The crimson alert on the spire terminal pulsed with the dying rhythm of the Apex. [CRITICAL FAILURE IN 5 MINUTES] blazed like a brand against Jaskya’s vision. Five minutes. Tarkis’s living heartbeat. He was out there, bleeding, likely surrounded by the very enemies her past self had intended to entomb. The image of Orik’s wide, trusting eyes flashed, then Nemi’s gaunt face. She had to save him. She had to save all of them. Jaskya spun, shoving the rejected abort sequence from her mind. The ventilation shaft was too small for quick descent. She glanced at the fractured glass beneath her, then at the skeletal scaffolding clinging to the spire’s exterior. No time for caution. Grabbing a thick coil of cabling from a construction hoist, she secured one end to a protruding rebar stub. The other end, she wrapped around her body, a desperate tether. She plunged through the nearest gaping hole in the glass, the smog-laced wind tearing at her hair. Gravity seized her, her muscles screaming as the cable caught, jerking her violently. She slid down the cable, her worn work gloves burning with friction, her boots scraping against the rough edges of the half-finished wall panels. Each dizzying drop brought her closer to the Apex’s cavernous atrium, a vast, echoing space where the battle had raged loudest. The sounds of combat, muffled inside the Core, now assaulted her ears: sporadic gunfire, the clang of metal, human cries. A sickening thud echoed from below, followed by a grunt of pain. Jaskya unhooked the cable, dropping the last fifteen feet onto a precarious platform of unlaid floor tiles. She crouched low, breathing in the metallic tang of expended ammunition and blood. The atrium was a ruin: overturned construction vehicles, shattered glass partitions, and the twisted wreckage of automated drones. Dim emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows. Her gaze swept the chaos, seeking Tarkis. Then she saw him. He was slumped against a partially erected wall of blast-resistant plasteel, his expensive suit torn, stained with drying blood. A jagged wound marred his left shoulder, still seeping. His right arm, the cybernetic one, hung at an awkward angle. He was breathing, a ragged, pained inhale, but his head lolled, his eyes barely open. Standing over him was a hulking figure in a bespoke combat suit: Corvus Ren, the Apex’s Head of Security, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. He held a silenced energy rifle, its muzzle pointed at Tarkis’s chest. Beside Ren, another man, shorter, leaner, with a cruel sneer etched into his features, held a similar weapon. This was Grak, the notorious Boss of the Ironhand Syndicate, Tarkis’s most aggressive rival. Grak nudged Tarkis with his boot, mouth twisted in disdain. “The great Tarkis Vendra, brought low by a bullet and a traitor,” Grak gloated, his voice amplified by the cavernous space. “Didn’t think you’d be so easy, old man.” Ren chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “He trusts too easily, Grak. Always has. A blind spot in his grand vision.” He aimed the rifle’s emitter closer to Tarkis’s chest. “A shame, really. Such a waste of potential.” Jaskya’s vision narrowed. The self-doubt that usually crippled her in the face of authority figures was a distant whisper, drowned out by the roaring urgency in her chest. This wasn’t just Tarkis; this was Orik’s father, the man bleeding out to protect their son. Her son needed him. Nemi needed him. They all needed him alive to stop the collapse. Her eyes darted around the debris. A heavy-duty nail-gun lay partially buried under a pile of discarded plasteel sheets, its compressed air canister still attached. It was crude, but it was a weapon. She snatched it, the cold steel biting into her unsteady fingers. The power indicator glowed green. Good. She moved, a blur in the half-light, using the overturned vehicles and broken walls as cover. Grak was still focused on Tarkis, his back mostly to her. Ren, however, had a wider field of view. Jaskya knew the Apex’s blind spots, the angles where surveillance cameras hadn’t yet been installed, the dead zones in the nascent motion sensors. She closed the distance, breath burning cold in her throat. Grak raised his rifle, a vicious smile spreading across his face. “Any last words, Tarkis?” Jaskya burst from behind a shattered plasteel column, the nail-gun held like a pistol. She didn’t aim for his head. She aimed for a more painful, less immediately fatal target. A loud, pneumatic *THWACK* shattered the tense silence as the powerful construction tool fired. Grak screamed, a sharp, choked sound of agony, dropping his rifle as he clutched his leg. A thick, industrial-grade nail had buried itself deep into his thigh, just above the knee, pinning the fabric of his suit to his flesh. He collapsed, writhing on the ground, his face contorted in pain. Ren spun, brow jerking up, his rifle swinging to track Jaskya. “What in the—!?” His gaze locked onto her, recognition dawning, then twisting into contempt. “The architect? You think you can—?” He brought the rifle up, the muzzle emitting a low, dangerous hum. Jaskya froze, the familiar chill of paralysis threatening to set in. Ren had a clear shot, his aim steady despite the chaos. His lips peeled back in a sneer. “Took you long enough to show your true colors, Jaskya. I’ve been waiting for this day. Tarkis’s empire crumbles, and I’ll be the one to pick through the wreckage.” Tarkis, slumped against the wall, lifted his head slightly. His eyes, though still glazed with pain, narrowed on Ren. A slow, bloody grin spread across his face, a feral glint returning to his gaze. He lifted his cybernetic arm, the damaged plating groaning. A faint, almost imperceptible pulse of blue light emanated from the wrist mechanism. Then, with a chillingly deliberate motion, he triggered it.

The Traitor's Pulse