The Iron Surgeon struggled.

  Not because he stood a chance—he didn’t—but because his body refused to accept the end. His mechanical limbs jerked violently, scraping against the furnace floor as systems fought to remain operational. Sparks spilled from ruptured seams along his spine, short bursts of light flashing like dying neurons. One leg buckled completely, forcing him down to a knee. His remaining arm clawed uselessly at the air, fingers opening and closing as if searching for something that was no longer there.

  But even now, even broken, he was nowhere near Kael, Riven, or Veyor.

  They stood several meters away, watching him falter.

  Kael leaned heavily on his spear, the weapon planted into the floor just to keep him upright. His breathing was ragged and uneven, every inhale sending a sharp jolt of pain through his chest where cracked ribs pressed inward. Blood ran freely down his side, soaking into the scorched concrete. One shoulder had dropped unnaturally low—dislocated, maybe worse—and his vision blurred at the edges, but his eyes never left the Surgeon.

  Riven stood beside him, or rather, endured beside him. His leg was badly damaged, armor crushed around the knee, bone threatening to give way with every shift of weight. He kept most of his weight against the furnace wall, sword raised with both hands not because it was tactical, but because it was the only way to keep his grip steady. Each breath rattled, wet and painful, blood staining his lips.

  Veyor stood between them.

  He looked better than the others. Less visibly damaged. Still moving.

  But his rifle hung useless in his hands.

  Empty.

  He had already checked. Twice.

  The Iron Surgeon dragged himself backward, metal scraping loudly against the floor, his movements slow and erratic. His eyes—if they could still be called that—flickered with unstable light, systems rebooting and failing in uneven cycles.

  They were about to finish him.

  And then—

  The speakers crackled.

  The sound cut through the furnace roar with unnatural clarity, sharp enough to make everyone flinch. It wasn’t a voice at first. Just static. A buildup.

  Then came the command.

  None of them understood the words.

  They didn’t need to.

  The intent was unmistakable.

  The air itself seemed to recoil.

  For a split second, everything went quiet—no metal clashing, no shouts, no movement.

  Then the screams began.

  Faint at first. Distant. High-pitched and broken.

  Lostbonds.

  Their cries echoed through the industrial corridors beyond the furnace room, overlapping, multiplying. Metal footsteps thundered against concrete. Bodies slammed into walls as something massive shifted direction.

  Running.

  Searching.

  Hunting.

  The furnace doors shuddered violently.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Each impact sent a tremor through the chamber, dust shaking loose from overhead beams. The reinforced metal groaned under the strain, bolts screaming as pressure mounted.

  Kael swallowed hard.

  Riven tightened his grip on his sword.

  Veyor scanned the room instinctively, calculating without hope—ammo, exits, angles. There were none that mattered.

  The number outside wasn’t just large.

  It was incomprehensible.

  They stood there together, battered and bleeding, knowing exactly how this would end.

  Hopeless.

  Under the Sewers

  Luken lay flat on his back, blood spreading beneath him in a dark, uneven pool.

  The pain had dulled into something distant and heavy, like pressure from deep underwater. His chest barely rose with each breath. The world felt slow, thick, as if time itself had begun to drag.

  Then the speakers crackled.

  The sound cut straight through the haze.

  Luken’s eyes snapped open.

  His body reacted before thought caught up—muscles firing on pure instinct as he shot upright with a sharp gasp. Pain exploded instantly, white-hot, but adrenaline surged to meet it, forcing his body to obey.

  “Who’s on the speakers?” he barked, his voice tearing through the tunnel. “Those speakers weren’t supposed to be active. Who’s controlling them?” Luken said

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  Voss turned toward him, startled.

  “That’s not possible,” Voss replied.

  Luken forced himself to his feet.

  “I’m going to the furnace room.”

  “You’re barely standing,” Mira said urgently. “We should leave.”

  “I’m not leaving my team behind.”

  The sound above them grew louder—hundreds of feet pounding in rhythm, the ground vibrating violently with their movement.

  “You both leave,” Luken said firmly. “Go to the checkpoint on that ridge. It’s safe there.”

  He took a step forward.

  His legs gave out.

  Voss caught him instantly, grunting as he absorbed the weight.

  “I’m not leaving you alone,” Voss said, straining.

  He let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You think I’m stupid? Without you, I’d die in an instant.”

  But behind the words was the truth neither of them said aloud.

  Voss wasn’t leaving.

  Because Luken hadn’t left him.

  Voss pulled Luken’s arm over his shoulder, supporting him as they staggered forward together.

  “I did it again,” Luken whispered, voice barely audible. “I guided them to death. Again. It’s all my fault.”

  “Why I am so weak!”

  “It’s not your fault, Lieutenant,” Voss said firmly. “You did your part.”

  “No,” Luken murmured. “You don’t understand.”

  Images flooded his mind—the farm, the screams, the aftermath.

  Now this.

  The guilt crushed down on him, heavier than the pain.

  The adrenaline finally broke.

  Luken’s body went limp.

  “Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Sir!” Voss shouted, panic tearing through his voice.

  Mira rushed forward—

  And Luken collapsed into darkness.

  “Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Sir!”

  Voss’s voice echoed uselessly through the narrow sewer passage as Luken’s body went slack in his arms. Panic clawed up his spine. He shook him once, then again—harder this time.

  Nothing.

  Mira was already moving.

  “Stop,” she hissed. “He’s out. We don’t have time for this.”

  Voss clenched his jaw, breathing hard, eyes darting instinctively toward the tunnel behind them. The sound of Lostbonds running had grown louder—closer. The vibrations overhead were no longer distant tremors; they were a rolling thunder that pressed down on the air itself.

  “What do we do now?” Voss asked, fear breaking through his voice.

  Mira didn’t hesitate.

  “First, we get him to a safe location,” she said. “He’s critical.”

  She slammed her hand against the wall beside the main sewer path. The concrete shimmered, softened, then peeled back like clay under pressure, revealing a narrow side passage barely wide enough for two people.

  “This way.”

  They moved fast.

  Voss adjusted his grip on Luken, hauling him forward with every ounce of strength he had left. Luken’s head lolled against his shoulder, blood smearing across his armor with every step. Mira moved ahead of them, reshaping the tunnel in short, controlled bursts—opening, sealing, redirecting.

  They slipped into the narrow passage just as the sound behind them exploded.

  Lostbonds poured into the main tunnel.

  Metal scraped against concrete. Bodies slammed into walls. The screams—raw, distorted—echoed through the sewers, overlapping into something unbearable.

  Mira sealed the passage behind them.

  Not completely.

  Just enough.

  They crept forward, holding their breath, hearts pounding so loudly it felt impossible that they hadn’t been heard already. The heat of Luken’s body pressed against Voss, slick with blood, heavy in a way that reminded him just how close they were to losing him.

  For a moment—

  It worked.

  They reached the exit.

  Fresh air rushed in, sharp and cold, carrying the scent of rust and smoke. The outside world lay just beyond—a sliver of escape.

  Finally away from the range of lostbonds ,making their way up to the checkpoint. Slowly.

  At the furnace room

  Veyor was a single step away from ending it.

  The Iron Surgeon staggered backward, sparks spilling from torn joints, one arm hanging useless at his side. Kael and Riven closed in from opposite flanks, blades ready, breathing ragged, bodies barely holding together. The furnace roared behind them, heat rolling through the chamber in suffocating waves.

  It was over.

  Veyor took a knife, steady despite the blood on his hands, ready to finish this madness.

  Then a voice spoke from behind him.

  “Drop your weapons,” it said calmly.

  A click followed—the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

  “Or she dies.”

  The words cut through the room like a blade.

  Veyor froze. Kael halted mid-step.

  Riven’s grip tightened on his sword, knuckles whitening.

  Slowly, Veyor turned his head.

  Behind them, near the shattered entrance of the furnace chamber, stood the director.

  One arm was locked around Aera’s neck, dragging her upright despite her injuries. The other hand pressed a pistol firmly against the side of her head. Blood ran down her temple from a shallow cut, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

  On the floor nearby, Milo lay sprawled against broken metal, unable to move his legs. He forced himself to lift his head just enough to see.

  “You dirty old man,” Milo spat, his voice shaking with pain. “Why did you betray us?”

  The director didn’t even look at him.

  “Shut up, you retard,” he said flatly, without anger, without emotion—as if swatting away an insect.

  His eyes stayed fixed on Veyor.

  “If anyone moves,” the director continued, tightening his grip on Aera, “I blow her head off. Slowly.”

  Aera tried to speak, but the pressure on her throat stole the words. Her hands trembled at her sides.

  Kael took a half step forward. The gun pressed harder.

  “Don’t,” the director said quietly.

  Kael stopped.

  “You didn’t survive anything,” Aera forced out, her voice hoarse. “You led the other group to death, didn’t you? Playing the helpless leader… pretending you didn’t know.”

  Her eyes burned with rage and disbelief.

  The director finally smiled.

  Not wide.

  Not cruel.

  Just satisfied.

  “I succeeded, didn’t I?” he said.

  The words settled over the room like poison.

  The Iron Surgeon tried to crawl backward, dragging broken limbs across the floor, but no one paid attention to him anymore.

  Veyor slowly lowered his weapon to the ground.

  Kael followed. Riven hesitated—then did the same.

  The silence stretched. The furnace thundered.

  Steam hissed from ruptured pipes.

  Then the speakers came alive.

  Not with a command.

  With a sound.

  A sharp, piercing metallic frequency tore through the chamber—high, unnatural, vibrating straight into bone.

  All the Lostbonds outside the chamber fell silent. The pounding on the door stopped. Only a thin, high-pitched tone remained, hanging in the empty air.

  Veyor felt it first in his teeth.

  Then in his skull.

  The sound intensified, echoing off steel walls, burrowing into their heads.

  Riven staggered.

  Kael dropped to one knee.

  Soldiers across the chamber cried out, clutching their ears.

  One by one, they collapsed.

  Riven fell first, face striking the floor.

  Kael tried to stand—failed—and hit the ground hard.

  Aera’s body went limp in the director’s grip, her eyes rolling back.

  Milo lost consciousness mid-breath.

  The Iron Surgeon twitched once… then went still.

  Veyor remained.

  Barely.

  He dropped to one knee, both hands pressed against the ground, vision blurring, the sound drilling through his mind. Blood trickled from his nose, his body shaking as he fought to stay conscious.

  The frequency faded.

  The silence that followed was heavier than the noise.

  Bodies lay scattered across the chamber.

  Only two remained standing.

  The director released Aera, letting her fall lifeless to the floor.

  Then he walked slowly toward Veyor.

  Boots echoed against metal.

  “You’re impressive,” the director said casually. “Farther than anyone else has made it.”

  Veyor lifted his head with effort.

  “Why… are you doing this?” he asked.

  His voice barely carried.

  The director stopped in front of him.

  “Well,” he said, “since you made it this far… you deserve some answers.”

  He crouched slightly to meet Veyor’s eyes.

  “But I’m on a tight schedule.”

  He stood.

  Raised the pistol.

  Then, without hesitation, he swung the back of the gun into Veyor’s skull with brutal speed.

  The impact was sharp, final.

  Veyor’s vision exploded into white.

  His body collapsed forward.

  Darkness took him.

  And the furnace kept burning.