The screaming stopped.
Not because it ended.
Because someone was listening.
Boots echoed down the outer corridor—measured, unhurried. The sound carried through concrete and rusted steel, threading its way into every room of the factory like a warning.
Secret Police.
They didn't rush. They never did.
Two of them paused outside the main hall, masks angled slightly as audio filters spooled back the last few minutes. A third tilted their head, isolating the echoes that still clung to the walls—fear residue, pain harmonics, human noise reduced to data.
"Anomalous distress signals detected," one said.
"Gang-controlled district," another replied flatly.
"Noise threshold within accepted variance."
A brief pause.
Then—
"Bribes confirmed. Sector influence remains stable."
They turned away.
The door sealed behind them.
The factory was left to rot in peace.
Elsewhere in the district, Spectr slowed, palm raised.
"Hold."
Surgien crouched beside him instantly. Rue and Circe melted into cover, eyes tracking the street as a procession of gang members filtered toward a single structure at the end of the block.
The factory.
Too many.
Too coordinated.
"Why stack muscle now?" Rue murmured.
"Whatever they're guarding—it's important."
Spectr's visor flickered.
"Thermal spike inside. Elevated stress signatures."
Surgien's jaw tightened.
"…Zev."
They didn't debate.
They moved.
The side entrance gave way under a silent breach. No alarms. No resistance—just the heavy stink of blood and oil.
They advanced room by room.
Then they saw it.
Chains hung from the ceiling like industrial vines.
Zev was suspended upside down, wrists bound, ankles cinched tight, body slack except for the occasional tremor that ran through him involuntarily. Dried blood matted his hair. His eyes were half-open—but unfocused, lost somewhere far away.
Surgien froze.
"No…"
Below him—
Two small bodies of children.
Still.
Too still.
Rue turned away sharply, hand over her mouth. Circe's HUD spiked red as her vitals surged. Spectr said nothing—but his grip on his weapon went white-knuckled.
Surgien moved first.
"Zev," he said, voice breaking despite himself.
"Zev—Wake up buddy, we're here."
No response.
He reached up, cutting the chains with a precise, shaking motion.
"Hey," Surgien whispered urgently.
"You're safe. You're not alone."
Zev's eyes twitched.
A breath shuddered out of him.
"…don't," he murmured hoarsely.
"Don't let them see…"
Surgien caught him as his weight dropped, easing him down carefully despite the tremors wracking his body.
"They're gone," Surgien said, forcing steadiness into his voice.
"It's just us."
Zev's gaze drifted—then snapped to the floor.
His breath hitched.
A sound tore out of him—raw, animal, broken.
Rue knelt beside him, tears streaking silently down her face.
"We should've been faster," she whispered.
Spectr turned toward the entrance.
"We're not alone," he said sharply.
"Movement outside. Gangs repositioning."
Circe nodded.
"They know we're here."
Surgien tightened his grip around Zev as the latter began to shake harder—muscles coiling, breath shortening, something dark stirring beneath the surface.
"We get him out," Surgien said.
"Now."
Zev laughed once.
A hollow, shattered sound.
"They're dead," he said softly.
"I watched."
The lights flickered.
Spectr felt it then—the distortion in the air, the pressure building.
"This place isn't done with us," he said.
Outside, engines revved.
Inside, Zev's eyes burned.
And somewhere deep within him, something furious began to wake.
Done.