The air inside was colder than outside.
Not by temperature, but by intent — the kind of cold that seeps into the marrow and whispers that you don't belong.
The hall stretched endlessly forward, a cathedral of steel and shadow. Monoliths of data and old war-banners hung from the walls. Every footstep echoed like a hammerfall. Security turrets turned toward him, charged, then hesitated — unsure. Some systems still recognized him.
Others feared him.
Berou's eyes scanned the space.
Empty.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
The Abyss never left halls unguarded unless they wanted someone to go forward. That meant they were watching. Measuring him. Setting the board.
He didn't care.
Let them count his steps like a countdown.
He reached the atrium — a massive, circular chamber with black glass floors and thirteen suspended platforms above. This was once the training crucible, where agents were tested until they broke or bloomed.
Now, it was empty. Silent.
Until it wasn't.
A door hissed open across the chamber.
And from it stepped a figure in gray armor, worn and battle-scarred. One wing — bloodstained. A cloak torn down the middle. And in her hand, a crescent-shaped blade still humming with life.
Berou stopped.
His eyes narrowed.
Lira.
She was one of the only ones who ever looked at him like he wasn't just a freak or a weapon. They bled together in operations across the wastes. Once, long ago, she warned him when the Abyss marked him for "testing."
She had survived too long.
And she was aimed at him.
She didn't smile.
"Didn't think you'd make it this far," she said.
"I didn't come to impress you."
"You didn't come to live, either."
"No," he said. "I came to be seen."
Lira lowered her hood. Her face was pale — not out of fear, but from sleeplessness. Haunted eyes. Scar across her cheek. Her mouth tensed like she was chewing on guilt.
"They're watching," she said. "Every second of this. Hoping I kill you fast."
"You're not going to."
She flinched. Not from his voice. From the certainty.
Then she walked slowly toward him, blade down but tense.
"You remember when we were fifteen?" she asked suddenly. "You tore your wings trying to fly higher than the command tower. I brought you back to the barracks."
"You weren't supposed to."
"They said I was weak for it."
"You were."
Lira smirked — a sad, crooked thing.
"But I was right."
Then the air shifted.
A signal from above.
Lira's blade rose.
And so did Berou's hand — armor already crawling up his forearm like instinct.
"I have to fight you," she said, voice flat. "If I don't, they'll terminate me. And you."
"They'll terminate you either way."
"…Yeah."
She struck.
Berou dodged, fast. Her blade carved a black trail in the floor behind him. He twisted, stepped into her guard, shoved her back.
She landed clean, rolled, and came again.
Their weapons clashed in a shockwave of power — his bare hand against her blade, her boots skidding across the floor from the force of his parry. The Apostate armor snapped into place across his shoulders, unbidden.
"I don't want this," Lira muttered between strikes.
"You think I do?"
"I know you do," she snapped.
Berou stopped.
Their weapons locked — face to face, breath heavy, hatred and history knotted between them.
"I want them," he whispered. "Not you."
"…Then prove it."
Berou let go of her blade.
Let her swing.
But before it struck — his two wings flashed out, brighter than before.
And for one fractured second — just one — the missing wings appeared. Transparent. Ethereal. Like memories fighting to return.
Lira hesitated.
Too long.
Berou stepped into her guard, drove the hilt of his sword into her gut, and caught her before she hit the floor.
She gasped. Not from pain — from what she saw in his eyes.
"You're not him anymore," she whispered.
"I was never allowed to be."
Berou laid her down gently. Walked away.
Alarms didn't trigger. The watchers above didn't stop him.
They were learning now.
He was not a rogue soldier.
He was not a rebellion.
He was a reckoning.
And with every step through the Abyss, that truth grew louder.