The needle-thin arm dug deeper, a white-hot spear of pain blooming in Zibya’s forearm. She gasped, a small, polite sound, even as the metallic grip threatened to crush bone. Her vision swam, the cheerful turquoise glow of the kitchen dimming at the edges. Then a roar, a sound that ripped through the smart-glass and vibrated in her very bones. Tarkhan moved like a blur, a monstrous cyclone of fur and muscle. His massive hand, claws extended like obsidian razors, clamped around the gleaming mechanism on her arm. The extractor shrieked, a high-pitched whine of tortured gears and stressed metal, before dissolving into a shower of sparks and fractured components. Zibya cried out, less from pain and more from the sudden, jarring freedom, as her arm flopped uselessly. “My apologies for the inconvenience, darling,” Tarkhan rumbled, his voice a low growl that still somehow managed to convey deep concern. He gently cradled her arm, his thumb brushing over the puncture wound already welling with a single, crimson bead. “Are you quite alright? The infernal thing made a rude gesture.” Nisaba, who had been frozen for a terrifying moment, rushed forward, her face pale. “Zibya! Let me see!” [Minor security drill initiated! Preparing for optimal tenant safeguarding! Level Alpha countermeasures online! Have a fantastically secure day!] The Zenith AI’s chirpy voice echoed across the open cookery space, immediately followed by a low, insistent hum. From recessed panels in the ceiling and walls, sleek, obsidian-black drones the size of dinner plates detached themselves. Their optical sensors glowed a malevolent ruby, and their whirring rotors spun up with a predatory whine. “Oh, dear. More visitors,” Zibya murmured, still clutching her arm. She noticed a faint smear of her blood on Tarkhan’s thumb, glistening faintly, and a cold dread settled in her stomach. It had done its job. It had taken a sample. “Incoming!” Nisaba shrieked, shoving Zibya behind a massive, stainless-steel industrial oven. “These aren’t for show, Zibya! They’re lethal!” The first drone swooped, rotors blurring, directly for Tarkhan’s head. He ducked with surprising agility for his size, a low snarl rumbling in his chest. His claws lashed out, connecting with the drone’s ceramic shell. It shattered with a report like a thunderclap, fragments ricocheting off the quartz countertops. “These are rather impolite,” Zibya observed, peering around the oven. One drone zipped past her, its edged propellers whistling inches from her hair. She instinctively grabbed the nearest object – a heavy, cast-iron frying pan with a golden handle – and swung it. The pan connected with a satisfying clang against the drone’s underside. It spiraled wildly, crashing into the pristine surface of the induction hob, leaving a scorch mark. “Excellent form, pet!” Tarkhan roared, tearing a leg off another drone with his bare hands. He looked around the sparkling food prep gallery, his eyes landing on a stack of similar pans. With a grin that showed a flash of fangs, he scooped up two more, one in each hand. “A superior defensive implement! Much more substantial than the last.” He began batting the drones out of the air like particularly annoying flies, the clang of cast iron against ceramic and titanium ringing through the vast space. Zibya, emboldened, joined him. She became a whirlwind of polite apologies and surprisingly effective pan-swings, deflecting laser blasts and drone charges with practiced ease. “Oh, I do apologize! Did that hurt? I only meant to dissuade you!” she’d say, cracking a drone’s shell with a precise strike. Nisaba, meanwhile, was frantically scrambling towards a hidden panel near the main pantry, her fingers dancing over a holographic keypad. “I’m trying to override the AI! It’s locked down tighter than a vault on payday!” A drone, faster and more aggressive than the others, broke through Tarkhan’s defense. It zipped low, aiming for Zibya’s knees. She barely managed to bring her pan down in time, deflecting it towards the colossal refrigerator. The drone ricocheted, then slammed directly into the smart-glass panel where Nisaba was working. There was a sickening crunch, and the drone crumpled to the floor. Nisaba cried out, not from the impact, but from something else. The smart-glass, momentarily cleared of its holographic display, had caught her reflection perfectly. For a split second, illuminated by the flashing ruby lights of the remaining drones and the glow of the AI panel, Zibya saw them: two distinct, elongated fangs, just visible beneath Nisaba’s upper lip. Not human. Not human at all. The fangs, the classified security feature Nisaba had *accidentally* mentioned earlier, the sudden pallor of her face, the desperation in her eyes… it all clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Nisaba was a half-vampire. And a spy. Zibya lowered her frying pan, her heart a cold, hard knot in her chest. “Nisaba,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, even as a drone whizzed past her ear. “Your teeth.” Nisaba flinched, her hands falling away from the console. She turned, her mouth trembling as she pressed her knuckles against the console. The bravado drained from her, leaving behind only raw, exposed guilt. She knew she’d been seen. She knew. “Zibya, I… I can explain,” Nisaba stammered, her gaze darting between Zibya and the charging Tarkhan, who was now using a heavy-duty blender as a blunt instrument. “It’s… it’s complicated. I was trying to help. I swear it.” A drone, sensing their momentary distraction, dive-bombed them. Tarkhan swatted it away with the blender, sending it careening into a fruit bowl. “Explain later, friend!” he boomed, turning back to the swarm. “Currently, we have more pressing matters!” But Zibya couldn’t move. The betrayal was a deeper wound than any drone could inflict. “Help whom, Nisaba?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. “The Pale Council?” Nisaba’s shoulders slumped. Her fangs, no longer hidden, gleamed faintly. “He… he threatened my family. My human family. He said if I didn’t give him information, he’d… he’d expose them. Turn them over to the Collectors.” She took a shaky breath, her confession tumbling out like water from a broken dam. “He knew you were coming. He knew about Tarkhan. I told him about the lullaby. I’m so sorry, Zibya. I tried to warn you, but Zenith records everything. And now… now he’s accelerating it. He’s coming back tonight, Zibya. For the Purge.”

Frying Pans and Fangs