his own half-remembered life. It was not only a label. It was a tool made to probe and use the city's veins.
The Curator smiled again and tapped something on his watch. A larger cage fell from a rail with a hard thunk. Nets rose and snapped shut over people running. The square became a web of steel and light. The harvest had begun.
Haroun broke toward the center. He grabbed Lysa's arm and tried to pull her away. A soldier swung a net across his path and entangled his legs. The man fell, hitting the ground hard. Someone hauled him up, but his face had changed, sharp with effort.
"No!" Lysa cried, clutching Arin close. Her voice rang like glass breaking. She shoved men aside with her shoulder and reached out toward Haroun.
From the balcony, the Curator's voice came again. "Do not let them scatter evidence," he said calmly. "Seal the marked ones. Take them to the lab. Mark all rebels as feral."
Arin's mind raced. He had seen the lab pictures. He had read the file with his name. He felt the old fear and the old iron will reborn. The machines moved with purpose. Soldiers with clamps and nets moved with speed and without mercy.
Kael shouted to the Clockwork people, "Cover the backs! Smoke left, smoke right! Get the crowd out that way!" Hands pulled ropes, flares burst, and a thick curtain of black smoke rose. The soldiers coughed and slowed. People slipped through a side alley while the smoke hid them. Haroun's men moved like trained hands, solid and quick.
But the Curator had planned for the smoke. He had men who moved through it with breathing machines. They stepped over flailing merchants and reached for the projected crates that held the papers. A man with a long arm reached in to snag the file with Arin's photo. He nearly had it, then a small shadow slipped under his arm and bit his hand.
Arin's teeth closed on leather. He had been pulled too near to the edge of the banner and could see the man's face. The hand smelled of oil and smoke. He bit and hurt it enough to make the man curse. The sudden action made the man swing the file away. Another soldier lunged and kicked the crate that Arin had stood on.
The crate toppled, and the small bundle that held the archive film slid and spun. A light caught on the film, and for a flash everyone in the square saw the projected images: cages, straps, the file with the word PROMETHEUS. People who did not run saw it and stared. The flood of truth hit a small group like a cold rain.
A woman in the crowd—an older trader—stopped. She held a child's hand and looked straight at the film. Her face had lines from a life that was tough. She did not move. She looked and then her jaw set. Around her, people shuffled, unsure.
The Curator's hand shook a little on the railing. He had expected the machines to take everything cleanly. He had not expected any film to catch light.
Down below, Haroun saw the pause. He saw the trader look and the child's eyes wide. He made a decision like a blade. He barked, "Now! Get the crate! Protect the image!" and dove toward the projector.
A soldier lunged and caught Haroun by the arm. Haroun twisted and released his strap, but not before the soldier's net fell heavy across him. He stumbled. The net tightened. A clamp locked around his arm and a small device affixed to his wrist. It glowed faintly blue.
Arin watched in a small, bright panic. The man with the device wore the institute badge. The clamp hummed with a cruel sound. Haroun spat and screamed and then the sound cut off as the device pressed cold against his skin. The man with the badge smiled like a man who arranged meals. He pressed a button on a remote.
Haroun's face changed. His eyes clouded for a breath. He made a small sound like a man catching a stray thought. Then he shook, and for a second his hand dropped. He let go of the crate.
Kael lunged and grabbed Haroun's free shoulder. He cried out and then steadied. "Don't—" he shouted, but the soldier was already moving to secure the file.
The crowd saw the harsh clip on Haroun and then saw him flinch like a puppet. Murmurs turned to a cry. People started running again, this time not away but toward exits, some toward the river, some toward back alleys. The moment had become a breaking wave.
Lysa crouched, pressing Arin close. Her eyes were wide with fear and fury. "No," she whispered, under her breath. "Not him. Not Haroun." She looked up toward the balcony. The Curator's face was a pale moon. He nodded slightly at a man and then looked down at the square like a farmer checks his land.
Arin's mind worked like ice and fire. Predator's Mind traced the device on Haroun's arm. Tiny wires, a seam, a faint symbol that matched a print he'd seen in the archive. The clamp would control intention. It would stop people from acting. It could make a leader freeze or obey. The Curator had expected to take leaders in the net so they could stop resistance before it started.
All around, nets fell and cages closed. Soldiers moved. Dogs that were trained for capture ran and bit at clothing. The machine folded in on itself and took into its belly those who were caught. People screamed and then went silent.
Arin felt something new rise in him. It was heat and thought combined—the knowledge that power could be taken from hands and used on heads. The rule he had learned shifted: when force tries to take truth, you must become cleverer than the force. Tricks alone would not work; plans must be smarter than clamps and nets.
He squeezed his teeth harder on the leather he had bitten. He made a sound, a small, furious squeal. Lysa tightened her grip and then did something he did not expect. She leaned forward and struck a soldier in the face with the heel of her hand. The soldier staggered. A shout broke out.
Kael took the moment. He shoved forward, grabbed the projector wheel, and threw the film into the air like a bird. The film unfurled and flew into the smoke. For a second it caught light and flashed images that the crowd saw. The child the trader held looked and then began to cry. The crowd changed its motion; some people moved to block the soldiers now, not to run.
A man in a gray coat looked up at the balcony and then at the crowd. He barked a new command, "Mark them feral! Remove their collars! Take no prisoners!" The soldiers hesitated, then obeyed.
High above, a small device on the balcony clicked. The Curator smiled and spoke into the camera, visible on a distant screen. "Begin the harvest," he said again, and the machines obeyed like careful servants.
Arin's mind flashed images. Cages, clamps, nets, the Prometheus Unit, and Haroun's hand letting go. The square shuddered with the sound of orders. He realized they needed a way out that the Curator had not foreseen—something that would break the clamp's hold or hide the leaders from the machine.
He looked up at the balcony. The Curator raised his hand. Behind him a tall glass door slid open and a shadow stepped out. For a moment Arin could not see the shadow clearly. Then the man stepped forward, and light hit his face.
Arin's breath caught. The face was not new; it was older than the city. It had the tired, careful eyes Arin half-remembered. The man smiled like someone pleased by a clean result. He held a small box in his hand. A thin wire connected to a device that hummed with the same sound Arin had felt under his paws in the archive.
"Now," the man said softly. "Activate it."
A soldier pressed a button on the box. The wire glowed. A thin beam of light traced from the device down to the ground and into the Prometheus Unit. The machine answered with a low, singing frequency. The clamp on Haroun's arm pulsed blue. Haroun flinched and then let out a sound not his own.
Arin felt the world tilt.
He had one thought then—short and sharp and full of hungry fire.
He must stop that wire.
He began to move.