The sewer stank of rust and rot, a cocktail of decay that clung to Lucien's throat like smoke. He held a torn cloth to his nose and gagged as he crouched behind Crick, who was leading the way with a stolen flashlight wedged between his teeth.
"Are you sure this is the path?" Lucien whispered, his voice bouncing off the wet concrete walls.
Crick nodded, not turning. "Past the third grate, we take the right fork. That'll bring us just beneath the cooling ducts."
Lucien grumbled. "And what if the guards are already posted there?"
Crick spat out the flashlight and turned. His pale face was streaked with grime, but his eyes were resolute. "Then we improvise."
Lucien didn't respond. There was no need. They both knew what was at stake.
They crept forward in silence, boots splashing in shallow filth, until they reached a corroded hatch sealed with a rusted lock. The warehouse loomed directly above them—Trigger production central, guarded and supposedly impenetrable.
Crick reached into his satchel and pulled out a bent crowbar. "Step back."
Lucien obeyed, one hand resting on the wall for balance. The first crack of metal-on-metal rang through the narrow tunnel like a gunshot. Crick winced, cursed, and hit again. The lock groaned. On the fourth strike, it snapped.
CLANG.
They froze.
Nothing.
Only the distant hum of the city above and the gentle drip of water from unseen pipes.
Crick pushed the hatch open, and moonlight spilled into the sewer. "Let's go."
They climbed up into the alley behind the warehouse. The industrial air was cold and sharp, filled with the scent of processed chemicals and ionized metal. Security drones floated silently overhead in timed patterns.
Lucien watched the lights blink and nodded. "Now."
They bolted across the alley, ducked into the rear service corridor, and reached the main interior hallway. Crick knelt beside a keypad, fingers moving quickly to bypass the input sequence.
Click. The door slid open with a sigh.
Inside, the warehouse was a maze of glimmering chrome and reinforced glass, humming machines, and containment crates stacked to the ceiling. They moved like shadows through it all—one crouched, the other limber.
In a wide-open storage chamber, two guards patrolled the entrance to the Trigger vault. Crick whispered, "I'll handle them."
"Wait—Crick—"
But the boy had already moved.
Crick darted from behind the crates like a spark let loose. The guards barely had time to react before one was struck across the face with a knee, the other shoved against the wall with a shriek of alarm. They struggled, but Crick—though small—was quick and trained. A few bursts of raw Nano-pressure from his palms, and both guards slumped unconscious on the ground.
Lucien stepped over them, blinking. "Remind me never to doubt you again."
Crick smirked. "I am a Rank 9 walker, remember? Weak as it sounds… it's still something."
Together, they approached the storage unit. The Trigger was sealed in vials—glowing liquid the color of pale fire, arranged in triple-layered containment trays. Lucien's breath caught at the sight.
"This much…" he whispered. "It's more than enough."
Crick nodded and pulled two empty flasks from his belt. "We take only what we need. Any more and the weight slows us down."
Lucien bent forward, removed the seal, and carefully siphoned two vials into the flasks. He held one up to the flickering ceiling light.
"Ready?"
But before Crick could answer—
WEEEUUU-WEEEUUU.
The alarm blared through the facility, a screeching wail that split through metal, glass, and nerves.
Lucien cursed. "That wasn't part of the plan."
"No shit!" Crick shouted, grabbing his bag. "Something tripped the internal sensors!"
"We disabled the cameras!"
"Yeah, but not the bio-scanners!"
Red lights flared from all directions. The sleek hallways once silent and sacred now thrummed with urgency and sirens.
Lucien turned to Crick, his pulse hammering. "Alright—calm down."
"Calm down? We're dead!"
"No," Lucien said, gripping Crick's shoulder tightly. "We're alive. We're still alive. That means we move. Nothing goes smoothly in this world. Nothing. So we run."
Crick looked at him—scared, wide-eyed, and for a second, not the quick-witted boy Lucien knew. Just a child caught in a storm.
Then he nodded. "Back through the duct?"
"Back through the duct."
They ran.
Back through the blinking corridors and over unconscious guards. Back through crates of glowing power and humming terminals. Through emergency doors and fire shutters. Through sewage and silence.
And all the while, Lucien clutched the flask close, its light a tiny, burning hope.
A chance.
They burst into the alley once again, just as automated drones zipped to life above. They didn't speak as they dived into the sewer again and sealed the hatch.
Only when the hum of alarms faded behind stone and silence did Lucien exhale.
"Damn," Crick whispered, panting, dripping, his face pale.
Lucien chuckled breathlessly. "Well," he said. "That could've gone worse."
"Could've gone smoother."
"Does anything ever go smoothly?"
Crick laughed through a choke. "No."
They sat in the wet dark, backs against cold concrete, Trigger vials glinting between them.
In the silence, Lucien whispered, "We're in this now. Deeper than before. You still with me?"
Crick looked at him and smiled faintly. "Senior Brother, always."
The air still tasted of fire and metal when Crick finally sat down, panting against a rusted pipe, clutching a bruised rib. They had made it out—or so Lucien thought.
Outside, the night howled with wind, sirens long gone silent. They had hidden inside a ventilation shaft that led to the derelict service tunnels bordering the factory's perimeter. The only light came from a flickering arc lamp suspended from the wall by a frayed black wire, buzzing like an insect in distress.
Crick wiped sweat from his brow, exhaling a shaky breath.
"This world..." he began, voice softer than usual, "it's a lot bigger than I thought. Too big."
Lucien narrowed his eyes, about to respond.
Then— snap.
The air folded.
The metallic scent returned—sharper, like freshly bled iron. The glow around them shifted—warped—and suddenly, Lucien blinked.
They weren't in the tunnel anymore.
They were back inside the warehouse.
Same alarms. Same red haze. Same pulsing lights. The thrum of industrial silence—where all the machines had once lived—was now a cavernous heartbeat echoing across the steel skeleton of the room.
Lucien's head jerked around. "No—no, no, no," he murmured. "We left. We escaped."
Crick was standing now, wide-eyed and confused. "Lucien... this isn't right."
"No shit," Lucien snapped, but the fear in his voice cracked the words apart. "This is wrong. We didn't come back here. We couldn't have."
Crick took a step forward, glancing up toward the red emergency lights blinking rhythmically on the rafters. The warehouse seemed to breathe. The walls pulsed. Shadows clung in corners they hadn't before. Nothing made sense anymore.
Lucien turned in a slow circle, scanning for something—anything—that resembled logic. A trigger. A breach in the Nano-veil. A pocketwatch that ticked backwards. Anything.
But it wasn't there.
Then—a wet sound.
Like a boot settling into mud.
Like steel sliding through something soft.
Lucien turned around.
Crick stood frozen, mouth trembling. His eyes were wide—but confused. His body was oddly stiff. Something was wrong with his posture. Too still. Too silent.
Then Lucien saw it.
A blade, thin as a whisper, protruding from Crick's chest. His shirt, once dusty grey, bloomed red.
"Crick!"
Lucien lunged forward, catching him just before he collapsed.
But there was no one behind him.
No attacker.
No shadow.
No sound.
Just the blade.
It retracted on its own, sliding out with a sickening hiss, and disappearing into nothing.
Crick's body went slack in Lucien's arms.
Blood—warm, horrifyingly warm—splashed across Lucien's face. He could taste it on his tongue. Metallic. Human.
"Crick—Crick!"
He shook him, his voice cracking like glass. "Talk to me! Say something!"
Crick's lips moved, but no words came.
Lucien looked around, wild-eyed. "WHO'S THERE?!"
Silence answered him.
The warehouse remained bathed in the same pulsing red glow. Machines frozen. Lights flickering. The universe... watching.
Lucien's hands trembled, covered in red. His breathing turned ragged. Panic, fury, grief, disbelief—everything rushed in, all at once.
Then—
Darkness.
It came not like the night—but like suffocation. Thick. Heavy. Absolute.
Then—
Lucien blinked.
Crick was beside him again, his young face lit faintly by the glow of distant city lights.
"...This world... it's a lot bigger than I thought. Too big."
Lucien's breath caught.
No. Not again.
He reached for Crick, trembling. "Wait, Crick—!"
But the red glow returned.
The warehouse.
Again.
The alarms. The blood. The cold.
Crick stood. The blade came. The spray of red. The collapse. The lifeless eyes.
Lucien fell to his knees, screaming until his throat tore itself raw.
Then—darkness.
He blinked again.
Crick was beside him.
"...It's a lot bigger than I thought—"
Back again.
Warehouse. Blade. Blood. Collapse.
Darkness.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Lucien had lost count after ten. His body began to shake violently with every new loop. His soul felt like it was cracking.
Thirteen times.
Crick's blood soaked his hands thirteen times.
Fourteen.
Lucien dropped to the cold, metallic floor, arms wrapped around Crick's small, limp body. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed, dry from weeping too long. His voice now came in hoarse, broken gasps.
"Please..." he whimpered, lips quivering. "Please... I beg you... I can't—I can't do it anymore... Please... have mercy... Mercy... I'm sorry—just stop... stop... please..."
His hands clung to Crick's shirt, drenched in warm red. His knees scraped the floor. His tears mixed with the blood, streaking across Crick's cheeks like a child's attempt at face paint.
Lucien's mind wasn't breaking anymore.
It was broken.
His forehead pressed against Crick's.
"I'm sorry, Crick. I'm sorry... I couldn't protect you. I should've been stronger. You're just a kid. I was supposed to... I... I was supposed to keep you safe... I don't even know why I'm here... I don't know who I am anymore..."
He screamed—not out of anger, but anguish.
"I said PLEASE! WHOEVER YOU ARE—STOP!!"
Then—
A voice.
Humming.
A girl's voice.
Soft. Mocking. Playful.
♪ La... la... la-la-la... ♪
Lucien's head jerked up.
The blood went cold on his cheeks.
The humming stopped with a sigh.
"Huh...? Not fun at all. I could keep going."
The voice came from behind.
Lucien turned slowly—his eyes wide, his breath caught in his lungs.
There she stood.
A girl.
Young—maybe thirteen or fourteen—wearing a porcelain white dress spattered with faint pink like cherry blossoms. Her hair was snow-white, long and trailing behind her like ink bleeding through water. Her skin glowed faintly in the red light of the warehouse alarms. Her irises were golden. Not yellow. Not amber.
Gold.
And in the center of her forehead—a faint glowing symbol. A circle within a triangle. A mark no child should bear.
She tilted her head, expression mild. In her hand, a blood-drenched marionette dangled from red strings—its head shaped suspiciously like Crick's.
"I was just getting started," she said, smiling. "But I guess you're no fun if you break too early."
Lucien couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
His mouth trembled. His heartbeat thundered.
The girl held a finger to her lips. "Shhh... Let's not scream again. He might wake up."
She pointed lazily at Crick's body, still lying still in Lucien's arms.
Lucien whispered, his voice so quiet it was nearly air. "Who... are you?"
"Hello, Lucien," she said with a small wave. "Surprised?"
"I'm the one you called… what was it yesterday?" she asked. "Zivah?"
She tilted her head. "You don't recognize me now, do you? That's because this—" she gestured to herself "—is my real self."
His lips parted.
"…What are you?" he said.
"I've been playing for weeks now," she went on. "The crying girl. The memory-loss victim. The damsel in distress. It was so boring until this part." She grinned and spun around in place like a dancer. "Watching you scream and beg—art."
Lucien stood slowly, Crick's body still in his arms.
"Why?" he asked, voice hollow.
She shrugged. "Orders. I'm an assassin. Your name came up. And well—can't question the Cardinals."
"No," he said. "You were… you were a kid. Just a scared girl—"
Don't be naive." Her voice cut sharp. "That version was just data. A face. You humans are so quick to project meaning onto expressions. Tears don't equal weakness. Smiles don't equal innocence. It was all fabricated. Carefully calibrated to earn Crick's trust. Yours too, eventually."
Her smirk widened. "You're more important than you think. Lucien Adrek.
Lucien's heart pounded. "Crick... what did he do to deserve this?"
"Nothing," she said casually. "He was just... attached to you. Collateral."
Lucien screamed. Not in fear. Not in despair.
In rage.
"You... you monster—" he lunged forward, but Zivah vanished like a mirage. Her voice echoed from behind him.
"I'll let you mourn. Just know—it's only going to get worse from here."
Her presence disappeared.
Silence.
Only the buzzing alarms and the heavy thump of Lucien dropping to his knees once again.
He clutched Crick's body. His voice was almost too soft to hear.
"…why… why him…?"
Lucien stood in silence.
His hands trembled. His jaw clenched.
He fell to his knees.
Lucien pressed his forehead against the rooftop floor.
"…I failed him. I wasn't strong enough. I let Crick trust her. I let him die."
Then he whispered.
"Oh…Resentment of Lucien Adrek…"
The name lingered like breath on glass.
"I've decided."
He stood.
"I… Tochukwu Justin Izuchukwu… from this day forward…"
His voice steadied.
"I rise anew."
His posture straightened, chin raised.
"In the name of the Son of the Esteemed Wing of Gold. The Wing of the Glorious House Adrek. Lucien Adrek."
The air stilled.
Then—a presence.
A faint, golden circle formed in front of him. From the edges of the rooftop, the fog thickened, spiraling toward the center where Lucien stood. The ghostly figure of the Resentment took shape—tattered robes, eyes like hollow suns, voice like echoes in ancient steel.
"Good job," it said. "You've chosen the path... not of vengeance, but of purpose."
Lucien nodded once.
The Resentment raised a fading hand. "With the last ember of my soul, I grant you the spark you need. Use it to forge your will. Walk the path I could not."
From the hollow chest of the specter, a golden light burst forth—small, like a star being born. It entered Lucien's chest.
And everything changed.
The world paused.
No sound. No breath. No wind.
A thread of symbols—coded, ancient, etched in light—wrapped around his arms and back. Nano energy surged, not wildly, but in form. The fog around him turned to color. The metal under his feet pulsed with warmth.
He felt it.
Not fire. Not lightning. Not power.
Purpose.
The Resentment faded, its voice now a final whisper.
"Become more than me. Not just Lucien... but the man the world has no choice but to remember."