The voice echoed through the ruins, mechanical and absolute.
"Designate: Kiera. You are ordered to return."
Her pulse thundered in her ears. The words weren't just sound—they were inside her, threading through her mind like a whisper she couldn't shut out. Something in her chest tightened, a pressure she didn't understand.
Kiera clenched her teeth, forcing herself to move, to think. I ran. I fought. They don't own me.
Rhys' grip on her wrist was firm, grounding. "Don't listen to it," he said, low and urgent.
As if it were that simple.
Marek was already in motion, pulling a sleek weapon from inside her coat—a compact firearm, worn but functional. Her eyes flicked toward the station's shattered entrance, where the mist swirled in thick tendrils. The others had already disappeared into the shadows, practiced in their survival.
But Kiera was still standing there. Still frozen, unable to grab hold of her pistol.
"Return."
The voice wasn't shouting. It didn't need to.
It was calm. Unyielding. Expecting.
Kiera's breath caught as a sensation rippled through her—like ice seeping into her veins. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A pull. A suggestion. Not a command, exactly, but… a feeling.
A feeling that told her to walk forward.
Her foot twitched.
No.
Panic flared in her chest. She dug her nails into her palms, forcing her muscles to lock, to resist.
Marek's gaze snapped to her. "Kiera?"
She couldn't speak.
Because for the briefest moment, she had wanted to obey.
Then—movement.
From the mist, figures emerged. Silent. Fast. Their silhouettes sleek and sharp, bodies clad in the Architects' signature reinforced armor—lightweight but impenetrable, designed for control, for precision.
Specialists.
Kiera's stomach clenched. She had only ever seen them from a distance—specters in the city, agents of the system. And now, they were here.
A squad of them, their faces obscured by reflective visors, advancing with smooth, inhuman efficiency.
The lead Specialist took a step forward, their helmet catching the dim glow of the fires. Their voice, processed and synthetic, cut through the thick air.
"Designate: Kiera. You are compromised. Do not resist."
Something in her chest tightened again. Her breath stuttered.
She could feel it. A sliver of something just beneath her consciousness, waiting.
Rhys' grip tightened on her wrist. "We need to move."
Kiera swallowed hard. "I—"
Then the Specialists lunged.
Marek fired first. A sharp burst of energy cracked through the air, striking one of them in the shoulder. The force barely slowed them. They moved like ghosts, gliding through the space, weapons flashing in the dim light.
Rhys yanked Kiera backward just as a Specialist reached for her. She twisted, her body reacting before her mind, slamming an elbow into the figure's side. The armor absorbed most of the impact, but it was enough to knock them off balance.
They weren't here to kill her.
They were here to retrieve her.
That realization sent a fresh wave of panic through her.
Marek was a blur of motion, using the terrain to her advantage—darting between broken pillars, firing in controlled bursts. Rhys was right beside Kiera, his breathing sharp, his grip firm as he pulled her toward the exit.
Kiera's vision blurred at the edges.
The pressure in her head was growing. A whisper, curling around her thoughts.
Surrender.
Her steps faltered.
Rhys shoved her forward. "Kiera, run!"
She gritted her teeth and forced herself to move. Her boots slammed against the cracked floor as she sprinted toward the ruined transit tunnel ahead. She could hear them behind her—Marek's sharp commands, the Specialists' mechanical responses.
They weren't running.
They were tracking.
She and Rhys slid into the tunnel, feet skidding on loose gravel. The air was thick, damp, the remnants of an old underground system stretching before them.
Marek was right behind them. "Keep moving!"
A sudden impact sent Kiera sprawling.
Pain jolted through her palms as she caught herself against the ground. Rhys spun, eyes wide. "Kiera!"
Before she could get up, cold fingers wrapped around her wrist.
A Specialist.
Kiera gasped, twisting, but their grip was like iron. Their visor gleamed in the darkness.
And then—
Something shifted inside her.
A sensation, deep and instinctual. Something she didn't know but somehow understood.
The world slowed.
Her body moved before thought.
She pivoted sharply, twisting in a way that should have been impossible. The grip on her wrist faltered for half a second—just long enough for her to snap her arm free and drive her palm upward into the Specialist's helmet.
The force of it sent them staggering.
She was on her feet before she even realized she had moved.
Rhys stared at her. "What the hell—"
Marek grabbed her shoulder. "We don't have time. Go."
Kiera's breathing was ragged, her heart slamming against her ribs.
She had never fought like that before.
Never moved like that before.
Something was wrong.
The three of them sprinted deeper into the tunnel, the sounds of pursuit still close behind. The station above had been a death trap—this tunnel was their only way out.
As they ran, Kiera's mind raced.
The pressure in her skull. The whispers in her thoughts.
The way she had reacted back there.
It wasn't normal.
It was them.
The Architects had done something to her.
And now, she wasn't just running from them.
She was running from herself.