I leave my cell of confinement.

  The door seals behind me soundlessly—smooth, flawless. Two of President Cade Morrow’s guards walk ahead of me. I follow them. Cade moves slightly in front—slowly, almost lazily, as if he isn’t escorting a potential galaxy-level threat, but guiding a tour through a museum of failed revolutions.

  The prison corridor is narrow. Too narrow for comfort. Too long for hope.

  The light is white and harsh. It burns away shadows, but not fear. Fear feels perfectly at home here. I almost respect it for its consistency.

  The metal walls are perfectly seamless. No joints. No bolts. No scratches. Everything looks less built… and more printed in a single piece of authority.

  My steps make no sound, as if the floor is rubberized.

  "Where is my squad? Where is Liara?" I ask.

  My voice comes out steady. I deliberately add a faint rasp so I don’t sound like an automated archive query.

  Cade doesn’t even turn around.

  "Your squad is being held in other prison cells," he replies calmly. "Liara was arrested at the military base."

  He delivers every word lazily, like a doctor explaining test results that have already stopped mattering.

  I check the network.

  Habit. Reflex. Almost prayer.

  Silence—dense, crushing, like vacuum flooding through a cracked airlock.

  No eighteen refugees.

  No squad.

  No Liara’s medical team.

  I check again. Deeper. Through everything that has ever helped me feel less alone inside my own head.

  Nothing.

  The realization arrives slowly… and still hits too fast.

  The Dark Mind reached them.

  Subjugated them.

  They are Noxaris cells now.

  My palms break into instant sweat. A shiver crawls down my spine, like someone dragging a slab of ice from my neck to my lower back. The world tilts slightly. The floor feels angled for a second.

  Excellent.

  Panic attack.

  Long time no see.

  I inhale. Then again. Count to three. Stabilize emotional output. They power down with a grinding resistance—like an old reactor that refuses to believe it’s being forced online again.

  I let the panic pass through me without suppression. I just log the parameters.

  Pulse rate.

  Skin temperature.

  Respiration speed.

  Control doesn’t return immediately… but it returns.

  And then another thought arrives.

  Three.

  Cade… and his guards.

  They’re in my network now.

  I feel them—faintly, muffled, but unmistakably. Their neural signals pass through me like weak radio static drifting through atmosphere.

  Which means… there’s a chance.

  And I intend to use it. Even if the odds roughly match survival after negotiating with a black hole.

  We continue through the prison corridors. Cells slide past us. Behind each reinforced pane—identical light. Identical walls. Identical emptiness.

  Cade stops.

  "They’re in this row," he says, gesturing casually.

  I step closer. My heart accelerates—annoyingly biological. One day I’m definitely filing a formal complaint with the body manufacturer.

  I peer through armored glass.

  Empty.

  Only light.

  Only walls.

  Only metal bunks.

  No one.

  I blink. Scan again. Check thermal traces. Electromagnetic residue. Biosignatures. Even microscopic airborne contaminants.

  Empty.

  "Where are they?" I ask, already moving toward the next cell.

  Empty.

  Next one.

  Empty.

  Another.

  Empty.

  Alarm ignites suddenly, like a neural short circuit. It rises too fast, too hot. My heart races. Pupils dilate. My brain starts cycling through catastrophe scenarios faster than I can reject them.

  Trap.

  Of course it’s a trap.

  Congratulations to me. Figured it out almost on time.

  I pivot to deliver something sarcastic—therapeutic reflex—but I don’t get the chance.

  Hidden sections of the corridor walls open simultaneously on both sides.

  Noxaris warriors emerge.

  Full armor. Matte, non-reflective. No insignia. They move in perfect synchronization—as if one consciousness is shared across all of them.

  Efficient.

  And horrifying.

  We’re surrounded.

  Eight weapons rise at once. Their barrels glow with cold white light—a spectrum designed to erase matter, not negotiate with it.

  The president’s guards react instantly.

  No commands. No hesitation.

  They raise their weapons and launch into attack, ricocheting between walls. Their movements are precise—almost beautiful, if beauty here is measured by survival probability.

  The corridor erupts in muzzle flashes. The metal walls blister with burn scars. The air fills with ozone and vaporized paint.

  The enemy meets resistance and immediately retreats behind partitions.

  One of my fighters moves right.

  The other moves left.

  I automatically calculate probabilities.

  The forces are catastrophically uneven.

  The thought barely forms before reality confirms it with merciless punctuality.

  From both side passages, suppressive fire detonates simultaneously.

  Too dense.

  Too precise.

  Too final.

  The president’s guards are vaporized in a fraction of a second.

  No falling bodies. No screams. Not even time for error.

  Just ash.

  And smoke that slowly settles across the flawlessly polished floor.

  I log the fact with cold clarity:

  Even noemas won’t reconstruct them now.

  This is the end.

  At the same moment, I feel the network links connecting me to them sever. Like two switches snapping off inside my consciousness… leaving it darker still.

  Now only two of us remain.

  Cade and me.

  The Noxaris warriors step out from cover. From both sides. One step at a time. Their weapons remain trained on us. They compress the corridor, turning it into a perfectly engineered execution tunnel.

  I hear my own breathing.

  Too loud.

  Too human.

  Cade stands beside me. Through the network, I sense the Dark Mind stirring inside him—cold, observant, mildly irritated. Like a player watching a piece that has unexpectedly refused to follow the rules.

  I rapidly check options.

  Attack—death.

  Run—death.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Hijack the network—impossible.

  Improvise—statistically suicidal.

  Perfect.

  Which leaves my favorite strategy.

  I stare at the advancing weapon barrels.

  The distance shrinks.

  Ten meters.

  Eight.

  Six.

  My heart pounds like it’s filing a resignation request. With formal notice.

  Inside me, the Punisher stirs. A shadow deep within my consciousness stretches toward the surface like a predator scenting blood.

  Dangerous.

  Useful.

  Catastrophically unstable.

  I tighten the leash… and measure the tension. Still holding. For now, we both pretend this qualifies as a partnership.

  The Noxaris warriors raise their weapons higher. Target-lock indicators ignite.

  Four—on me.

  Four—on Cade.

  Interesting. Even the Dark Mind doesn’t enjoy sharing authority.

  I take a slow breath.

  And suddenly realize I have absolutely no idea how to survive this.

  None.

  Not a single viable plan.

  No guarantees.

  Not even a respectable improvisation yet.

  A rare, almost collectible situation.

  Sweat trickles down my spine. Muscles prepare for movement that will likely be my last. I accept that as a working hypothesis. Nothing more.

  The weapon barrels flare brighter.

  The Punisher inside me laughs quietly.

  And at that moment…

  …deep inside my network, a barely perceptible signal flickers.

  So faint it could almost be dismissed as a hallucination.

  Almost.

  I freeze.

  The signal repeats.

  And I understand—

  someone is trying to reach me.

  Right now.

  While eight weapons prepare to erase us from reality.

  **

  The soldiers stand pressed in close.

  Too close.

  Close enough that I feel the heat of their weapons through the fabric of my uniform, through the armor plates, through my skin—like Death itself has decided to run a compliance check on whether I still meet technical specifications.

  One barrel presses into my chest.

  Another into my shoulder.

  A third slides along my ribs, as if selecting the most aesthetically pleasing place to leave a hole.

  Professional work.

  Almost pleasant to observe.

  Almost.

  Cade stands beside me. Rifles are aimed at him as well. And for the first time, through the network, I feel a faint flicker of irritation from the Dark Mind.

  Interesting.

  So even gods don’t like having guns pointed at them.

  A useful universal constant.

  The faceplate of one soldier slowly parts, segments unfolding—like a predatory flower made of black metal.

  I see the face.

  And the world inside me freezes for a second.

  It doesn’t collapse.

  It simply stops updating.

  Kal Irix.

  Sergeant. Squad commander.

  The others remove their helmets next.

  Ronan Krail—second-in-command, assault specialist. Loved arguing with orders. Always carried them out first.

  Mira Vossen—sniper. Could hit a moving target through two atmospheric fronts and a bad mood.

  Jake Thorn—heavy weapons and a heavier personality.

  Eli Fern—communications, drone handler, a walking disaster made of cables and caffeine.

  Silas Rowe—medic… and the only person officially authorized by protocol to call me an idiot.

  Bryn Havoc—demolitions, a fan of explosions that were beautiful and preferably symmetrical.

  Tarek Noll—recon. The man who could disappear even from other people’s memories.

  My squad.

  My statistically impossible stroke of luck that, apparently, has finally expired.

  They stare at me.

  And in their eyes—emptiness.

  Cold.

  Clean.

  Programmed.

  I log it as a diagnosis. Not a sentence.

  Makes it easier to function.

  "You are under arrest," Kal says, pressing the weapon directly against my chest.

  His voice is perfect. Even. No sarcasm.

  That’s the worst part.

  I swallow. My throat is dry, like I’m trying to swallow sand mixed with memories.

  Stay calm.

  Do not panic.

  Panic is a luxury usually paid for with someone else’s life. I already owe too many.

  "Wait," I say, slowly raising my hands. As peacefully as possible. "You are my brothers-in-arms. I am your comrade."

  My inner voice immediately comments:

  Congratulations. You sound like a character from a low-budget propaganda reel.

  Excellent.

  That means the odds are practically zero.

  Low expectations are easier to work with.

  Beside me, Cade suddenly steps forward.

  "I am your president," he says coldly. "I order you to lower your weapons."

  I almost turn my head.

  Seriously?

  He chose legitimacy theater in the middle of an execution?

  The soldiers exchange glances.

  For a fraction of a second.

  Micro-reaction. Synchronization glitch. Nearly invisible.

  I log it instantly—like an engineer spotting a fracture in a starship hull.

  But then Silas steps forward.

  The medic. Always spoke quietly. Even while stitching people without anesthesia, joking that pain helped patients remember the treatment better.

  "We are warriors of the Dark Mind," he says calmly. "And you are defective Noxaris cells. Your fate rests in the hands of the Sovereign."

  Each word cuts sharper than a scalpel.

  Something drops inside my chest. For a second it feels like my heart has filed for early termination.

  I search for even a spark of recognition.

  In Kal’s eyes.

  In Mira’s posture.

  In the way Jake holds his weapon—he always kept it slightly below regulation to raise it faster.

  Nothing.

  Only perfectly disciplined death of personality.

  A cell opens in front of me. The door slides into the wall with the same silent contempt for freedom.

  I’m shoved in the back.

  I take one step inside.

  Then another.

  The floor is cold. The light is sterile. The air smells like metal and finality.

  No.

  This cannot be how it ends.

  There must be a way out.

  I refuse to let that thought sound like desperation. Only as a technical requirement imposed on reality.

  Inside me, the noemas ignite, reacting to emotional overload. The network restructures faster than I can formalize a solution.

  Good.

  That means my subconscious still outperforms me.

  Warmth flares in my right hand.

  Noemas compress into my palm. Densify. Intertwine. Metal, light, and pure abstract logic assemble into shape.

  An egg.

  The Punisher’s vessel.

  It pulses like a second heart. Dark. Impatient. With very aggressive career ambitions involving mass destruction.

  The soldiers notice.

  For a second.

  One priceless, impossible second, they freeze.

  I see their systems trying to classify what they’re seeing.

  Magic?

  Anomaly?

  Very expensive data corruption?

  Too late.

  "I wouldn’t recommend…" I whisper, already aware the advice is about a century overdue.

  I tighten my grip on the egg.

  It cracks.

  Not physically.

  Existentially.

  The Punisher bursts free.

  His essence spills into the air like a shadow that has never been briefed on physics or workplace safety regulations. He passes through my hand, through light, through sound—and lunges at the soldiers.

  He doesn’t attack their bodies.

  He attacks whatever remains inside them that once answered to freedom.

  I see Kal jerk.

  Ronan exhales sharply.

  Mira tries to raise her rifle, but her hands suddenly stop obeying, like she is relearning motor control from scratch.

  The Punisher tears through them like a cold storm through an open doorway.

  They fall.

  Some to their knees.

  Some flat onto the floor.

  Some grasp for air that no longer exists.

  I feel their networks erupt in errors. I feel the Dark Mind trying to maintain control. I feel the Punisher bite into that control, ripping it apart like rotted fabric.

  The corridor fills with the echo of their collapse.

  Then silence.

  I step slowly out of the cell.

  One step.

  Another.

  My squad lies before me.

  My soldiers.

  People I shared fire, fear, rations, sarcasm, and far too many near-deaths with to qualify as a healthy workplace environment.

  Now they lie motionless.

  The irony is almost elegant.

  I stand over them, surrounded by the swirling shadow of the Punisher. He coils around me like an ancient cloak woven from borrowed rage. I feel his hunger to continue. To destroy. To rewrite. To dominate.

  Dangerous.

  Extremely effective.

  Catastrophically seductive.

  "Easy," I whisper internally. "They’re mine."

  He answers with a low, satisfied growl inside my mind, but retreats half a step. Almost respectful. Almost like a predator acknowledging who leads the pack.

  I kneel beside Kal.

  Check pulse.

  Neural impulses.

  Network stability.

  They’re alive.

  Broken. Rewritten. But alive.

  Relief hits so violently I have to clench my teeth to avoid laughing like an idiot in the middle of a potential apocalypse.

  Excellent.

  Mission status shifts from "bury" to "rescue."

  Historically, I prefer the second option.

  Cade stands nearby.

  Through him, I feel the Dark Mind observing. Analyzing. Learning.

  Perfect.

  Let it take notes.

  I slowly raise my head.

  Now it’s my turn to go on the offensive.

  But at that exact moment…

  …the Punisher inside me suddenly tenses.

  Sharp.

  Dangerous.

  I feel a new signal in the network—foreign, powerful, approaching at impossible speed.

  And it definitely doesn’t belong to my squad.

  The corridor walls begin to tremble.

  Emergency lighting erupts into blood-red.