The pitch black swallowed the foyer whole. Velsia’s boots rooted to the floor plate as Fellina’s damp fingers clamped around her sleeve. Lien choked back a whimper near her knee. “Borto!” Rocher’s voice cut through the black, sharp with an edge Velsia hadn’t heard since the drone ambush. “Status!” No answer. Only the ragged breathing of Fellina, the tremor in Lien’s small frame. A faint, almost imperceptible *scrape* echoed from high above, followed by a soft, metallic *thunk* against the reinforced panoramic glass. “Rappel cables,” Velsia said, her tone level. “Penta-carbide line friction against the parapet. Roof assault.” The scraping grew louder, more numerous. Then, a sharp *crack* that reverberated through the very floor beneath them, followed by the sickening sound of molecular bonds tearing. The panoramic glazing spiderwebbed in an emerald flash, the molecular seal dissolving with a pop like an imploding bulb. Three armored shapes swung through the shower of fragments, black silhouettes framed against the neon smog of the Zenith skyline. “Intruder protocols engaged!” Borto’s voice, a bizarre mix of terror and triumph, finally boomed from the foyer. “I told you! I told you all they were coming for the quantum data-cores! Never trust the aerial surveillance grid!” The point raider, plated in non-reflective composite, dropped onto the foyer tiles and leveled a mag-rifle. Before his weight settled, the floor plates hissed. Static coils leaped from the border grooves, whipping around his shins and chest. The commando convulsed, jaw locking as discharge arced across his torso. Above him, two trailing operatives tangled on their descent lines when counter-winches seized. “Sonic trip-mesh!” Borto bellowed from the service corridor, voice cracking with frantic glee. “And monofilament shock snares! Scavenged right out of the Jaxxian dross-docks! Never trust factory specs, Master Rocher! Never!” A second operative tried to sidestep the blackened strip. The moment his boot brushed an unlit seam, tension wires whipped upward. The web hoisted him chest-high, binding his arms to a load-bearing column while his rifle clattered across the stone. “Shelter hatch!” Velsia caught Lien by the elbow. “Fellina, move!” Fellina scrambled backward toward the pantry wall, hauling herself toward the flush utility hatch built behind the refrigeration units. Rocher, meanwhile, had already moved. He was no fighter, but he was furious. He snatched a solid brass turbine rotor from a display plinth. Red secondary strips hummed awake along the baseboards, painting the dust crimson. Rocher closed the gap on a stumbling commando, driving the solid metal block into the side of the helmet. Velsia, seeing a clear path, shoved Lien through the panic room’s entrance. “Stay inside, no matter what!” she ordered, her voice firm. She pulled a small plasma-torch, a tool for fine circuit work, from a hidden compartment within her apron. Its focused beam hummed, a tiny sun in her hand. A third raider kicked through the cracked mezzanine partition, boots skidding across the parquetry. The barrel of his rifle swung directly toward the pantry corridor where Fellina crouched. Velsia thumbed the ignition stud on her pocket torch. A needle of blue thermal fire spiked from the nozzle, striking the operative's faceplate. The polarized polycarbonate blistered and caved under twelve hundred degrees of localized heat. The raider dropped his weapon with a ragged howl, clawing at melted resin. Velsia stepped past him without breaking stride, swinging the jet toward a second man wrestling Rocher against the credenza. The flame severed the operative's shoulder actuator, scorching synth-leather to bare skin. Rocher wrenched the loosened carbine free, driving the stock across the operative’s collarbone until the man slumped. His gaze flicked to Velsia over the smoke, chest heaving beneath his torn linen shirt, his jaw set hard as he raised the weapon toward the breached terrace. The main blast doors, the ones Fellina had entered through, shuddered. A massive, concussive *bang* rattled the entire Galdris Tower. The external locks buckled, then gave way with a screech of tortured metal. The doors tore inwards, ripped from their heavy hinges, revealing a figure standing in the wreckage. Not a contractor, but CEO Kest himself. Gray-templed, his tailored charcoal overcoat pristine, he stepped through the warped frame with measured steps. In his right hand rested a heavy pneumatic slug-thrower. His left gripped Borto by the collar, dragging the chauffeur upright with the barrel jammed beneath the driver's jawline. “Galdris,” Kest said, his tone dry as chalk over the hum of severed wires and his wounded men's groans. “The patent overrides. Now. Or your loyal little conspiracy theorist takes a final drop to the dross-canals.”

Siege of the Hearth