The stench of ferrous blood and stale adrenaline clung to the air in Sector 7, thick as the grime coating the ancient conduit pipes that crisscrossed the ceiling. Trillia picked her way through a tangle of discarded nutrient vats, her boots crunching on something chitinous and dry. This was the true underbelly of Vorag, not the sanitized glass of the Velvet Colosseum. Here, life was brutish, unvarnished, and delightfully precarious. She spotted him then, a small, hunched shadow illuminated by the faint, sickly green glow from a distant emergency panel. Yul, oblivious and utterly absorbed, was meticulously sifting through a pile of corroded servo-mechanisms. He held a small, specialized magnet, humming a tuneless dirge as he extracted tiny, gleaming fragments. The boy was a scavenger, a burrower, just like his sister. Pathetic. Trillia let the silence stretch, savoring the moment. The drone cameras, barely visible as pinpricks of light in the gloom, were already circling. This was her stage, and Yul, her unwitting prop. She cleared her throat, a soft, manufactured sound designed to carry just enough vulnerability. “Yul? What are you doing down here? It’s far too dangerous!” Yul flinched, dropping his magnet with a clatter that echoed through the vast, hollow space. He spun around, the pupils of his bulbous spectacles reflecting the distant green light. “Trillia? I… I just needed some specific alloys. For my project.” He clutched his sketchbook to his chest, a flimsy shield. Trillia forced a sympathetic sigh, stepping closer, her voice laced with concern. “Oh, Yul. You shouldn’t be alone. Zirka would be furious. Come, I’ll help you. I know where they keep the decommissioned parts, much safer than rummaging through… *this*.” She gestured vaguely at the filth. She pointed to a reinforced containment unit, its heavy durasteel bars glinting faintly. “They often dispose of the best materials in there. Less public eyes.” Yul’s gaze tracked her sleeve toward the grating. “Really? That’d be amazing! Thank you, Trillia!” He trotted ahead, too eager, too trusting. He slipped through the access hatch, a relic of a forgotten era, into the spacious, bare enclosure. Trillia waited until he had cleared the threshold, his shoulders hunched as he peered into the murky corners. He was so easy. With a practiced shove, Trillia slammed the heavy hatch shut. The clang reverberated, a sound of finality. Yul whirled around as the hydraulic latch engaged with a dead thud. He clawed at the cold metal. “Trillia! What are you doing? Let me out!” “Oh, Yul,” Trillia whispered flatly through the slot. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Her gaze flicked to the rear shadows. A low growl rumbled from the shadows. The drone cameras, sensing the shift in tone, zoomed in, their tiny lenses gleaming. Perfect. From the deepest recess of the enclosure, a creature uncoiled. It was a Venom-Hound, its skeletal frame cloaked in patchy, iridescent scales, its jowls perpetually drooling glistening ichor. The beast was emaciated, corrugated ribs jutting beneath bruised leather hide, jaw hinges clicking dryly. It padded forward, silent as smoke, its multi-jointed legs making no sound on the grimy floor. Its fangs, long and needle-sharp, were already glistening with fresh venom. It had been without prey for days. Trillia had ensured it. Yul whimpered, scrambling backward until his spine hit the opposite wall. The hound tracked him, a predator savoring its meal. Trillia leaned closer to the lapel pin broadcasting straight to the broadcast feeds. She hitched her vocal cords into an unsteady, shrill quiver. “Oh, no… no, this is terrible! An accident! A tragic, unavoidable accident!” She pressed her knuckles to her eyes, forcing tears to prick, her shoulders shaking with carefully rehearsed sobs. “I told him not to wander! I tried to help! Oh, Zirka, I’m so, so sorry!” She’d play the grieving co-worker, the helpless witness. The public would eat it up. Yul would be a martyr, and Zirka, a pariah, her brother dead under her supposed ally’s watch. The Venom-Hound lunged, a blur of skeletal fury. Yul screamed, a high, desperate sound that was abruptly cut short by a tremendous, thudding impact from above. A shadow, impossibly fast, dropped from the cavern ceiling. Calloused boots cleaved downward, shearing straight through the rusted ceiling grille. Zirka. She landed between Yul and the hound with the force of a falling anvil, a snarl ripping from her throat that was more beast than woman. The tracking device she’d hidden on Yul had pulsed its warning. She hadn’t treated it like a piece of tech; she’d treated it like a tactical beacon. The Venom-Hound, surprised but still driven by hunger, snapped its venomous maw at her. Zirka didn’t flinch. She met its attack head-on, not with a weapon, but with her own body. She moved with brutal grace, seizing the hound by its scaly hide, hoisting its snarling, struggling weight over her head with impossible strength. A grunt escaped her lips, raw and guttural. Then, pivoting on her plant foot, she hauled its torso back-first into the deck plating. The hound hit the durasteel floor of the cage with a sickening crack, its head snapping back. It lay there, stunned, whimpering, a broken thing. Zirka planted both boots on its thrashing neck, spit dripping from her bared teeth. The drone cameras, which had pivoted to capture Trillia’s ‘grief,’ now swarmed Zirka, their lenses hungry for the raw, unscripted violence. Her meticulously crafted narrative had imploded, shattered by Zirka’s sheer, unadulterated savagery. Trillia’s fake tears dried instantly, replaced by a cold, calculating fury. Acid pooled under Trillia's tongue. No, she wouldn’t let this feral creature win again. Not tonight. Her eyes darted to a massive, industrial breaker switch on the cavern wall, a relic for the entire sector’s power grid. She lunged for the iron arm. She didn't hesitate. With a violent, grinding heave, she yanked the heavy lever down. The entire sector plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness, and a dozen unseen cages, their power locks now defunct, clicked open in the pitch-black silence.

Baiting the Hound