Hours Later — Outside the Prison

  The outer perimeter of the prison was flooded with rotating lights.

  Ambulances lined the cracked asphalt. Police vehicles idled with engines humming low. TCF vans formed a black wall along the barricades.

  From the prison’s massive gate — its reinforced doors torn and twisted outward like a split jaw — TCF members emerged one by one, carrying what remained of their unit.

  Some walked.

  Most were carried.

  Black combat suits were soaked through, stiff with drying blood and darker substances that clung to fabric in uneven streaks. Flesh — not all of it human — smeared across armored plating.

  When the wind shifted, it carried the smell outward.

  Metallic.

  Rotting.

  Heavy enough to make the air feel textured.

  Officers near the perimeter stiffened as it reached them. One nurse turned away abruptly, hand over her mouth. Another bent near the curb, retching quietly before forcing herself back to work.

  No one complained.

  They kept moving.

  General Daka stood a short distance from the loading zone, arms folded behind his back as he watched the procession.

  He did not speak.

  This was the worst loss the TCF had taken under his command.

  He didn’t need final numbers.

  Only half had come back.

  The rest were either confirmed dead — or still inside.

  His gaze followed as medics rushed Henry toward an ambulance.

  The man was unconscious. His armor was shredded, plates bent inward, fabric torn open at the ribs and shoulder. Blood had dried in dark sheets across his chest.

  Doctors climbed in after him. The ambulance doors slammed shut. The engine revved and pulled away.

  Daka’s jaw tightened slightly.

  A surviving squad leader approached from behind. His boots dragged more than marched. His uniform was not intact either, with multiple torn and damages.

  He stopped two steps short and saluted, though his arm trembled.

  “Report.”

  The word was calm.

  The man swallowed; throat dry.

  “We cleared the prison complex, sir,” he began, forcing his voice steady. “But we think several entities escaped.”

  A pause.

  “We believe… this wasn’t random.”

  Daka’s eyes shifted toward him.

  “They coordinated,” the squad leader continued. “Most of the creatures weren’t strong enough to breach high-containment cells by force. But multiple cells were opened without force. Security systems were disabled from inside.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  His breathing grew uneven, but he forced the rest out.

  “Something with planning capability was present. At least one of them can think. Possibly lead.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Daka absorbed it without visible reaction.

  “Did you engage it?” he asked.

  “No, sir. We cleared all accessible levels. The underground waterway remained sealed. We suspect they escaped before our arrival.”

  Before we arrived.

  Daka looked back at the prison.

  The structure stood dark now, floodlights washing over its scarred exterior. Windows shattered. Concrete blackened in places.

  Too late.

  He let his gaze sweep the perimeter — TCF personnel, police, medical teams.

  One face missing, the one he wanted to see the most now.

  The prison warden.

  If the incident had been reported at the first breach… this perimeter would not be filled with stretchers.

  His expression did not change, but something hardened behind it.

  Specialized combatants had entered that place.

  They had not retreated intact.

  That fact would travel.

  “Locate the prison warden,” Daka said quietly.

  A beat.

  “And arrest him.”

  The squad leader nodded and moved.

  Daka remained where he stood, watching the final ambulance pull away.

  The wind shifted again.

  The smell lingered.

  Meanwhile — Hills Outside Bram

  Rhyvan lay stretched along the thick branch of a crooked tree, one arm thrown over his eyes.

  The bark pressed unevenly against his back. Sap clung faintly to his sleeve. He hadn’t moved in nearly half an hour.

  Above him, the sky was scattered with stars. The twin moons hung low, pale and indifferent.

  Too peaceful.

  The wind drifted through the hills, carrying dry grass and the faint trace of smoke rising from Bram.

  His breathing stayed steady.

  His thoughts did not.

  Last night had gone wrong.

  Not chaotic — worse. It had been calculated.

  Voss Group’s response was immediate. Efficient. As if they had been waiting for someone to make the first move.

  The newly arrived unit adapted too quickly. They read movement before it finished. They reacted before shots were fully fired.

  They weren’t just defending.

  They were afraid.

  That unsettled him more than the gunfire.

  Afraid of his group?

  Or afraid of something else entirely?

  Two of his people were gone.

  Captured.

  One of them was Syth.

  Rhyvan’s jaw tightened beneath his arm.

  He replayed the moment again — the split-second choice to push forward instead of withdraw. He had believed they could strike even a military compound and vanish before resistance solidified.

  He had believed wrong.

  He exhaled slowly.

  No one had died.

  That was the only fact he allowed himself to lean on.

  But capture was different.

  Capture meant interrogation.

  Capture meant leverage.

  And if Voss forced the chips into Bram’s people—

  The thought stopped there.

  He lowered his arm and stared at the sky.

  He couldn’t leave.

  Not Bram.

  He had been born here. Grew up running these hills. Every alley, every rooftop, every cracked stone wall carried memory.

  Leaving wasn’t strategy.

  It was surrender.

  The rumor network he seeded weeks ago had begun to shift the town’s mood. Outsiders were watched more closely. Questions lingered longer. Suspicion had started to take root.

  Fear could be shaped.

  If handled carefully.

  But how far it would bend before snapping — that he didn’t know.

  He shifted slightly on the branch, adjusting his balance. The height didn’t bother him. The fall wouldn’t kill him. It might not even break anything.

  He almost welcomed the clarity of something simple like gravity — step wrong, you fall. No politics. No calculation.

  He wasn’t supposed to be mapping supply routes or predicting containment strategies. He wasn’t supposed to be deciding who advanced and who retreated.

  He was supposed to be worrying about exams. Or fights that ended with bruises instead of disappearances.

  But Bram was his home.

  And no one was going to carve it apart while he watched.

  The wind turned colder.

  Syth would hold out.

  He believed that.

  He had to.

  Rhyvan closed his eyes again, syncing his breathing with the slow sway of the branch.

  Time.

  He needed time more than strength.

  For a fleeting second, a darker thought surfaced — turn the entire town at once. Push them hard. Expose everything. Force choice through pressure.

  The image formed quickly.

  And recoiled just as fast.

  This town held his family. His friends. Shopkeepers who had watched him grow. Faces that nodded to him in passing.

  He couldn’t turn Bram into a battlefield of his own making.

  Not like that.

  Time to move them without them realizing they were being moved.

  Time to understand what Voss feared.

  He hoped Toa could deliver on what he promised.

  Rhyvan let his gaze drop toward the slope below. His group rested in loose formation among the rocks and brush. From a distance, they could almost be mistaken for campers on retreat.

  If someone didn’t know better.

  They were tired.

  So was he.

  Below, the hills stretched quiet and dark.

  He did not feel defeated.

  Angry, yes.

  Sharper now.

  More careful.

  When he opened his eyes again, the hesitation was gone.

  The mistake would not repeat.