THOMAS COLE'S POV
The maintenance level was a hellscape of pressurized steam and screaming machinery. The Vulture's logic-spike had sent the cooling turbines into a terminal overspeed, and the sound was a physical wall, a high-pitched shriek that vibrated the fillings in my teeth.
I moved through the labyrinth of frost-covered pipes, my eyes adjusted to the strobe of the crimson emergency lights. The steam was thick, smelling of glycol and ozone. This wasn't a tactical environment anymore; it was a ghost hunt.
"Cole," the Vulture's voice drifted through the mist, directionless and mocking. "You're fighting for a man who would trade your life for a line of code. Adrian Blackwood doesn't love your brother. He loves the utility of your brother. Do you think he'll remember your name when the Board sends the next hunter?"
