Ryosuke raised his sword with a wicked grin, the obsidian-black blade glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights of Ward 5. The air around it almost seemed to hum with tension, like it remembered blood. He turned toward Bobo and Luce, voice low and steady.
"Lead the way."
Luce gave a sharp nod, already breaking into a sprint. Bobo followed without hesitation, the thud of his boots echoing in the cavernous chamber.
Ryosuke was right behind them, sword in hand, moving with a predator's grace even on his cybernetic leg. Mikey lunged after them, adrenaline burning in his veins. His breath came fast, heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum.
But he couldn't keep up.
Dammit…
Even Ryosuke, who had just been suspended in stasis moments ago, was eating up ground like it was nothing. Mikey pushed harder.
Bobo shouted over his shoulder, not even looking back. "Keep up with us, kid!"
Mikey gritted his teeth, legs screaming as he forced himself to run faster.
These are real Defectors.
This is what it looks like… when they go full throttle.
They blasted out of Ward 5 like a bullet from a chamber, sprinting across the sterile, unrioting corridor of Ward 4. The air was quieter here, but the tension was electric—like even the walls knew what was coming. Sirens howled in the distance. The metal beneath their boots thrummed with distant tremors.
"We've got to cut through Three and Two!" Luce shouted, veering left toward a massive industrial blast door.
She was already pulling the manual override lever, gears screaming as the gate hissed open.
Bobo didn't wait.
"Here we go!" he roared, slamming his shoulder into the half-open gate, bursting into Ward 3—
And straight into hell.
The riot had escalated into a full-blown warzone.
The air was thick with smoke and blood and screams. Gunfire tore through the space like lightning, staccato bursts from both sides. Explosions rang out in the distance, scattering bodies and debris across the chrome-plated plaza. The once-gleaming metal floor was now slick with gore, painted with the chaos of rebellion. A line of corpses stretched from the collapsed barricades to the foot of the elevated control gantries—soldiers in Council armor, prisoners in makeshift gear, indistinguishable in death.
One prisoner tore a weapon from a fallen soldier's hands and immediately opened fire on another squad.
A Council enforcer in riot gear was on fire, stumbling into a wall before crumpling in a silent heap.
Ryosuke's boots skidded as he stopped for a split-second to take it in, eyes scanning the madness with measured calm. Then he charged forward again, blade low.
"Move!" Luce yelled, ducking behind an overturned food cart as a volley of bullets punched holes through the air.
Mikey dove behind her, gasping, shaking, his mind racing.
Bobo popped up over cover and returned fire, his massive sidearm bucking in his cybernetic hand. When he eventually ran out of ammo he tossed it away.
Ryosuke moved through the chaos like a phantom—no hesitation, no wasted motion. He deflected a bullet with the flat of his sword, slid beneath a burst of gunfire, then drove the blade clean through the chest of a charging guard. The obsidian edge hissed as it tore through metal plating and flesh alike.
He didn't stop moving.
Mikey stared in disbelief.
He's a monster.
Bobo grabbed Mikey's shoulder. "Eyes up, kid! We push through! Amelia's at the end of this storm!"
Luce was already vaulting over cover, firing two pistols at once. "Let's clear a path!"
Together, the four of them plunged into the meat grinder of Ward 3—Defectors and riot-born chaos converging like fire and oil.
They weren't running anymore.
They were cutting through.
Ryosuke flicked the blood from his blade with a clean, practiced motion. A red arc trailed through the air, vanishing into the smoky haze as he turned, eyes already locked onto his next target.
Ahead of him, Bobo barreled forward, fearless and unrelenting. Bullets clanged against his raised metal arm, sparking off the alloy with sharp metallic pings. He didn't flinch.
He closed the distance with a soldier who barely had time to react.
Bobo grabbed the man's rifle arm, twisted it until bones cracked, and slammed his forehead into the soldier's visor—shattering it on impact. Glass and blood flew. Dazed, the soldier staggered—
—and Bobo hurled him into the air like he weighed nothing.
"Ryo!" he barked.
Ryosuke was already moving. The mechanical whine of his leg kicked in as he launched upward, meeting the airborne body mid-flight. His sword sliced clean through.
A single motion. Head and torso split apart, blood misting the air like ink dropped in water.
Mikey stood frozen in place.
All around him was war—flashes of muzzle fire, bodies crumpling, the smell of scorched gunpowder, metal, and blood mixing into something that clung to the back of his throat.
He didn't know where to look.
Didn't know how to move.
A hand grabbed his collar and yanked him down behind a dented crate.
"Mikey!" Luce shouted, her face fierce, eyes wild. "Shit's getting real out here—I can't babysit! Can you fight?!"
His hands were trembling. His chest felt tight. But he nodded.
Because he had to.
Luce didn't waste time. She pulled a pistol from the holster at her hip and shoved it into his grip.
"Take this. Slide it back—" she showed him with a quick motion, racking the slide. "—and pull the trigger. Aim center mass. Don't waste your bullets. If you run out, yell for one of us. Got it?!"
Mikey stared down at the gun. It felt too heavy. Too real.
The cold metal against his skin made his pulse spike.
His fingers twitched around the grip. He swallowed hard.
"I got it," he lied, trying to steady his voice.
Luce gave him a look—part sympathy, part steel. Then she turned back toward the chaos, ducking as a burst of gunfire whizzed past them.
"I'm going in to back up the boys," she said over her shoulder. "Stay behind me."
Mikey nodded, holding the pistol with both hands like it might explode if he let go.
Luce leapt out from behind the crate, moving low and fast, firing controlled shots as she advanced toward Bobo and Ryosuke—who were already carving a path through the Ward like twin storms.
Mikey followed her, heart hammering.
Smoke burned his lungs.
Screams echoed off the metal walls.
This wasn't training.
This wasn't a simulation.
This was war.
And he was in it.
Luce took aim with cold precision. Every pull of the trigger sent a round cleanly through a skull—center of the forehead, back of the head, clean exits every time. Her breathing was steady, mechanical, detached. She moved like a specter of death across the battlefield, never missing, never hesitating.
Down below, Bobo and Ryosuke pushed deeper into the chaos, carving a bloody path through Ward 3.
Bobo marched forward, a walking fortress of muscle and steel. Bullets ricocheted harmlessly off his raised metal arm. One soldier lunged, rifle drawn—but Bobo closed the gap in a blink. He gripped the soldier's head and twisted—crack. The lifeless body slumped. Bobo hurled it like a ragdoll into another soldier who was moments away from executing a prisoner. Both men collapsed in a tangled heap.
Ryosuke ducked beneath a burst of gunfire, the swing of his blade whispering through air before it found flesh. One, two, three clean slices, each followed by gouts of blood and falling screams. He moved like he'd been born for it—shoulder low, blade high, pivoting through gunfire like water slipping through cracks in stone. Each cut was a line in a symphony of violence.
Then, without warning—a thunderclap.
A prisoner standing just ahead of Bobo exploded. His torso burst like overripe fruit, gore splattering across Bobo's face and chest. He didn't even blink.
His eyes locked on the source: a soldier hefting an enhanced combat shotgun, its barrel still smoking. The weapon gleamed with heavy plating and a drum magazine thick with carnage.
Bobo grinned.
"I want that," he muttered.
He charged. The soldier fired again—BOOM—but Bobo rolled low, surprisingly agile for his size, slipping under the blast.
He surged up, grabbed the shotgun mid-reload, and drove a knee into the soldier's gut. The man crumpled, breathless. One kick sent him flying into a crate with a crash.
Bobo examined the gun with childlike glee. He held it one-handed, testing its weight.
"Nice."
Without a second thought, he aimed and pulled the trigger.
The soldier's head vanished in a red mist.
Elsewhere, Ryosuke was a blur of death.
He danced through twenty soldiers like a ghost. Bullets zipped past him but never found their mark. His movements were surgical—every slash of his blade cut cleanly, precisely. Heads rolled, limbs fell, screams echoed.
He moved like thread through the eye of a needle—graceful, effortless, unstoppable.
Above the chaos, Luce had climbed atop a stack of storage crates. Her silhouette framed against the flickering overhead lights, she opened fire with renewed fury.
From her elevated position, she rained down death. Controlled bursts, one after another. Soldiers dropped like flies. She was cover, support, and executioner all at once.
Below her, the battlefield was a shifting hellscape of fire, blood, and steel.
Mikey gripped the rungs of the metal ladder, his breath still shallow from the sprint through chaos. Luce was above, a steady silhouette against the fires raging in the distance.
He was almost there—
Suddenly, a hand tore at his hair and yanked him backward.
"AAH—!"
He slammed into the chrome floor with a thud that stole the wind from his lungs. Sparks danced in his vision. Before he could gather himself, a heavy fist cracked across his cheek.
Pain bloomed.
It was a soldier. Barely alive. Half his face looked melted, his skin bubbled and cracked like boiled wax. The stench of burnt flesh curled in Mikey's nostrils. One of his eyes was sealed shut by a burn. The other glared wild with hatred.
"You… little… shit!"
The soldier's voice scraped through scorched vocal cords like glass on gravel.
His hands wrapped around Mikey's throat.
No—no—
Mikey kicked, writhed, clawed at the soldier's arms, but it was useless. The man was grown, angry, and dying. Mikey was just a boy. His limbs flailed in desperation as the pressure tightened around his neck. Air vanished. His mouth opened but nothing came out—only choked gasps.
I can't breathe—
His face turned purple, vision dimming at the edges. He looked up—Luce was still on the crate, eyes down her sights, a statue of calm in the storm. Ryosuke and Bobo were further out, locked in the rhythm of their slaughter. No one was looking.
Help me… please—
"L—"
"Lu—"
His voice failed. He couldn't scream.
Panic set in like fire in his chest.
Then—he saw it. The soldier's leg, bent wrong. Bone jutting through his pants just beneath the knee. Mikey's blurry gaze sharpened.
There—
He summoned the last of his fading strength and kicked hard.
CRACK.
"AAAGH!" the soldier howled, collapsing to the side, clutching his ruined leg. His grip loosened just enough. Mikey sucked in a desperate gasp, coughing violently as air filled his lungs again.
He scrambled, crawling over the slick floor, fingers clawing at metal until—
The gun!
Just inches from his fingertips.
He reached it—
THUD.
The soldier threw himself at Mikey one last time, howling, madness in his eyes.
Mikey snatched the pistol, rolled beneath the falling weight—
BANG.
Silence.
Warm wetness splashed across Mikey's face. The soldier's body slumped heavy on top of him. He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
He was dead.
Mikey had killed him.
In shock, he laid there, frozen.
His ears rang. His heart thundered. He blinked up at the ceiling of Ward 3, blood in his eyes, lungs still trying to remember how to work. With trembling hands, he shoved the corpse off him.
His whole body was shaking.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The man's head was barely intact. A crater where his skull should've been. Mikey stared, unable to look away.
I did that... I pulled the trigger.
I killed a man...
A metallic taste sat on his tongue. His fingers wouldn't let go of the gun.
He had answered Bobo's question.
He could kill, he had it in him.
And now, there was no going back.
For the first time in his life...
Michael Grant had taken a life.