IMPERIAL BLACK SITE – LEVEL 8
04:29 A.M.
Two ISSD operators stood guard at a reinforced checkpoint, their carbines slung across their chests. The hallway was quiet, save for the hum of overhead LED strips and the faint beeping of biotric scanners.
"One month down here, man…" one muttered, shifting his stance. "Command better rotate us out soon. I swear, I'm starting to dream about getting a girlfriend."
His partner smirked. "I'm just wondering which girl would actually want you."
"Huh? Please. I don't look that ugly."
The Red Alarm blared.
Both n snapped to attention.
A harsh, AI-generated voice filled the air:
⚠ SECURITY BREACH DETECTED – LEVEL 10 – ALL UNITS TO COMBAT STATIONS. ⚠
The first soldier stiffened, his grip tightening on his weapon. "No. No fucking way."
His partner was already keying his radio. "Control, confirm last transmission. What's breaching Level 10?!"
Static.
Then, a voice—ragged, barely controlled:
"It's Cell Zero. The prisoner is loose."
Silence.
Then—
"Shit."
The first operator checked his optic sight, heart hamring. "We're so dead."
The squad leader's voice barked through the radio:
"All units, hold positions! Engage on sight! I repeat—engage on sight!"
They moved.
COMMAND CENTER – LEVEL 5
04:32 A.M.
Inside the Command Center, dozens of analysts and officers scrambled between control stations, barking out status reports.
On the main screen, live drone feeds showed Level 9 in total ruin—bodies torn apart, armor shredded, automated turrets crumpled like tinfoil.
Major Donovan Krause stood frozen, one hand gripping a half-burnt cigarette.
A pale-faced officer spun toward him. "Sir—Level 9's defenses are gone. The inhibitors aren't stopping him."
Krause exhaled, voice tight. "Not possible."
Another analyst cut in, panicked. "It's happening, sir. We're reading energy levels far beyond recorded paraters."
A tactical officer slamd his fist onto the desk. "Then why the fuck isn't he dead?! We threw gas, drones, turrets—"
"Nothing's working."
The room fell deathly silent.
Krause took a slow breath, forcing down the rising dread. Then—
"What the hell? How did he suddenly beco this strong? The cell was built to hold him. We also gave him enough injections to keep him weak."
A red warning icon flashed across the screen.
⚠ AUTOMATED DEFENSES – LEVEL 8 – OFFLINE. ⚠
Soone whispered, "What the…?"
Krause crushed his cigarette under his boot.
"This isn't a fucking god," he muttered. Then, turning to the nearest officer: "Patch through to all remaining units."
The comms tech hurried to comply.
Krause's voice went out across the security grid—grim, cold, absolute.
"This is Major Krause. Listen up—
No surrender. No retreat. Lock this facility down. We put this bastard in the ground."
LEVEL 8
04:38 A.M.
The ISSD operators bunkered down, weapons raised. Distant tallic groans echoed through the halls—the sound of sothing coming.
The squad leader checked his HUD. His biotric scanner showed zero allied movent on Level 9. They were the last line before the prisoner reached the elevators.
One of the younger riflen swallowed hard. "Do we even know what we're up against?"
A veteran operator checked his rifle, his jaw tight.
"You're new, huh?"
The rookie nodded.
The veteran stared down the hallway, watching as the motion tracker picked up anomalous movent.
"This ain't a prisoner," he muttered.
The lights flickered.
"It's a fucking extinction event."
Then the first screams echoed through the comms.
IMPERIAL BLACK SITE – RINEHART'S PRIVATE QUARTERS
04:27 A.M.
The room slled like stale whiskey and cigarette smoke. A single lamp buzzed weakly in the corner, casting a dim orange glow over a ss of papers, half-empty bottles, and discarded clothing.
Rinehart lay sprawled across the bed, one leg hanging off the edge, mouth slightly open, breath slow and even.
She was in nothing but her undergarnts—a lacy black set, chosen less for seduction and more for comfort. She groaned softly, shifting in her sleep, unaware of the chaos unfolding below.
Then—
Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
The bedside comm unit vibrated violently against the nightstand, skittering across the surface and knocking over an empty glass.
Rinehart twitched.
Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
She grumbled, rolling onto her stomach, burying her face into the pillow. The buzzing continued—relentless, drilling into her skull like an interrogation spotlight.
Then, suddenly—
BOOM!
A distant explosion rocked the facility. The walls trembled. Whiskey bottles rattled against the floor.
Rinehart's eyes snapped open.
She shot upright, heart hamring, brain still thick with sleep and alcohol. What the fuck?
Her hand fumbled for the comm unit, knocking over another glass in the process. "Fuck," she muttered, blinking against the harsh blue light of the screen.
A na flashed across the display.
COMMAND CENTER – URGENT
Her stomach dropped.
She pressed the button. "This better be a fucking nightmare," she rasped, her voice hoarse with sleep.
A panicked voice crackled through the speaker. "Ma'am! It's Caspian—he's out! He's tearing through Level 9! We've lost contact with the ISSD troopers!"
Rinehart froze.
Then, very carefully, she pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Say that again," she said, voice dangerously calm.
The man on the other end stamred. "Caspian—he's—he's out of his fucking cell! The mana-dampeners failed! He's massacring everyone!"
A second explosion shook the room.
Rinehart exhaled sharply. "Shit."
She swung her legs off the bed, planting her bare feet on the cold floor. Running a hand through her ssy hair, she cursed as her fingers caught on knots.
"You incompetent sons of bitches," she muttered, already moving.
Her uniform was sowhere—probably draped over a chair, buried under yesterday's reports. No ti to look. Instead, she grabbed the first thing in reach: an oversized white button-down. She yanked it over her head, barely bothering to button it properly. The hem fell to mid-thigh, covering just enough.
She snatched her sidearm from the nightstand, holstered it against her bare thigh, and—still barefoot, still half-drunk—stord out the door.
IMPERIAL BLACK SITE – COMMAND CENTER
04:44 A.M.
The room was in chaos.
Screens flashed red warnings. Sirens blared.
Major Donovan Krause was losing his shit.
"This is a goddamn catastrophe!"
Then the doors slid open with a hiss.
Rinehart stepped in—barefoot, shirt half-buttoned, hair a wild ss.
Krause whirled on her. "Where the fuck have you been?!"
Rinehart raised an eyebrow. "Sleeping. Like a sane person. What the fuck is going on?"
"You know what's going on!" Krause snapped, jabbing a finger at the screens. "Your goddamn pet just turned Level 9 into a fucking mass grave! We've thrown almost everything at him and he's still moving up! He's unstoppable!"
Rinehart sighed. "Of course he is."
She stepped forward, scanning the security footage.
Caspian was a blur of death— His expression was evil, eyes dark and empty, a walking storm of destruction.
Rinehart exhaled through her teeth. "Son of a bitch."
Krause stared at her. "That's it? That's your reaction? 'Son of a bitch'?! We are fucked!"
She turned to him. "Oh, quit your whining, Donovan. You act like this is new information. We all knew that he is dangerous."
"What the—Rinehart! He's coming here! We're the last line before he reaches the surface!"
"Yeah."
Krause's eye twitched. "Then say sothing useful, goddamn it."
Rinehart crossed her arms. "Alright."
She turned to the room.
"Listen up, you miserable excuses for security personnel."
The officers flinched.
Rinehart cracked her neck. "I don't care how fucked this situation is. We are not dying like a bunch of headless chickens."
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