Kiera's breath was steady, but her pulse pounded in her ears. The ruins stretched around them, silent and heavy with history, but all she could feel was the weight of their stares. These people—these survivors—looked at her like she was something dangerous. And maybe they weren't wrong.
Marek squared her shoulders, meeting the old man's gaze without flinching. "She's not controlled. She's here of her own will."
The man let out a dry chuckle, the sound scraping through the misty air. "And you think that matters?" His good eye gleamed, sharp and knowing. "They're inside her, whether she knows it or not."
Kiera's fingers curled into fists. "I'm not one of them." The words tasted bitter in her mouth. She had spent her whole life inside the Architects' world, obeying their rules, living by their design. But she had broken free. Hadn't she?
The woman who had stepped back earlier—the one who had recoiled from Kiera like she carried the plague—spoke up, her voice tight with unease. "We've seen it before. The ones who escape. They think they're free. But then, one day, they hear the call."
Kiera frowned. "The call?"
The old man took a slow step forward. "A trigger. A word, a sound, maybe just a thought planted so deep you don't even know it's there. And when the Architects want you back, you'll turn around and walk straight into their arms. No hesitation."
A chill crawled up Kiera's spine.
That wasn't possible. She had fought for this. She had risked everything. She had chosen to run.
Hadn't she?
She shook her head, her voice firm. "I won't go back."
The old man just studied her, like he had heard those words before. "Maybe." He tilted his head. "Or maybe you just don't know what's inside you yet."
Marek stepped in then, her tone edged with steel. "We didn't come here to be tested. We need a place to rest. That's all."
The man exhaled slowly, his shoulders barely shifting. Then he glanced at his people—silent figures in the mist, eyes shadowed, uncertain. Finally, he gave a small nod. "One night. No more."
The tension in the air didn't ease, but at least it didn't sharpen further. The survivors moved back, disappearing into the ruined station like ghosts fading into the dark.
Marek turned to Kiera and Rhys. "Stay close."
Kiera followed, but the old man's words clung to her.
What if they're right?
As they stepped into the station's depths, the air turned colder, the scent of damp concrete thick. Fires flickered in makeshift barrels, casting jagged shadows against cracked walls. The survivors had built their lives here, in the hollowed-out skeleton of a forgotten world.
A little girl peered at Kiera from behind a rusted column, wide-eyed and curious. Her face was smeared with dirt, her clothes patched together from scraps. She whispered something to a boy beside her, and he shook his head, pulling her away.
Kiera exhaled, forcing herself to focus.
They were led to a space near the back of the station—a small corner sectioned off with scavenged materials. Old seats, torn and frayed, formed a rough perimeter. Marek sat first, her back against the wall, her expression unreadable.
Rhys ran a hand through his hair, finally breaking his silence. "They really think you're wired."
Kiera looked at him sharply. "You don't?"
Rhys hesitated. Just for a second.
And that second cut deeper than any answer.
Kiera's stomach tightened. "You've been quiet since we got here."
Rhys didn't meet her gaze. "I've seen what the Architects can do. What they put inside people without them knowing." His jaw tensed. "I've seen friends turn. And when they do, it's fast. Like flipping a switch."
Kiera forced down the icy fear rising in her chest. "I chose to run."
Rhys finally looked at her then, his green eyes unreadable. "I hope that's enough."
She wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that of course it was enough. But the words caught in her throat.
Because what if it wasn't?
What if she really was still theirs?
The thought coiled inside her, cold and suffocating.
She pressed her palms against her temples, breathing deep, steadying herself. The world wasn't spinning. She was here. In control.
She was.
A sudden noise cut through the quiet—a distant metallic clank, sharp and deliberate. Kiera's head snapped up.
Marek was already moving. "Stay low."
Rhys grabbed Kiera's wrist, pulling her behind an overturned bench. The station had gone silent. The survivors were already in the shadows, vanishing into the ruins, their movements quick and practiced.
Another sound. Closer.
Kiera's pulse slammed against her ribs.
Then—
A voice. Mechanical. Cold.
"Designate: Kiera. You are ordered to return."
The words echoed through the station, slicing through the dark like a blade.
Kiera's breath caught.
And inside her mind, something clicked.
A memory she didn't remember having. A command she didn't recall hearing. A pressure, deep and insidious, pressing against the edges of her thoughts.
Rhys' grip tightened. "Kiera—"
She barely heard him.
Because the voice in the dark wasn't just calling to her.
It was expecting her to obey.