A guttural sound tore from Tullia’s throat, a strangled, primal refusal. Bastien slammed a fist onto the control panel, metal rattling under the blow as Ignatia laughed over the speaker. “She wouldn’t dare.” “Oh, but I would,” Ignatia’s voice purred through the comms. “And I have. Consider it a contingency. A little insurance policy against your sudden bravery, Bastien. You have two options: let the factories detonate and condemn your little maid’s family, or surrender and allow my father to take control without further… complications.” Bastien turned toward Tullia, the gray in his iris dull behind wire-rimmed glass. She caught his look, fingers tightening against the pleats of her apron. They were going to the lower city. There was no other choice. “Ondine, get the launch codes ready,” Bastien commanded, his voice tight. “Darius, override the quarantine zone’s perimeter locks. We’re going in.” “Are you mad?” Ondine’s voice crackled, laced with the sharp edge of a seasoned veteran. “That zone is a deathtrap, sealed tighter than a sarcophagus. And even if you got in, Pell’s private security will be waiting.” “Then we’ll go through them,” Tullia interjected, her voice surprisingly steady, though her hands trembled. “My… my family is there. We have to.” Bastien gave a curt nod. He grabbed a heavy-duty comm-link from the console, strapping it to his wrist. “Darius, any updates on the board’s movements?” “They’re accelerating the overload sequence,” Darius’s voice came through, strained. “Aiming to pin it on you. You have less time than you think.” “Then we move faster.” The descent from the pristine heights of the Morvath glass spire was jarring. The private transport elevator, typically noiseless and swift, juddered as it dropped through layers of Veltrac’s smog. The crystal-clear views of the upper city’s gleaming architecture gave way to a hazy, ochre-tinted murk. The air grew thick, acrid, tasting of burnt chemicals and damp earth. Tullia felt the familiar burn in her lungs, a chronic ache she’d learned to ignore in her youth. Bastien stood at her shoulder, his teeth clenched, watching the grimy foundations rush upward. His pristine suit, designed for high-society engagements, seemed impossibly out of place in the encroaching smog. The elevator doors hissed open into a forgotten service tunnel, a narrow, grime-coated passage leading into the labyrinthine sprawl of the lower city. The air here was a tangible presence, heavy and foul. Weak, flickering luminescent strips barely cut through the perpetual twilight. They moved fast, Bastien leading the way, his movements surprisingly agile for a man who spent his life behind a desk. Tullia followed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her thoughts fixed on Eira, coughing thin blood into linen in the quarantine ward. They emerged into a wide, derelict avenue, choked with abandoned, rusting conveyances. The sky was an unbroken canopy of grey-brown smog, obscuring even the distant glow of the spires. Only the dull, rhythmic thrum of distant alchemical pumps disturbed the street until metal slugs chewed through the cracked asphalt yards away, throwing chips of stone against their shins. From the skeletal framework of a collapsed housing block, six armored guards stepped out, visors reflecting dull copper. Ignatia’s personal guard. “Morvath! The Lady Pell sends her regards!” a voice boomed through a metallic speaker. “Surrender and this can be quick.” Bastien shoved Tullia behind a overturned, heavy cargo hauler. “Stay down!” he barked, drawing a sleek, compact energy pistol from beneath his coat. It hummed with a low, dangerous charge. He fired, the bolt searing through the smog, impacting an enforcer’s chest plate with a bright, concussive flash. A second mercenary collapsed, yet the remaining squad moved in with kinetic carbines leveled. “You shouldn’t have come down here, CEO,” another voice taunted, closer this time. “This isn’t your world.” Bastien ducked beneath a crackling shock lash, firing two sharp pulses into the point man's torso. But the guards kept coming, heavily plated and methodical. A heavy stun bolt glanced off his side, making him stagger. He grunted, shaking it off, but his movements slowed. Tullia watched, a knot of dread tightening in her gut. He was fighting for her, taking hits meant for her. A rifleman surged past the front rank, a heavy gauntlet driving straight into Bastien's cheek. Bastien’s head snapped back, a spray of crimson misting the grimy air. He hit the pavement hard, the energy pistol skittering away. Tullia cried out, scrambling from behind the hauler, but another guard was already stepping past the wreckage, raising an electro-baton. “Get back!” Bastien roared, pushing himself up, blood trickling from his lip. He threw his weight forward, dragging the guard down and taking an armored knee straight to the ribs. He grunted, a sound of raw agony, but he held on, shielding Tullia with his battered form. “Don’t touch her!” The enforcers, surprised by his ferocity, hesitated. They had expected an easy capture, not a CEO willing to fight like a street rat. Another fist hammered into Bastien’s face, then another. A wet wheeze caught in his throat, yet his arms pinned her down beneath him like iron. He was a fragile barrier, but he wouldn’t break. Just as a particularly vicious blow landed, sending Bastien sprawling, a high-pitched whine filled the air. A drone, heavily modified and bristling with disruptor coils, descended from the smog, firing a volley of EMP charges. The guards' radios whined, their rifle coils dying in dull sparks. Darius Vencel dropped from the roof of the arcology, a grim silhouette against the toxic sky, his own disruptor rifle sweeping across the stunned squad. “Morvath, you idiot,” Darius grunted, his voice devoid of humor. “Trying to get yourself killed?” He moved with brutal efficiency, disabling the remaining mercenaries. He dropped to one knee by Bastien, whose swollen cheek leaked dark scarlet onto his collar. “My… my sister,” Tullia gasped, rushing to Bastien’s side, pressing her cuffs against the split bridge of his nose. “We have to get to the quarantine ward.” “Fine,” Darius said, a flicker of something akin to respect in his hardened gaze as he looked at Bastien’s bloodied face. “Let’s move. You’re lucky I was already in the district. Ondine gave me the coordinates for the ward.” He helped Tullia heave Bastien to his feet, Bastien leaning heavily on them both. “The board just prematurely triggered the factory overload. They mean to pin the entire detonation on you, Bastien. Sirens just went off.” And as if on cue, a series of mournful, drawn-out wails echoed through the smog-choked streets, a rising crescendo that pierced the toxic gloom. The factory sirens. The final countdown had begun. “Ten minutes,” Darius stated, his voice grim. “That’s all we have to reach the kill-switch at the main reactor before this entire city block becomes a crater. We need to get him to the ward, find your sister, and then we run.” They moved with renewed urgency, half-dragging, half-carrying Bastien through the twisting, decaying pathways. The quarantine ward was a desolate, fortified structure, its windows boarded up, its entrance a heavy, reinforced door. Darius blasted the lock with a precise shot from his rifle, and they stumbled inside, into a dimly lit, sterile corridor smelling of carbolic acid and sour bedding. A single, harried medic looked up, startled, as they burst in. “Eira Gevran,” Tullia gasped, her eyes scanning the rows of cots. “Where is she?” The medic pointed a trembling finger down the corridor. “Room four, at the end.” They pushed forward, Bastien groaning with every strained step. Tullia burst into the room, her stomach twisting. Her sister lay there, pale and thin, her breathing shallow, an oxygen mask covering her face. Tullia dropped to her knees by the cot, salt blurring her vision as she took Eira's limp wrist. The girl's eyelashes twitched, her pale fingers shifting against Tullia's palm. “We have to go,” Darius urged, his voice tight, looking at the time on his comm-link. “Now. Or we all die here.” Bastien, his breath ragged, pushed himself off the wall. “Tullia… we have to go.” He reached out, his knuckles raw and red. She looked from her barely conscious sister to Bastien’s wounded face, then to Darius’s urgent expression. The wail of the sirens outside grew louder, more insistent, a death knell for the lower city. The floor vibrated faintly beneath her feet. She turned back once to touch Eira's brow, swallowed hard, and gripped Bastien beneath his shoulder to haul him into the hall. The main reactor, the kill-switch, the last chance. They had to make it. They had to beat the board's detonation clock and keep moving.

Through the Smog