Page 39

We edge down the corridor, every sense on high. The mutants here are different—not ghouls, not human, but some engineered hybrid. They run on four limbs when it suits them, but the arms are strong enough to haul a body up a vertical shaft without slowing. Their eyes are lidless, wet and white and hungry. The teeth are too perfect, almost surgical in their symmetry.

I risk a glance at Kang. He’s bleeding from the temple again, but it doesn’t slow him. He advances in measured, silent steps, every so often stopping to check our six or scan the dark for movement. I realize, with a strange pang, that I trust him with my life more than I trust myself.

The echo of the alarm is softer down here, but the Spheres embedded in the ceiling still pulse, throwing off microbursts of EM that jitter the air and make my skin crawl. Sometimes, when the mutants howl, the Spheres flash in sync, like they’re signaling the pack. We duck through an archway, and the floor gives way to a metal catwalk suspended above an abyss of unknown depth. The air is colder here, and the mist soaks into my clothes within seconds. I shiver. Kang notices, but says nothing.

Halfway across the catwalk, a mutant appears at the far end, hunched and swaying. Its hands drag along the grating, claws screeching in rhythm with its gait. Behind it, two more emerge, jaws slack and drooling. Kang raises his weapon, but before he can fire, the lead mutant sprints. It moves so fast I barely see it—just a blur, a stink, a flash of teeth.

“Dee!” Kang shouts. I freeze, a jolt of shock making my chest tighten. The name feels strange on my ears, yet uncannily familiar, as if it echoed in my past life. In that fleeting moment of bewilderment and emotions I can’t quite name, I almost lose myself. But then Kang’s urgent voice cuts through the haze, commanding me to “move.” Reality crashes back, and my body reacts instinctively. I duck just in time as the mutant’s attack sails over the spot my head occupied a second before.

I push my thoughts aside, standing and swinging with determination. My fist meets the creature’s jaw, a satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone echoing in the air. The impact sends it spiraling off the catwalk, disappearing into the murky fog below. I glance at my hand, unsure if it’s injured or if this is simply my new reality.

There’s no time to wonder. The next two mutants are already on us, one grabbing for Kang’s throat, the other slashing at my face. Kang drops low, sweeping the legs, then pivots and puts a round into its brain stem. The second claws at my shoulder, tearing a strip from my jacket, but I twist free and ram an elbow into its solar plexus. It coughs, and black blood sprays over my face, burning like acid.

We dispatch them in seconds. The efficiency of it is almost comforting.

But more are coming. I see their shadows on the wall, their eyes glittering with reflected blue from the Spheres. “Back-to-back,” Kang says, voice steady.

I nod, falling into position behind him. The next wave comes faster: four, then six, then too many to count. They climb the walls, the ceiling, even the supports of the catwalk, raining down in a flailing mess of limbs and teeth.

Kang fires in controlled bursts, never wasting a shot. I rip a length of pipe from the railing and wield it like a quarterstaff, letting the muscle memory take over. I sweep one mutant off the edge, then bring the pipe down on the skull of another. It splits with a wet pop, spraying brains and blue gel across my boots.

The fight is a blur, a sequence of violence and near-misses. Kang and I move as one, covering each other’s blind spots without needing to speak. When I slip on the blood-slick grating, Kang’s hand finds my wrist, hauls me upright, then throws me the pipe when my own is knocked loose.

For a moment, I’m not afraid. I’m alive in a way I haven’t been since the Zone took my past. Every move is right. Every choice is survival. The mutants thin, then break, then scatter, retreating into the dark with shrieks of pain and rage. We stand alone, panting, surrounded by twitching bodies and the stink of death.

Kang drops to one knee, breathing hard. He wipes the blood from his brow, then looks at me, eyes wide and wild. “You remember how to fight clearly,” Kang says, though skepticism laces his voice.

I nod, words caught in my throat. His face tight with an unreadable emotion, he mutters under his breath, “Where the fuck did she learn to do that?”

“Let’s go,” he finally says.

We make our way to the far end of the catwalk, boots squelching in mutant gore. There’s a door, half-melted by some ancient fire, but still intact. Kang kicks it in, and we spill into a room bathed in blue-white light. The Spheres here are huge, suspended in a network of cables and glass that makes the place feel like the inside of a living brain.

Somewhere, the mutants howl again, but it sounds far away now.

We don’t speak for a long time. The Spheres overhead pulse, their blue glow painting the world in a sickly, holy light. The only other sound is the drip of water from somewhere high above, and our own breathing—raw, ragged, greedy.

I slump against the console, elbows on knees, head in hands. The adrenaline shakes are gone, replaced by a deep, gnawing exhaustion. Every part of me hurts, but it’s nothing compared to what’s happening inside my skull.

Kang paces, boots slick with mutant blood. He wipes his hands on his thighs, leaving smears of black and red that will probably never wash out. He looks at me, then away, then back again, eyes searching for a target he can actually shoot. He moves in a blur. One step, then I’m hauled upright, his hands clamped on my arms like steel traps.

“What are you hiding?” he spits, heat burning in his voice but laced with a raw desperation I’ve never seen.

I jerk back, but he won’t let go—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to pin me in place.

“Those fighting techniques,” he snarls, voice low, breath ghosting across my face. “No one should know that disarm. Nobody should be able to slip behind me like you did.”

I gape at him. I don’t know. My throat tightens, words choking on fear. He shakes me—violent, urgent—eyes wild with frustration. “Answer me! How do you move like that? Who taught you?”

Tears sting my vision. I can’t tell him. “I… I don’t know,” I whisper, voice trembling. “I can’t⁠—”

His fingers loosen just enough to remind me he’s choosing restraint—and that terrifies me more than brute force. He shoves me back, spine thudding against the cold console, then the wall. Circuits spark somewhere overhead, bathing us in that fever-blue light.

His palm snaps up, cupping my throat. Not squeezing—claiming. The tips of his fingers settle over my pulse like a stethoscope. With each tremor of my heart, he’ll know how close I am to breaking.

Breathe, Diana. Think.

But thought scatters the second I meet his eyes. They’re raw emerald, wide with something halfway between fury and hunger. The kind of hunger that can’t decide if it wants to devour or worship.