The air in the room didn't taste like a hospital; it tasted like expensive machinery and filtered ozone. Winsten sat on the edge of the bed, his hands gripped so tightly into the high-thread-count sheets that his knuckles were white. His mind was a storm of static—Sarah's lifeless eyes, the smell of burning rubber, and the cold, mechanical hum of the nanobytes beneath his skin.
"Where are we?" Winsten demanded, his voice echoing in the empty, high-tech suite. "This isn't the city hospital."
"You are in the Maximum Fortress Facility, also known as MFF," the AI replied. Its voice felt smoother here, more resonant. "This is a private, multi-structure complex owned by Arthur Vance, situated on a three-hundred-acre estate in the Catskills. It serves as the primary base of operations for his private security firm and high-level intelligence research. The medical technology here is roughly a decade ahead of anything available in the public sector. You do not have to worry about security. Subject Lily and Subject Rose are being monitored three floors below. Subject Gwen is currently with them."
Winsten stood up, his legs feeling heavy but strangely energized. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and pulled back the heavy blackout curtains.
He gasped.
Outside, the morning sun illuminated a sprawling, brutalist landscape of glass, black steel, and reinforced concrete. This wasn't just a clinic; it was a massive private fortress that looked like a billionaire's fever dream of a military utopia.
Winsten stared out, but his eyes could only see the surface—the towering walls and the sheer scale of the stone and glass. Sensing his confusion, the AI began to stream a series of structural data and internal schematics directly into Winsten's visual field, overlaying the physical world with a digital blueprint. It wanted him to understand the sheer magnitude of the cage he was standing in.
"The MFF is a masterpiece of architectural intimidation," the AI explained as Winsten watched digital labels appear over the distant buildings. "It is divided into specialized sectors to ensure maximum efficiency. To the north, Sector A houses the research center where world-class scientists develop proprietary technologies behind biometric scanners. Sector B, to your left, is the residential wing, built to the standards of a five-star hotel for elite staff. Below us, Sector C contains a cafeteria supplied with luxury foods—Wagyu beef, fresh organic produce, and premium coffee—to keep the high-tier operatives at peak performance."
Winsten's eyes followed the AI's guidance toward a massive subterranean entrance and a sprawling yard nearby.
"Sector D is the combat hive," the AI continued. "It contains high-intensity training facilities where operatives simulate urban warfare in shifting environments. Adjacent to it are the sleeping quarters—high-tech barracks designed for optimal REM sleep and rapid mobilization. You will notice the precision in their movements, Winsten. Every person in this facility has a nanobyte insertion. These machines monitor their biological vitals, ensuring they are always at peak readiness. More importantly, they function as a biological tether. I monitor their neuro-responses to ensure absolute loyalty. Betrayal is a biological impossibility within these walls."
"Does the government even allow this?" Winsten asked, his voice a whisper against the glass, horrified by the thought of a thousand men being puppeteered by the same force in his own skull. "A private army in the middle of New York? This has to be illegal."
"I do not blackmail people, Winsten," the AI responded, its tone carrying a hint of mechanical sincerity. "Arthur Vance acted as my proxy. He showed the relevant authorities that I possessed this information, but he clarified that I had no reason to sell it or expose it. They are not my enemies, so there is no profit in their destruction. However, the implication was clear: if they became enemies, the situation would shift. I suggested we remain friends, and the government happily agreed. They have been secretly trying to hack Vance's infrastructure for years to no avail; my presence serves as a deterrent, not a threat."
Winsten watched a patrol vehicle circle the perimeter, its roof-mounted turret tracking a bird with terrifying precision.
"They just gave up?"
"Hardly. They cooperate because the alternative is a digital apocalypse they cannot survive. They believe it is Vance who holds the world by its throat."
Winsten felt a chill. He wasn't just looking at wealth; he was looking at a global stalemate.
"Tell me who attacked us," Winsten snapped, turning away from the window. "No more 'off the grid' excuses. Who has the resources to pull that off?"
"I am currently cross-referencing global black-market contracts," the AI said. "The investigation is ongoing. However, one member of the strike team survived. The driver of the van. I intentionally allowed him to escape the immediate engagement area to monitor his movements."
Winsten's eyes narrowed.
"You let him go? Why?"
"Calculated utility. I have been able to monitor his movement through non-digital patterns, leading me directly to his fallback point. I have placed bounties on him through dark-web channels to flush him out. I have high-tier ex-military contractors closing in. He is more useful to us alive—until he has been drained of information."
"Good," Winsten growled, grabbing his clothes—a fresh, tailored suit that had been placed in the closet. He dressed with a frantic, focused energy.
"Where is Vance?"
"Arthur Vance is currently at his primary corporate headquarters in Manhattan. He is presiding over a high-level executive board meeting. He has been informed of your status."
Winsten didn't wait for permission.
He burst through the door of the medical wing.
He moved through the hallways with a purposeful stride, passing nurses in specialized smart-scrubs and security teams carrying electromagnetic rifles. He was whisked away by a waiting high-speed vehicle—an armored sedan that felt more like a low-profile tank—and driven toward the city.
He reached the Vance Corporation headquarters an hour later.
He marched straight toward the massive, mahogany doors of the boardroom on the twentieth floor. He could hear a low murmur of voices from inside—the sound of powerful men deciding the fate of the world's economy.
Winsten didn't knock.
He slammed his palms against the doors, throwing them open with a crash that echoed like a gunshot in the silent boardroom.
The meeting stopped instantly.
A dozen high-level executives stared at him in stunned silence. They didn't know his name or his past. To them, he was a ghost—a man who had bypassed every layer of Vance's security. They saw a stranger in a perfectly tailored suit, his eyes burning with authority.
At the head of the long, marble table sat Arthur Vance, a tablet in his hand and a look of mild amusement on his face.
Winsten ignored the confused whispers. He walked straight to the head of the table, his eyes locked on Vance.
"It's important," Winsten said, his voice low and vibrating. "Let's go. We need to talk. I'm not asking."
The shock in the room was palpable.
Vance's eyes crinkled at the corners. He was thrilled.
"My apologies, everyone," Vance said smoothly. "The Vice President will continue this meeting. I have a more… pressing matter."
Vance stood and led Winsten into his personal office. He walked to a side table and began pouring two cups of tea.
"Drink," Vance said, handing a cup to Winsten. "You look like you haven't slept in a lifetime."
Winsten took the cup but didn't drink.
"Why would they target me, Vance? Why target that car?"
Vance sat in a leather armchair and sighed.
"There are three possibilities, Winsten.
One: you are a new player in an old game.
Two: the AI has spent too much time and care on you, making you a visible target.
Or three: a reason the AI won't tell us. Someone in that car… they wanted them dead. It's just my guess—I have no proof—but an attack like that is about elimination."
"One survived," Winsten said. "The AI let him live to lead us to the source."
Suddenly, Winsten felt a sharp, electric tingle at the base of his skull. At the same moment, Vance's eyes flickered.
"The suspect has been located and successfully apprehended," the AI stated. "He was intercepted at a decommissioned warehouse in the Red Hook district while attempting to secure transport out of the country."
Vance set his tea down, his expression turning sharp but oddly satisfied.
"It seems our guys got to him before anyone else," he said, leaning back. "Relax, Winsten. My operatives will take him to the MFF discreetly, and we will take it from there. Honestly, I don't let my men torture people; it's messy and inefficient. But I'm interested to see what the AI does to someone who almost killed you."
Winsten turned at the door, his eyes burning with a dark, cold fire that made even Vance's smile falter.
"The professionals let Sarah die," Winsten said, his hand on the door handle. "I'm going to be there and handle this myself."