The floor beneath Cain's boots split with a sound like thunder. Lava-bright light poured from the cracks, swallowing the metal platform in a wash of heat. He threw his arm across his face as Roselle's visor shattered from the shockwave.
The reactor was alive.
What had once been an inert power source was now reshaping itself—folding beams, swallowing debris, pulling molten steel into a pulsing mass of light and metal. It rose like a wounded heart trying to beat again, groaning under its own density.
Roselle stumbled backward, coughing through smoke. "Cain—what the hell is this?"
"The core's using everything it touched," Cain said, his voice rough. "It's making a body."
The reactor burst open, releasing a storm of tendrils—each made of liquid metal, each moving with purpose. They struck the ground like spears, leaving deep craters in the reinforced floor.
