The faint, acrid scent of superheated ion fluid filtered under the blast door. The air thrummed with a low hum that vibrated through the floor plates, rattling the loose bolts near her boots. Ten years ago, the Vlasovs threw Alina an exhibition gala across town with crystal tiers and perfumed patrons. Zoya lay locked in the unheated auxiliary wing, coughing blood into wool sheets while insulated bulkheads muffled every sound. No physician came. Only bass notes seeped through the vents while her knuckles bled against the locked latch. Now, the metallic groan of the Core’s internal pressure valves vibrated through the deck. Levan was trapped inside a ticking bomb, and Zoya, as Iskra, had a mission. Her hand hovered over her comms, the direct line to Rostova’s command center. The broadcast hack, the meticulous plan to expose Alina, hinged on remaining invisible. Letting her cover blow now, for a single person, was a breach of every protocol, every cold-blooded calculation she’d ever made. It was illogical. It was weakness. It was Zoya Vlasov. “Rostova,” she bit out, her voice a low growl into her internal comms. “Alina triggered a localized lockdown. Levan Dorokh is trapped in the primary combustion vault. The pre-ignition sequence has begun. Divert your institute assets to the secondary shafts. Hack the gala’s main projection rig and fire my pre-loaded exposé feed on loop. I am pulling him out.” A beat of silence. Then, Kazimir’s voice, calm and steady, “Iskra. This is a critical deviation. Your cover—” “My cover is useless if my technician burns,” Zoya said, teeth grazing her lip. “You want Alina’s fraud exposed? You want the Vlasovs dismantled? Then you trust me to do what is necessary. Get the feed running. Get Levan out.” Another pause, shorter this time. “Understood, Iskra. The broadcast will run. My teams are en route. Dorokh’s biometric signature shows extreme thermal fluctuations. You have seventy seconds.” His voice held no judgment, only a terrifying efficiency. Seventy seconds. Zoya wrenched a steel utility panel from the bulkhead, exposing a narrow conduit run. She didn't hesitate, shoving herself into the cramped space. The run was sized for crawling repair drones. She dragged herself across rusted conduit clamps, skin peeling from her elbows as the thrumming pistons accelerated. She kicked through a ceiling grille into an auxiliary corridor behind the core's containment checkpoint. Two armored Vlasov Enforcers guarded the perimeter, automatic carbines held across their chests. They wore the family crest, a stylized raven, gleaming on their reinforced chest plates. Their comms crackled with the frantic alarms from Alina’s lockdown. They hadn't seen her. Zoya moved like a wraith. She lunged, a silent blur of motion. Her mono-molecular blade, a sliver of polished obsidian, materialized in her hand. One Enforcer barely registered a flicker of movement before his comms went silent, his throat sliced with surgical precision. The second guard whirled, raising his rifle, but Zoya was already there, driving a knee into his solar plexus. He doubled over, gasping, and she slammed the butt of her blade into his temple. He dropped, unconscious. She stripped the dead man's carbine, checking the thermal charge. The corridor ended at sealed bulkheads. Inside the primary silo, visible through a thick quartz laminate viewport, turbines spun beneath pale halogen warning strobes. Levan pressed his shoulder against the inner bulkhead, hands clamped over his ears against the whine of spinning turbines while his datapad sparked on the deck. “Levan!” Zoya screamed, her voice hoarse, but the roar of the Core swallowed it whole. She had to get through. The quartz laminate was rated for low-grade backfires, not heavy kinetic impact. A strobe over the hatch pulsed amber. *Pre-ignition: 30 seconds.* Zoya lifted the carbine, seated the stock into her collarbone, and emptied the spool into the center pane. Dense cracks raced across the synthetic quartz. Shards of the outer layer peeled away, hissing as the heat from the core met the cold air. She slammed a second battery home and fired until the housing sheared in a deafening crack. A jagged breach tore open, venting ozone and scalding vapor. *Pre-ignition: 10 seconds.* “Levan! Out!” Zoya dropped the spent receiver and seized the fractured frame, hauling the jagged edges outward until the heat blistered her gloves. Inside the silo, ionization coils ignited into a green haze. Levan, disoriented and struggling against the pressure, looked up. Soot caked his forehead beneath the flashing warning beacon. He stumbled forward, coughing, reaching for her through the expanding opening. Zoya grabbed his arm, pulling with all her might. His flight suit was slick with condenser fluid. She hauled him over the sill just as a blast of emerald radiation consumed the silo interior. The remaining laminate warped into bubbling slag behind his boots. They hit the deck plating together, rolling away from the venting exhaust. Zoya’s lungs burned, her vision blurring. Levan dragged himself upright, caught her jaw in a soot-blackened hand, and pulled her mouth to his. His lips were split and tasted of burnt copper, demanding air she did not have. He pulled back, thumb digging hard into her cheekbone. Over the facility PA system, Andrei Vlasov's voice cut through the alarm horns, piped directly from the grand auditorium. “...And now, it is my profound honor to introduce the true genius of our generation. My daughter. The architect of a new dawn for Novos. Alina Vlasov!”

Ignition and Blood