I couldn't shake the feeling that Vex had noticed something. Something I had missed.

I had Grizzly's face — scar slashing across it exactly as it should, eyes sharp with the weight of bloodshed, clothes stained in all the right places. Every detail matched, but Vex had looked too long. He wasn't convinced. Somewhere in the way I spoke or moved, the mask had slipped.

I checked the oily puddle at my feet. Grizzly stared back — rough features, the smirk of a man who owned every room he walked into. It looked perfect, but the feeling wasn't there. The control, the presence—it was missing, and I could see it.

Every movement was a struggle, as if I wasn't moving but performing. Each word grated on the ear with its artificiality. Even my voice lacked the hoarse venom that Grizzly possessed, as if the very air he breathed was saturated with malice. All of this irritated me to the point of stomach cramps.

Vex saw me as I was trying to be. But perhaps he noticed something I couldn't convincingly portray.

What if Vex had noticed? What if he had already whispered to someone that I wasn't who I claimed to be? This thought, like a splinter, dug deeper with every step. In the narrow streets, every glance cast my way seemed too sharp, too lingering. Every word that escaped other mouths sounded like an encrypted signal that could mean only one thing: "He's here. It's him."

I tried to convince myself that the deception had worked. That I had passed through the gate—and that was all that truly mattered. But the feeling that I was walking on a knife's edge wouldn't leave me. One wrong move—and I would plummet to my death. Or a fate worse than death.

I couldn't afford a mistake. Every step had to be not just confident, but imbued with the careless arrogance that went hand in hand with Grizzly. Every look—piercing, heavy, so steeped in contempt that anyone who dared approach would have their breath catch in their throat.

Clenching my fists, I focused on the rhythm of my steps. This was my only chance—not just to impersonate Grizzly, but to become him. Completely. At least for a time. To move as he moved. To look as he looked. To be not a man, but a threat, forged from rage and scorn.

Everything depended on it. One wrong step—one false note in movement or word—and I would lose everything. The chance to learn the truth. The chance to understand who I was and why I was here.

The air clawed its way into my lungs, thick with rot, burnt metal, and a sweetness that turned the stomach. Each breath felt tainted, the taste of decay coated my throat like rust. The streets closed in, forcing the crowd into a suffocating press. People moved like dying machines, hollow faces dragging forward without purpose. Their eyes stayed low, steps unsteady, as if stopping would be the final mistake.

Vendors yelled, tearing the air with their desperate voices. Their stalls were a pathetic sight — piles of filthy junk displayed as if they were treasures. One waved a can of expired goods as if it were his last chance at salvation. Another held a weapon, more like scrap metal, and swore it could still fire. Ammunition lay nearby—rusty, dangerous, but not to the one who bought it, but to anyone who tried to use it.

From one alleyway came the heavy, greasy smell of fried meat. I didn't even turn. It wasn't the kind of meat worth eating. Or even asking where it came from.

I stepped over another pile of refuse, trying to avoid a stream of dirty water gushing from a rusted pipe. The stench was suffocating, but in this place, no one noticed such trifles anymore. A man leaned against the pipe, hunched under the weight of his miserable existence. His coat, patched beyond recognition, resembled more a rag.

In his hands, he clutched a small, rusty tin can, as if it held the last vestige of meaning in his life. He didn't even flinch when a thin, nimble hooligan darted past, trying to snatch the can from his fingers. The scuffle lasted a moment—a short tug, a rough gasp, and the hooligan dissolved into the crowd as if he had never been there.

The vagrant remained seated, unblinking, staring into the void. The void stared back at him.

Children rummaged through the garbage heaps along the road, like a pack of small, starving animals. Their hands moved quickly, tenaciously, their eyes fixed on the ground, searching for something that could pass for value — or at least for food. Among the debris, I noticed bones. Not animal bones. None of the passersby even slowed their pace. Everyone here had their own struggle, and the horrors of others had long become a commonplace backdrop.

A merchant rattled past with a cart creaking under the weight of its load—a jumble of rusty junk and dusty boxes. His head was lowered, his shoulders slumped under the weight of not only his goods, but also the gazes that followed him from the shadows. The shotgun fastened to the edge of the cart was not for show—this was clear from the way his fingers nervously played near the trigger. He knew: those who preferred to take rather than trade could be waiting around any corner.

This was Sector 11, and it never pretended to be anything else. Everything here was brutally honest—darkness, filth, and contempt for the very fact of its existence.

Moving through these filthy alleyways was unsettling, yet strangely familiar. The streets stretched out as if recognized, sending a chill down my spine. I knew I had never been here, but Grizzly's memory whispered otherwise. It struck my consciousness with fragments, alien, stolen images, as if I were seeing through his eyes and feeling his fears.

I knew where to turn before even reaching the corner. I knew which shadows were safe and in which knives hid, ready to rip open anything that fell within reach. This knowledge was sticky, unpleasant, as if I had been infected with it. The rhythm of the slums began to form in my head as if I had been born here. The network of narrow passages, crumbling streets, and senseless dead ends twisted with one single purpose—to ensnare and destroy those who hadn't learned to move fast enough.

Every detail spoke louder than words. The unwritten rules of the slums manifested themselves in the glances and postures of those who moved around. Squatters huddled in doorways squinted from under heavy eyelids as if saying: "Don't linger — don't provoke." Groups of workers loitering too close to the supply depot hinted that blood would soon be spilled here.

These streets didn't belong to me, but I understood them. Or, worse, they understood me.

I turned into a narrow passage and spotted three figures leaning casually against a wall. My eyes adjusted to the half-darkness before they even noticed me. Their faces became clear, though they were half-hidden under the flickering light of a busted lumen globe. Not Vultures, but they weren't strangers to Grizzly either. Grizzly's memories rose unbidden, snapping their names into focus. Drash, a wiry thug with a broken nose. Kren, stocky and mean, always nursing a grudge. The third was Lara, sharp-eyed and quicker than both. Grizzly's dealings with them came in flashes—backhanded compliments, tense trades, and the occasional near-violent fallout. They were the kind you worked with when you had to, but never trusted.

I could already hear the snide remarks and prodding questions that would follow if I walked straight into them. Grizzly had made sure they knew his temper well, but I wasn't interested in playing his role so soon. Better to let them stew on the shadows passing by, wondering if they'd imagined me. I turned my path slightly, keeping my stride steady, my head low, and my face tilted just enough to stay in the dark. Their murmured conversation didn't falter. For now, they didn't notice me.

The itch in the back of my skull said Grizzly would've handled them differently—maybe a threat, maybe a fight, but he wouldn't have avoided them. I wasn't Grizzly, not fully. Not yet.

Each step deeper into the slum dragged more of his world into focus. I could sense where the air grew thicker with tension and knew to avoid alleyways where the faint scuff of boots meant a shake-down was already in progress. It wasn't something Grizzly had been taught. It was something he'd lived. Now, it was mine, wrapped around me like a second skin I couldn't peel off.


It started small. A slight change in the air, a tension that made the slum's usual chaos pull tighter around the edges. The streets widened just enough to let the mess spill to the sides, though even that felt intentional, like someone had swept it there and stopped just short of cleaning it up entirely. The usual reek of burning refuse and stagnant water still clung to everything, but it was muted, smothered under something sharper—grease, oil, gunmetal. There was a rhythm here, deliberate and brutal, forcing the slum into something that passed for order.

The first sign was the bodies. Not dead ones—not this time—but the living who dared to linger in the wrong place. Traders stood at rickety stalls, their wares laid out neatly despite the dirt and grime. Crude tools, weapons, and salvaged tech sat on display, arranged with just enough care to suggest a fear of what might happen if they weren't. The vendors kept their heads down, shoulders hunched against the glances of passing enforcers. The desperation was still there, still etched deep in every line of their faces, but it was quieter now. Controlled. No one begged here. No one dared.

The beggars and scavengers I'd seen earlier, the ones rifling through piles of rot and filth, were conspicuously absent. The addicts too were nowhere to be seen. Grizzly's memories bubbled up unbidden, painting a clearer picture of why. This was Vultures' turf now, and they didn't tolerate weakness, not here. People who couldn't offer something—credits, work, respect—didn't last long in places like this. They were removed, swept aside like the refuse piling in the cracks of the ferrocrete. The Vultures were efficient that way. The weak had no place under their watch.

And yet, it wasn't clean. The streets were still coated in grime, the walls still streaked with rust and age. Wires hung lower here, tangled and sparking, their presence somehow deliberate. It was cleaner, yes, but not pristine. The hive's decay wasn't gone. It had been weaponized.

Armed gang members made their presence clear, moving in pairs and small clusters that spread like veins through the streets. They weren't sloppy like the small-time scavengers or thugs I'd passed earlier. Their movements carried purpose, their weapons — scarred and scavenged but functional — held in plain view. Shotguns, blunt implements, even a few chainswords hung from their belts, gleaming faintly under the sputtering lumen light. They weren't there to hide. They were there to remind.

The people noticed. Residents moved quickly, with lowered heads, avoiding glances and unnecessary movements. A man bumped into one of the Vultures as he rushed past. The enforcer turned sharply, hand on his belt, but the man dropped to his knees before a blow could fall, muttering frantic apologies and thrusting out a handful of crumpled credits. The Vulture lingered just long enough to make the fear settle deep, then took the credits and walked on without a word. It wasn't mercy. It was calculation. Grizzly's memories explained it before I could. Fear was worth more than blood.

Grizzly's bitter and knowing thoughts slithered through me. This wasn't charity. It wasn't even pride. The Vultures' order served a purpose. Tighter streets, controlled faces, fewer addicts clawing at the walls — these were the marks of a gang that understood how to make their power last. They didn't just take scraps and run. They held ground, turned it into something usable, something profitable.

My gaze shifted toward a side street where a group of Vultures were shaking down a trader. The man's hands trembled as he counted credits into the waiting palm of one enforcer. Another stood nearby, holding a battered slug-thrower casually over his shoulder. The transaction was quiet, methodical. When the Vultures turned and left, the trader sagged against his cart, drained but alive. He was lucky, Grizzly's memories told me. Compliance kept bones intact.

The streets here punished hesitation. Each step had to show purpose, like I belonged, like I mattered. Grizzly's instincts guided me—how to move, where to look. People avoided me, their gazes skimming past, unwilling to stop.

Vultures' symbols covered the walls and hung from windows. Crossing into their turf meant playing by their rules or paying for it. Grizzly's memories reminded me: marks like these came with teeth.

The deeper I went, the quieter the hive became. The chaotic noise outside faded, replaced by cruel laughter and sharp thuds. The air reeked of rust and oil, the hum of dying machines beneath everything. This wasn't a place that lived—it endured.

The Vultures had carved order from the rot. Their grip was brutal, but it worked. People here didn't rebel, they survived. Missteps weren't mistakes—they were death sentences.

I scrutinized myself—my face, posture, clothing. Ahead, a shard of grimy glass caught the light, casting back a hazy silhouette. The face staring back was as it should be—firm, with a predatory sneer familiar to Grizzly. The scar on my forehead, the worn clothes—everything was in place. I exhaled, letting the tension ease just slightly.

And that was when I noticed it.

The patch on the jacket. It was reversed, mirrored like a clumsy stencil print. For a moment, the hive's hum vanished, leaving only me, my reflection, and this absurd detail.

Could Vex have seen it? Not the face, not the voice, not the movements. All of that could pass as authentic. But the patch, turned inside out...

The absurdity of it struck me, forcing out a sharp chuckle I instantly tried to stifle. Of all possible mistakes, this one had become the crucial flaw. I had crafted someone else's face, copied their clothes, the dirt, every detail—yet I missed something so trivial.

I smothered the laughter, but the unease lingered. It felt as though the universe itself had decided to mock me. Forcing the smirk to vanish, I looked around.

The Vultures patrolled with their usual cold precision, weapons ready. Merchants huddled over their stalls, whispering as if it might shield them from prying eyes. Outwardly, nothing had changed, but the unease burned sharper within me.

No one had noticed. Except Vex.

The laugh died, replaced by a cold knot in my gut. Vex had seen it—of course he had—and was probably already whispering to someone higher up.

I touched the insignia. My skin rippled beneath my fingers as it adjusted, correcting itself with a faint pull only I could feel. One last glance in the reflection confirmed it: sharp, perfect, no longer the punchline to some cruel joke.

I shouldn't have found it funny. I knew that. Still, the stupidity of it lingered — the way something so minor could've undone me. A backwards mark. That's all it had taken. The thought almost made me laugh again, but I crushed it. Locked it away. The mask was fixed, but perfection didn't guarantee safety. From now on, there was no room for mistakes.

Not even the funny ones.

The streets forced me toward the Vultures' headquarters. A gutted manufactorum turned into a fortress loomed ahead. Jagged metal and salvaged scrap covered its walls, filling gaps with whatever could hold. The entire design was there to warn as if saying: step closer and bleed.

Sentries lined the perimeter, having rifles and autoguns within easy reach. Some leaned against walls, pretending boredom, but their weapons betrayed the truth. The grips were worn smooth, barrels aimed like they didn't need an excuse.

Grizzly's blunt and familiar memories cut through. He knew this place too well — the paths behind the barricades, the spots where guards waited to fire without hesitation. The knowledge didn't comfort. It felt like the place watched, waiting for a mistake.

I kept moving, keeping steady pace, face set in Grizzly's scowl. The sentries tracked me. One casually shifted his rifle, but the intent was clear: he didn't need a reason to pull the trigger.

Someone muttered my name, just loud enough for me to hear.

I didn't slow down. Didn't look. Grizzly wouldn't have acknowledged it, and neither would I. Up close, the walls of the manufactorum felt heavier, thick with layers of decay and fortification. The entrance had been refitted with a massive iron gate, crudely automated. Its gears began grinding and rattling as it opened just wide enough to let me through.

Inside, the noise of the streets fell away. The manufactorum's skeleton was still here — hulking machinery left to rust, catwalks sagging under their own weight—but the Vultures had carved their kingdom into its bones. Crates and stolen supplies were stacked high in clusters, forming makeshift walls and pathways. Oil drums burned in the corners, casting thick smoke into the rafters, while weapons — gleaming, mismatched, and deadly—lined tables where gang members sat cleaning or trading them.

It felt alive in a way that the rest of the hive didn't. The slums were aimless, crawling with desperation. This place had focus. Purpose. Everything here, from the barricades to the grimy oil fires, existed to keep the Vultures on top. The people inside reflected that.

Groups of enforcers sat on crates, playing games with worn cards or throwing dice, their laughter loud and sharp. Others patrolled the interior with the same predatory ease I'd seen outside, weapons slung loose but ready. The air smelled of oil, sweat, and cooking meat, undercut by something sharper—blood, maybe, or the memory of it.

I kept moving. Grizzly would've belonged here, like a predator in its den. I reminded myself of that with every step, even as my skin prickled under their stares. I wasn't walking into a gang hideout. I was walking into their home. That was the difference. They knew who they were and what they owned, and they would tear apart anyone who didn't belong.

I trudged past a bunch of Vultures picking through their bloody spoils. One of them looked up - a scrawny man with moves too clean for a common thug. He twirled a knife between his fingers, hiding his face hidden under a black hood.

"Grizzly," he drawled. His voice was slick as oil but cold enough to freeze your guts. He tilted back. Light caught his face — all sharp angles and hollow cheeks, with this little smile stuck on his face like a death mask. "Heard the Bonebreakers turned your crew into paste out by that shuttle wreck."

Grizzly knew him. Ghost. A proper killer in a gang of amateur butchers. Didn't need muscle or fancy guns - just needed one clean shot, one precise stroke. If he had you marked, you were already dead. They called him Ghost, cause he'd melt into these hive streets like a shadow. People whispered about him in the dark corners - said he once stalked a rival boss for three nights straight. Slipped past guards, dodged the traps, then gutted his target without a sound. Nobody ever found more than scraps.

Ghost's eyes — pale as a corpse's — locked onto me.

"Back, eh?" he dragged the words out. "All by your lonesome. Ain't that just a stroke of luck?"

I slammed my hands on the table.

"Those bastards knew exactly where to hit. Someone ran their mouth," I growled. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

Ghost's smile turned ugly, eyes narrowing like a snake about to strike.

"Sure did," he purred. "But I wasn't anywhere near that mess, was I?"

The words stank up the air between us. Standing up straight, I brushed off my sleeve.

"Barik still holding court?"

Ghost's creepy smile died. He jerked his head toward the back room, barely nodding.

"Yeah. Barik wants the story on that shuttle." He paused, cocking his head. His voice dropped to a death rattle. "Whatever you found out there... bury it deep. Some things ain't meant to see daylight."

I nodded briefly and walked on, feeling his gaze on my back. The Ghost's silence spoke more than words: his precision reminded me that the most dangerous weapon is the one that remains invisible.

The corridors were cleaner and tighter than the chaos outside. Cracks in the ferrocrete had been filled with slag, and red and black lines traced clear paths down the halls. The air carried the sharp smell of metal and effort, the kind that spoke of forced order in a place that barely clung to it.

Weapons and gear lined the walls in numbered racks. Harsh lumen strips lit the space, flickering weakly and failing to chase the grime from the corners. The entire hideout felt more like a war camp built to keep the Vultures in control.

At the end of the corridor, thick metal doors loomed, flanked by guards. Scarred faces and battered armor marked them as harder than the men outside. One gave me a flat, silent look, daring me to flinch.

"Barik's waitin'."

He keyed a small panel on the wall, and the doors slid open with a grinding groan. The room beyond hit me with a sudden silence, heavy and intentional, like the hum of the hive outside had been sealed off entirely.

Barik's office sprawled, cavernous and heavy with control. The machinery was gone, replaced with trophies—faded banners, battered helmets, and worn weapons. A massive table sat in the center, scarred with a crude map of the hive. Pins and scratches crisscrossed its surface, marking routes and claims with obsessive precision.

As I stood there, something rippled at the edge of my awareness—subtle, but unmistakable. A faint heat, like a slow exhale against my skin, emanating from somewhere just beyond the walls. It wasn't the industrial warmth of engines or vents that kept the hive alive. This was different. Wrong. It pulsed faintly, rhythmic and steady, as though something vast and unseen was breathing nearby, its presence pressing against the edges of the room.

I froze. My senses sharpened, but there was nothing — no sound, no movement — just the hum of the lumen strips and the faint rustle of Barik shifting in his chair. The heat lingered, crawling up my spine and into my skull, a pressure that made the air feel thicker than it should have been. I didn't know if it was real, if something unnatural was bleeding through the walls, or if it was my mind fraying under the weight of this place.

I blinked and forced my breathing steady. The feeling passed—or maybe I pushed it down—and I focused again. The lighting here was low, the lumen strips dimmed to an orange glow that spilled shadows across the walls. It gave the place an oppressive air, like I'd walked into the belly of something that didn't know it was dead yet. At the far end of the room sat Barik, and at first glance, he looked almost laughably unremarkable.

He was a bit scrawny, the kind of man you'd miss if you passed him on the street—narrow shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of a battered black jacket, his frame wiry but not gaunt. The hollows of his cheeks hinted at a life spent eating less than he worked, though his skin was clear of the scars most men here wore like medals. His hands rested on the armrests of his chair, fingers drumming faintly, almost absently, as his dull brown eyes watched me.

But Grizzly's memories hissed a warning, sharp and clear. Don't underestimate him. Barik hadn't clawed his way to the top of the Vultures through brute force or charisma. He wasn't the loudest man in the room, wasn't the biggest, and didn't act like he had to prove himself. That's what made him dangerous. Under that quiet, forgettable exterior sat a man who'd survived more fights than most because he never walked into one blind. Calculating, ruthless, and as quick with a knife as any brute twice his size—that was Barik. The moment you thought he wasn't a threat, he'd gut you where you stood and keep moving.

Grizzly's memories crawled to the surface, sharp and vivid, filling in the spaces the quiet man across the table didn't show. Barik wasn't the kind of leader who raised his voice or smashed skulls in a rage. No, when you failed him, when you embarrassed the Vultures, Barik punished you with the kind of cold fury that left you wishing he'd just killed you outright.

Grizzly remembered it in pieces—broken stories, whispered warnings, and a few things he'd seen with his own eyes. Barik didn't lose men. He made examples. A thief who skimmed credits from a haul had his fingers removed—one by one—until his hands were nothing but stumps. Another fool, caught spreading rumors about Barik's weakness, had his tongue cut out and nailed to the table in this very room. He'd been alive when it happened, screaming through the bloody mess of his own mouth until Barik grew tired of the noise.

Then there was the one Grizzly couldn't forget, the punishment burned into his memory like acid on skin. A man named Jerek, a lieutenant who'd let a shipment slip into the wrong hands. It was a mistake—one Jerek had begged to explain—but Barik hadn't wanted words. He'd wanted proof that failure carried weight. Jerek had been stripped to the waist, tied to a chair, and left under the room's dim lumen strips for all to see. Barik had taken his time.

He didn't beat him, didn't scream. He sat across the table with a knife in his hand and spoke calmly as he went to work. First, the tendons in Jerek's arms—cut clean and precise, one at a time, rendering his limbs useless. Then, Barik moved to his feet, slicing tendons and skin while he talked about loyalty, discipline, and how nothing in the Vultures worked without it. Jerek had passed out eventually, but even that wasn't mercy. They woke him up with water, and Barik started over, methodical as a butcher. When it was done, they left what was left of him outside the gates. No one ever saw Jerek again, and no one ever forgot.

Barik's punishments weren't about violence; they were about finality. He didn't kill you in anger. He ended you in such a way that everyone around you learned exactly what it meant to disappoint him. You didn't just lose your life. You lost your dignity, your usefulness, and the gang's respect in one slow, methodical unraveling.

Grizzly's memories hissed warnings through my mind as I stood there, staring at Barik's calm expression. The man in front of me looked unassuming, almost disinterested, but I could feel the weight of those stories clinging to the air between us. This was a man who could gut you with words as easily as a blade, who would smile as he pulled your life apart piece by piece, then leave your remains as a lesson for everyone else.

Calm men were dangerous. Barik was the calmest of them all.

The weight of the room pressed down on me, heavy as the silence Barik let linger. The low hum of the lumen strips buzzed faintly in my ears, but it did nothing to ease the coil of tension winding tighter in my gut. I waited for it—the explosion, the punishment, the calm cruelty Grizzly's memories promised would come. The stories about Barik's punishments weren't warnings. They were truths carved into flesh and bone.

But Barik didn't move. He didn't reach for a knife. He just sat there, fingers drumming against the armrest with the patience of someone who already knew where this was going. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady, and far worse than any yell.

"You walked away from a slaughter, Grizzly." He paused, letting that sit. "The rest of your crew didn't. That's a strange thing, don't you think?"

My jaw tightened, but I didn't flinch. Grizzly wouldn't. "They got sloppy. Bonebreakers hit us hard and fast. I didn't stick around to let 'em finish the job."

Barik tilted his head slightly, the motion so small it felt more like a twitch. "Didn't stick around," he echoed, slowly and deliberately. "That sounds like running to me."

"Running?" I shot back, letting a trace of Grizzly's sneer curl into my tone. "You call it whatever you want, Barik. I call it surviving. I didn't run—I made it out so I could report to you. Would've been real helpful to die with the rest of them, wouldn't it?"

Barik leaned forward, his elbows settling on the table. The shadows made his gaunt features sharper. "Surviving, huh? Let's hear it, then. How does a pack of my best fighters get wiped out, and you stroll back like nothing touched you?"

"They didn't wipe us out," I said. My voice didn't waver, even as my chest felt tight. "It wasn't clean. The Bonebreakers didn't just roll up and mow us down. They came in smart. Set up the ambush right near the wreck, used the dunes for cover. My guys were scouting the perimeter when it hit. By the time we knew, they were already inside the kill zone."

Barik didn't blink. "You were scouting the perimeter?"

I nodded, making it slow enough to seem deliberate. "Figured something was off. The wreck looked too fresh to have been sitting there long. No scav marks, no sign of wildlife. That shuttle wasn't abandoned, not really. We split the group, just in case. Told the boys to hold tight while I checked the east side. That's when I heard it."

"Heard what?"

"First shots." I ran my hand through my hair, not too fast, just enough to sell the frustration. "They hit us with autoguns from the north ridge, pinned most of the crew down before they could even move. It wasn't sloppy work, either. They knew where to put pressure, drove our boys into the open like damn herd dogs."

"And you didn't join the fight?"

"They didn't give me the chance," I snapped, letting just a little heat rise. "Soon as I moved to flank, another group popped out of nowhere. They had bikes, Barik—fast ones. One of them clipped me before I could find cover." I rubbed the back of my head defiantly. Gotta add some realism. "Took me out of position before I even knew what hit me."

I kept going, the words spilled out just fast enough to sound real.

"They weren't there for us, Barik. We were in their way. The way they moved? Too quick, too precise for some random ambush. They knew exactly where to hit, how to scatter us. They weren't wasting time looting bodies or dragging out a fight."

Barik leaned back in his chair, steepling fingers under his chin. "And what were they after, Grizzly? You seem to have all the answers."

"Whatever was inside that shuttle," I said. "That's the only thing that made sense. They had to have known about it. They ignored the usual haul—no interest in weapons, scrap, or even supplies. I saw them head straight for the central hold. Two of them were carrying something when they pulled out. Heavy, from the way they moved."

"Carrying something," Barik repeated, his tone flat. "And you didn't think to stop them."

I shot him a sharp look, letting frustration twist my features. "You think I didn't want to? I told you—they had numbers. Half our crew was dead before the dust settled. The rest were bleeding out or too pinned to fight back. You sent us in blind, Barik. We didn't stand a chance."

His fingers drummed once on the table, unnervingly loud in the heavy silence. "And yet, you walked away."

"They didn't care about me," I said quickly, hardening my voice tone. "I was just another corpse as far as they were concerned. They weren't looking to clean house. Soon as they had whatever was in that hold, they cleared out. It was surgical."

Barik tilted his head. His eyes fixed on me like a predator sizing up its prey. "Surgical," he murmured. "Bonebreakers don't do surgical, Grizzly. They're blunt instruments—nothing more. So either you're lying, or something doesn't add up."

I leaned forward, locking eyes with him. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. This wasn't just the Bonebreakers. Someone's pulling their strings. Someone with a plan. They wanted that shuttle for a reason, and they wanted it bad enough to risk going toe-to-toe with us. You've got bigger problems than a few dead Vultures."

Barik didn't react, but I could feel him sifting through my words, weighing them. "Convenient, though, isn't it?" he asked, his tone still calm. "The rest of the boys get butchered, but you—you—make it back. Alone."

"Convenience had nothing to do with it," I replied, quick but not desperate. "You think I liked crawling through blood and bone to get out of there? I didn't get a choice, Barik. They hit us hard. I was the only one left on my feet when it ended."

Barik's brow twitched, just enough for me to notice. He didn't believe me completely—not yet—but I hadn't given him a reason to tear me apart either. He studied me for a long moment, his silence heavier than before. Each second stretched, and I felt my muscles coil tighter, waiting for the knife, for the order, for something to drop and crush me.

Instead, Barik leaned back in his chair, the motion slow, deliberate. "You think you're clever, don't you?" he said. His voice was soft now, almost conversational. "You've always had a way of talking your way out of things, Grizzly. But words don't get you far in this business. You know that better than anyone."

"Words didn't get me out of that mess," I said, locking my gaze onto his. "Blood did. My blood. Their blood. If you think I'd come crawling back here empty-handed without a damn good reason, you don't know me as well as you think."

Barik's lips twitched slightly. Either a chuckle or just a play of light.

"Oh, I know you, Grizzly. I know what you are." His gaze lingered just long enough to make the back of my neck prickle before he pushed to his feet. The chair groaned as he rose, and his shadow stretched long across the room.

Barik's words hung in the air. "I know what you are." My stomach twisted, my mind stumbling over itself as the thought struck like a hammer. He knows. The words rang in my head, louder than they should've. He wasn't talking about Grizzly. He wasn't playing some power game to rattle me. He knew. My skin felt too tight, my bones suddenly foreign under the weight of his gaze. Did he see it in my movements? In my face? Had the mask slipped somewhere, or was it just the way I spoke—something too clean, too measured to be the real Grizzly? I fought to keep my breathing steady, to keep Grizzly's scowl fixed firmly in place, but beneath it, the panic roared. He knows. He's just waiting.

Barik held my gaze for a long moment, unblinking, but then something shifted—something subtle. His eyes flicked down to the map on the table, his focus breaking as though I'd already slipped back into the slot he'd carved for me in his mind. He rubbed his jaw absently, like a man weighing options, not uncovering truths. The tension in my chest eased, just a fraction. If he knew, he wouldn't have looked away. If he knew, there wouldn't be questions—there'd be blood.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. It was almost distracted, the way he glanced at me again—sharp, yes, but not searching for cracks. My pulse settled, the knot of panic loosening inch by inch. Barik didn't know. Not yet.

"You're loyal when it suits you," he said calmly, almost thoughtfully. "But loyalty here doesn't come free. You owe me, Grizzly. You owe me for every man I lost in that bloodbath."

I nodded once, the way Grizzly would. "You know where to find me."

Barik didn't reply. He just watched me for another heartbeat, that unblinking stare peeling away at everything I was. Then he turned, shifting his focus back to the map spread across the table, dismissing me like I was a tool he'd decided not to throw away just yet.

"Get out," he said flatly. "I'll call when I need you."

I rose to my feet, careful not to move too quickly, and turned for the door. I kept steady pace, but the weight of his stare clung to my back like oil. He'd let me walk out, but I knew the truth. He didn't trust me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Barik was too smart to show his hand. That was the danger of him. He wouldn't strike when you expected it. He'd wait until the knife was already in your ribs, and by then, you'd be too far gone to stop it.


Barik waited in silence as Grizzly's footsteps receded down the hall, fading into the low, mechanical hum that pulsed through the manufactorum. He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even seem to breathe. His eyes remained fixed on the map spread across the table, but his thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Only when the distant clang of the outer door closing echoed faintly through the corridors did he finally exhale and straighten.

"Come out," he muttered, barely raising his voice.

The hidden door hissed open with a faint mechanical whine. He didn't turn to look as the psyker stepped into the room, though he felt it—the shift, subtle but certain, like an unseen weight had settled in the air. It wasn't anything you could hear or see, just something wrong that crawled under the skin and nestled there.

She stopped a few feet away, close enough to hear but far enough that neither of them had to bridge the uncomfortable space between them. Barik didn't like being in a room with her. He never had. Even now, with all the familiarity of their arrangement, he felt it — the itch on the back of his neck, the instinct to keep one hand close to the knife on his belt.

For all his pragmatism, he hated psykers.

He turned his head just enough to glance at her, taking in that pale face, those sunken eyes that always looked like they were seeing something he couldn't. Rixa stood there, quiet and still, and even without the robes or chains the Imperium liked to drape around her kind, she couldn't hide what she was. It clung to her like oil in water, spreading into the corners of the room whether she willed it or not.

Barik didn't say anything at first. He didn't have to. The discomfort sat thick in the air, silent and unmoving. Finally, he pushed himself off the table, forcing his shoulders to relax even as his pulse still hammered faintly in his ears.

"Well?" The word slipped out, quieter than he had intended..

Barik rubbed his jaw and turned toward her, masking the way his pulse hammered in his throat. He didn't trust psykers. Nobody sane did. But Rixa was his secret weapon he didn't waste on trifles.

"What do you make of him?" Barik asked, sharply. "Grizzly."

Rixa didn't answer right away. She stood still, too still. She tilted her head slightly as though listening to something he couldn't hear. Finally, her pale eyes turned toward Barik, and for a moment, something flickered across her face. It wasn't the usual dead calm she wore like a shield. It was disturbance. Fear, even.

"That's not him," she whispered flatly, but with some brittleness in her voice. "That's not Grizzly."

Barik frowned, stilling his hand over the map. "What do you mean? He looks like him, talks like him—hell, he walks like him. Who else would it be?"

Rixa shook her head slowly with an unreadable expression. "I don't know what it is. But it's not Grizzly. It's not even human. I tried to—" She hesitated. Her gaze flickered toward the floor. "I tried to see into its mind, to understand it. But there's nothing there I can comprehend. Thoughts that twist like they're alive. Like they don't belong in this world. Like… like flesh wearing flesh."

Those heavy and unnatural words hung in the air, and for the first time in years, Barik felt the bottom of his stomach drop. He swallowed. The room suddenly felt colder despite the hum of the lumen strips. Rixa wasn't someone who got rattled easily. Psykers lived with madness pressed against their skulls every moment of their lives, and she had learned to weather it. For her to say something like this—to look disturbed—it made his skin crawl.

Barik turned away from her, staring hard at the map again. What the hell did I let back in? The thought surfaced before he could stop it, but he forced his face into calm, rolling his shoulders to loosen the sudden tightness there.

"It came back alone," he muttered to himself, piecing it together. "No haul. No crew. But it walked away, didn't it? Came crawling back from that damn shuttle."

Rixa didn't answer, but he could feel her watching him. Barik's hands clenched the edge of the table as he stared down at the routes and claims scratched into its surface. The shuttle. It had to be the shuttle. That's what Grizzly had been sent for, and it was the only thing out of place here. He didn't know what was inside it, but something sure as hell had been. Something that didn't just kill Grizzly's crew but took him. Or became him.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, forcing the tremor out of his chest as he straightened. He couldn't afford to look shaken—not here, not in front of her.

"You keep this to yourself," Barik hissed quietly. "No one else hears about this. You got me?"

Rixa nodded once, but her expression didn't change. "Be careful, Barik," she said softly. "It's wrong."

Barik didn't answer. He didn't need to. His mind was already racing, gears turning as he tried to wrestle the chaos into something resembling a plan. If this thing—whatever it was—came out of that shuttle, then the shuttle was the key.

Barik stared at the map in silence. His thoughts grinded like rusted gears. Rixa stood there for a moment longer, lingering like a splinter in his mind, before he finally spoke.

"That'll be all," he muttered, not looking up.

Rixa tilted her head slightly, as if to say something, but thought better of it. She turned and vanished back through the hidden door. The room fell quiet again, save for the low hum of the lumen strips.

Barik exhaled slowly, trying to shed the tension. His fingers drummed against the edge of the table—short, nervous taps. His gaze drifted across the maps and scattered papers, but his thoughts kept circling back to one thing. The shuttle. It all came back to that cursed wreck, sitting out there like bait in a rat trap.

He grabbed a dataslate, scrolling through supply reports and deployment notes, but it didn't settle the unease gnawing at him. If that thing—whatever it was—had come out of the shuttle, then what the hell had he sent Grizzly's crew to retrieve? And worse—what did it want now?

Barik rubbed a hand over his face. He didn't scare easily — couldn't afford to — but the psyker's words crawled through him like a sickness. Not human. That was what she'd said. It wasn't the first time someone had muttered about something unnatural in this hive, but this was different. Rixa didn't spook over nothing.

He looked back down at the map, stabbing a finger absently against the route that had taken Grizzly out to that godforsaken shuttle. The wreck was a problem, and now that thing — whatever it was — was a problem too. He couldn't afford to let it sit.

Not when he didn't know what it was.

Not when it was already here.