With the stolen armor strapped tight and the cuffs tossed away, Mikey walked differently now. Shoulders squared. Chin up. For the first time since stepping foot in Jöten, he didn't feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.
The trio—now all in uniform—moved in tight formation through the sleek alley between the massive chrome towers. The metal walls reflected the sharp white lights above, giving everything a sterile, surreal glow. The hum of drones overhead was constant, like an electric pulse running through the air.
They passed other soldiers—patrols with rifles slung over shoulders, some checking scanners, others barking orders at prisoners in the distance.
Mikey gave a sharp nod as they passed the first.
"Soldier."
Another passed.
"Soldier."
Then another.
"Soldier."
And then—
"Sold—"
"Stop that," Luce cut in, her voice clipped and low.
Mikey blinked.
"Sorry, sorry… just playing the role," he said, eyes snapping back forward.
Bobo smothered a laugh and gave Mikey a light nudge with his elbow.
"You wanna play the part? Then just shut up and look pissed off like the rest of us."
Mikey swallowed a smirk and nodded, adjusting the helmet slightly on his head.
They pressed on, boots echoing dully against the polished metal floor. Every now and then, a scream echoed from somewhere deep within the compound—a short, sharp burst that cut through the constant drone of engines and orders. The place wasn't just high-tech. It was alive with tension. Cold and watchful.
As they neared a junction, a group of guards peeled around the corner. Mikey stiffened, but the soldiers didn't give them a second look. Just another unit doing their job.
Luce leaned in just enough to whisper without moving her lips.
"We'll be fine… just need to reach the tower."
Mikey nodded once, pulse steadying with every step.
The control tower loomed in the distance now, its glass and steel exterior shining under the harsh floodlights. It rose high above the other structures, shaped like a needle aimed at the clouds. If there were answers in this place—maps, names, logs of who was taken where—they'd be in there.
They kept walking.
No more small talk.
No more nods.
Just three soldiers moving through hell, quietly preparing to crack it open.
The massive chrome doors hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, revealing a long hallway that felt more like a vein running through the heart of some mechanical beast. Everything inside the tower gleamed with sterile polish—walls, floor, even the faint reflections on the ceiling, warping the fluorescent lights above into ghostly streaks.
Mikey stepped inside first, his armored boots clicking sharply against the floor. The sound echoed down the corridor, each footfall like a ticking clock in his ears. Bobo and Luce followed in step, the three of them moving with practiced calm.
At the far end of the hall, an elevator stood like a vault door, its panel glowing softly. A group of soldiers had just exited, chatting casually as they passed. Mikey's eyes tracked them, tension drawing lines across his brow. He leaned in slightly toward the others.
"That's our way up, I think…"
Bobo gave a short nod. Luce didn't speak—her eyes were already on the elevator, scanning for cameras.
They kept walking, every stride measured. Just a trio of guards doing their rounds. Nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place.
But then—
"Wait."
The voice shot out like a bullet.
All three froze mid-step.
Mikey's blood turned cold. Bobo's hand drifted toward the grip of his rifle. Luce subtly shifted her weight, one finger near the strap of her stun baton.
Heavy footsteps approached from behind.
A soldier—helmeted, tall, broad—walked straight up to Mikey, eyeing him like a scanner. The hallway was dead silent but for the low hum of machinery in the walls. The soldier's visor gleamed with reflected light as he looked Mikey up and down.
"237," he said. "You feeling okay? You look… thin."
Bobo's fingers curled tighter around his gun. Luce's expression was unreadable beneath the helmet, but Mikey could feel her watching.
His mouth went dry. For a half-second, his mind blanked.
Then he saw it—319, stitched on the man's arm sleeve.
He straightened his spine and forced a rasp into his voice.
"Just coming off a cold, 319. You know how it is out on patrol. Cold air messes with the appetite."
There was a pause. A bit too long.
Then the soldier laughed, his chuckle muffled through the filter of his helmet.
"Yeah, no kidding. Last week I couldn't feel my fingers. Get back to work."
He clapped Mikey lightly on the arm.
"During rotation break, we're finishing that poker game. You still owe me lunch."
Mikey let out a forced laugh, nodding.
"Sure thing, 319."
The soldier walked off without another word, his boots fading into the distance.
Mikey turned back toward the elevator, forcing himself not to rush. Once they were far enough away, he exhaled—shaky and quiet.
"Holy shit…" he muttered under his breath. "That was bad."
Luce glanced at him and muttered, "Holy shit is right. Good job, though."
Bobo reached over and clapped him on the back, the impact almost sending Mikey forward
"You're impressing even Luce. You're doing good, kid."
The elevator waited ahead, its doors now empty and still. Their path upward—toward answers, toward Amelia and Ryosuke—lay just beyond it.
Mikey swallowed hard and nodded. They weren't safe, not yet.
But they were still in the game.
The doors of the elevator slid shut behind them with a smooth hiss, sealing the trio inside a box of cold chrome and dim lighting. The interior was sterile—every surface polished to a mirror finish, the floor glowing faintly beneath their boots. Mikey could hear the soft mechanical hum of the lift system, like a quiet engine purring beneath their feet.
Luce stepped toward the control panel, her visor reflecting rows of numbered buttons. Her gloved fingers hovered just above them as she muttered to herself, more to the system than to the others.
"Forty floors... judging by the height from outside... subtracting for sublevels... looked like thirty-two... but then there's the air traffic station above it, so…"
Mikey leaned toward Bobo, voice hushed.
"What's she doing?"
Bobo grinned, whispering back, "Working her magic. Calculating where the control room must be."
Mikey raised an eyebrow.
"How?"
Bobo shrugged with a smirk.
"Some wizard shit. I dunno. I just do the heavy lifting, kid."
Luce finally nodded to herself and stepped forward.
"Got it. Either floor thirty-five or forty. We check thirty-five first."
She pressed the button for 35.
Nothing happened.
A low, metallic beep.
Denied access.
"Shit," she muttered. "Locked out. We need a keycard."
They all paused.
Mikey's brow furrowed as a thought clicked into place.
"Wait… that soldier who stopped me back there—he recognized the uniform I'm wearing, right? Means I'm part of his unit. Same access level."
Luce glanced back at him, connecting the dots. "Which means…"
Mikey dug into the deep inner pocket of his pilfered uniform and pulled out a slim black card, glossy and sharp at the edges.
"Means I might have the key."
Luce grabbed it without hesitation and slid it into the reader.
A soft beep.
Green light.
The floor button lit up.
Luce turned to Mikey, her voice slightly impressed.
"Not bad."
Bobo grinned and slapped Mikey on the back again, nearly making him stumble.
"Atta boy. Now you're thinking like me."
Luce shot him a glance. Bobo clears his throat and corrected himself.
"Or like Luce... yeah like Luce."
The elevator lurched gently as it began its silent climb, rising floor by floor. The three stood in quiet tension, each lost in thought, eyes locked on the glowing floor indicator above the door.
The number blinked. They were almost there.
The elevator doors slid open with a sharp hiss.
Mikey, Bobo, and Luce stepped into the heart of the tower—Jöten's control room. It stretched wide before them, sleek and gleaming, the walls made of glass that overlooked the vast prison compound below. The floor beneath them shimmered with embedded lights, while holographic panels hovered over workstations like floating windows into data streams and security feeds. Rows of uniformed officers manned the controls, their eyes fixed on the projections and readouts, their fingers tapping commands into thin air.
The room was quiet, but not silent. The low hum of machinery, the occasional murmur of voices, and the rhythmic pulsing of the holograms filled the air.
It all felt clinical.
Controlled.
Too controlled.
Mikey took a step forward, trying to blend in. His pulse was pounding in his ears. He glanced at the far wall, scanning for directories—anything that might point them toward prisoner records. Just as he started toward a terminal, he accidentally bumped into someone.
A man in front of him, sharply dressed in a black suit, turned slightly.
"Sorry—" Mikey started.
The man cut him off.
"It's alright. Don't let it happen again."
The voice.
Cold. Precise. Familiar.
Mikey froze.
His breath caught in his chest. His vision tunneled. Every muscle in his body seized up. He didn't need to look. He already knew.
But he did.
Slowly, painfully, Mikey looked up.
There he was.
A tall figure, looming over him like a shadow. Broad-shouldered, built like a statue chiseled from stone. Bald head gleaming under the sterile lights. Cropped beard, immaculate. And over his left eye—a thin, unmistakable scar slicing through his brow.
The eyes, though.
Those black, hollow eyes. Not empty. But full of something colder. Darker.
They looked straight through him.
Payne Morrison.
The Secretary of Defense.
The man who had ordered his father's death.
The man Mikey had sworn to one day kill.
Bobo stiffened beside him. Luce's fingers subtly twitched toward her sidearm, but neither dared to move.
No one did.
Not yet.
Payne looked over Mikey again, his expression unreadable. Something flickered in his gaze—recognition, maybe—but it passed too fast to be sure.
Then he turned away, as if Mikey were just another uniform in the crowd.
"Carry on," he said to no one in particular, walking slowly toward one of the glass panels.
Mikey's knees threatened to give out beneath him. His fists trembled at his sides.
Luce leaned in under her breath, voice barely audible.
"...Was that...?"
Bobo answered for her, voice a low growl.
"Yeah."
Mikey couldn't breathe. His whole body was shaking—not from fear, but fury.
He was right here.
Payne Morrison was right. Fucking. Here.
And Mikey wasn't ready.
Not yet.
But soon.
Very soon.