The air inside the Orosz Institute tasted of ozone and burnished steel, a stark contrast to the Mire’s perpetual damp. Vesna tightened her grip on Ilya’s small hand, pulling him along. The boy, oblivious to her rigid posture, bounced on the balls of his feet, his gaze darting across the brutalist halls. Surveillance orbs, like obsidian eyes, tracked their every movement from the high, vaulted ceilings. Their whirring was the only consistent sound, a constant, low hum that burrowed into Vesna's skull. “Look, Mama! Are those plasma conduits?” Ilya tugged, pointing a finger sticky with synth-candy at a transparent tube running along the ceiling, a faint blue light pulsing within it. “They’re inefficiently shielded.” Vesna didn’t bother shushing him. Here, even six-year-olds spoke in schematics. “Just walk, Ilya. Keep your head down.” She hated this. The gleaming, sterile precision of the place felt like a cage already, far more suffocating than the rust-choked alleys she called home. Slag, at her heel, moved with an unnerving silence for a hulking mass of scrap, his optical sensors flickering, constantly scanning for threats she hadn’t yet registered. His presence was the only anchor she had in this alien environment. An automated chime sounded through the concourse. “Initiates to Infirmary Seven for preliminary health assessment. All Level Beta personnel to quadrant four.” Vesna set her teeth. Infirmary Seven. Kosta. Her mentor who had arranged her exile and sheltered them in the underbelly. A prickle of unease traced her spine, a whisper of a doubt she’d long suppressed. He was one of *them* now, funded by the oligarchs. Room Seven was an expanse of glazed white tile and humming diagnostic frames. Dr. Kosta stood waiting, a familiar, reassuring smile on his face, though his eyes seemed to hold a new, sharper glint. His grey lab coat was impeccably clean, a stark departure from the grease-stained overalls she usually saw him in. “Vesna. And Ilya, my boy. Look how tall you’ve grown.” His voice was warm, a deep baritone that had always soothed her. Ilya beamed, releasing Vesna’s hand to run forward. “Dr. Silvan! Are you going to show me the new micro-thermic regulators?” Kosta chuckled, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Later, little engineer. First, a quick check-up. A mandatory vitamin shot for all new students. Keeps you sharp.” He gestured to a high-backed chair. Ilya clambered onto it without hesitation, swinging his legs. Vesna watched, a knot forming in her stomach. “Is it really necessary, Silvan? He’s never had… a vitamin shot before.” “Standard procedure, Vesna. Nothing to worry about.” Kosta’s smile tightened just a fraction. He prepped a sleek auto-injector, its needle glinting. He pressed it to Ilya’s arm. The boy barely flinched. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, as the clear fluid drained into Ilya’s flesh, an erratic reaction started. Beneath the pale skin of his inner arm, tiny capillaries pulsed not with crimson, but with an inky, curdled black. The tendrils spread, spiderwebbing outwards, a sickening dark current beneath the surface, reaching towards his small hand. It lasted for only a heartbeat, a fleeting, impossible sight, before fading back to normal, leaving no trace. Vesna’s breath caught, a raw, terrified sound. “What was that?” she choked out, lunging forward. Kosta smoothly pulled the injector away, his hand subtly covering the spot where the black had bloomed. His smile was back, utterly unruffled. “Just a slight vascular spasm, Vesna. Perfectly normal. The nutrient solution is quite potent. Nothing to concern yourself with.” He ruffled Ilya’s hair. “Feeling strong, little man?” Ilya, oblivious, nodded enthusiastically. “My arm feels buzzy! Like a power cell!” Vesna stared at Kosta, saliva turning sour beneath her tongue. A vascular spasm? The sheer, terrifying impossibility of what she’d just seen. Her trusted mentor, her friend, was lying. She could taste it, acrid and metallic, on her tongue. The seed of suspicion, buried for years, began to sprout into a thorny, poisonous vine. “Alright, that’s all for today, Ilya. You’re dismissed to Orientation Sector Gamma.” Kosta’s voice was dismissive, his attention already shifting to a data slate. Vesna snatched Ilya’s hand, pulling him from the chair. She didn’t speak, couldn’t. Her mind raced, the image of those black veins burned into her vision. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She dragged Ilya out of the infirmary, the white walls suddenly feeling less like a treatment room and more like an abattoir. They moved through a wider arterial passageway, the air growing perceptibly colder, sharper. The surveillance orbs seemed to click more insistently, tracking them with unnerving precision. Sentries in lacquered obsidian armor stood at intervals, their faces impassive. A low, rhythmic thrumming vibrated through the floor, growing steadily louder. Then, a sudden, sharp clang echoed from down the hall. A nearby patrol snapped to attention, their carbines locked to their chests. Vesna’s gaze shot up. The stone floor caught the glare of overhead arc lamps. Her pulse slammed against the hollow of her throat. No. Not now. Not here. From the far end of the hall, a figure emerged, flanked by an escort of security personnel. His silhouette was instantly recognizable, even from this distance: tall, lean, an almost predatory grace to his stride. Korvan Vance. His suit, a dark, impeccably tailored fabric, seemed to absorb the light around him, making him a void of power moving through the bright hall. His face, sharp-boned and severe, was set in an expression of cold calculation. Vesna’s entire body went rigid. Ilya, captivated by the spectacle, began to turn his head. “Mama, look! Is that the Head Architect?” “No!” Vesna hissed, a whisper of pure terror. She yanked Ilya with a force that made his boots scrape, dragging him behind a massive, segmented maintenance column. The column’s casing was frigid, vibrating faintly from the building's hidden generators. She pressed herself against it, pulling Ilya close, using her body to shield his small form. Slag, sensing her distress, flattened himself against the floor, a dark, silent shadow. Korvan Vance’s entourage was close now, the air around them thick with suppressed power. Vesna could hear the soft scrape of imported leather on the tiles, alongside the faint hiss of localized comm-relays. She squeezed her eyes shut, shrinking into her patched coat. She could feel Ilya’s curious gaze on her, on the approaching figure, but she held him fast, a desperate vice. Suddenly, the rhythmic footsteps paused. A silence descended, thick and absolute, broken only by the distant whirring of the surveillance orbs. Vesna dared to open a sliver of an eye. Korvan Vance stood less than ten meters away, directly opposite their column. His head was cocked slightly, his gaze sweeping the corridor, a flicker of something almost animalistic in his eyes. He wasn’t looking at the guards, or the architecture. He was looking *through* it, as if sensing something out of place, something hidden. Vesna held her breath, every muscle in her body screaming for release. Ilya, pressed against her side, was utterly still, his small chest rising and falling in shallow, quick gasps. Korvan's gaze drifted across the conduit lines, hesitating over the concrete seam beside her elbow. The angle of his jaw set, a subtle contraction beneath pale skin. A flicker of something, a primal instinct, seemed to cross his features, as if a scent, a faint echo, had reached him. Then, with a faint tilt of his chin, he stepped past, the escort falling in behind him. The thrumming of their passage faded, the air slowly lightening. Vesna stayed pinned to the steel until the boots faded into distance, releasing air from her lungs in a trembling shudder. “Are they gone, Mama?” Ilya whispered, his voice small. Vesna nodded, pushing herself away from the concrete shaft, her knees unsteady. “Yes, they’re gone. Let’s just… let’s go.” She turned, intending to pull Ilya towards the designated Orientation Sector, her mind still reeling from the twin horrors of Kosta’s black veins and Korvan’s almost-discovery. But the space beside her was empty. The alcove stood completely empty. She spun in a slow, desperate circle. A few meters away, a heavy, laser-gridded door, previously unnoticed, stood ajar. A low, mechanical whirring emanated from within. And just beyond the shimmering green lattice, vanishing into the vast, shadowy interior of a restricted hangar, was the small, retreating figure of her son.

Corridors of Iron