The greenhouse behind the estate was more shadow than glass at this hour, the moonlight fractured across vines grown wild. Gene crouched low among the overgrown rosemary, holding her breath as a drone passed overhead. The buzz vanished. She didn't move. Couldn't. Not until she was sure.
Her heart pounded, not from fear, but the bitter uncertainty that maybe this was the last place she'd ever stand freely. She rose gradually, brushing off her coat.
Her falsified access papers had gotten her onto the mag-line. The last mile she'd trekked barefoot in the forest, dirt between her toes. She felt hollowed out by the effort, but not defeated. Not yet.
Maisie's footsteps were soft, nearly silent, but Gene heard them. She turned just as Maisie stepped into the clearing between the trees and the greenhouse.
Her makeup was smeared, her usually polished look unraveling at the edges. Her hazel eyes, unbrushed hair, and scattered freckles showed her real, human form, not just her usual persona.
Maisie froze, her face unreadable at first. Then her eyes narrowed. "You," she whispered, voice thick with something between betrayal and relief. "How dare you come back?"
Gene didn't flinch. "I had to. They've activated Subject Eight."
Maisie's eyes honed. "Who the hell is Subject Eight?"
Gene looked her in the eye and said it flatly: "Igor."
Maisie's gaze drifted toward the winding vines squeezing the glass panes of the greenhouse, their tangled fingers casting eerie shadows that danced like specters in the light.
The night air was dense and smelled of earth and decay, remains of neglect, or possibly the gradual rot of secrets left to fester. Somewhere beyond the trees, a distant siren wailed, a lament that seemed less like a warning and more like a dirge.
Gene's breath came out shallow, her heart hammering in rhythm with the muted buzz of unseen drones patrolling the estate's perimeter.
Every sound felt amplified, the crunch of dry leaves beneath their feet, the rustle of restless branches stirred by a cold wind that whispered warnings neither dared voice aloud. Time seemed to stretch, each second taut and fragile as if the night itself might unravel and expose them at any moment.
Maisie's voice broke through the silence again, low and brittle. "I keep wondering… what happens when the strings snap? When does Igor fight back with everything he has left?" Her eyes darkened, haunted by memories of a friend trapped in invisible chains.
"They've taken more than his freedom. They've tried to erase who he is."
Gene swallowed hard, the weight of that truth settling like a stone in her chest. "That's why we have to move now. Before he loses himself entirely. Before Harry or Selene, or whoever's pulling the levers, remind him who's in control."
A sudden flicker of movement caught their attention, shadows shifting behind the thick hedge bordering the greenhouse. Both women froze, breaths caught in their throats.
The world held its breath with them as distant lights blinked, scanning, probing the darkness for any hint of intrusion. For a moment, the only sound was the harsh rasp of Maisie's heartbeat pounding in her ears, echoing the cold truth: they were not safe here..
Maisie's hand found Gene's arm, a brief, grounding touch that carried both warning and solidarity. "We'll find a way. Together. But first, we have to reach Leo and Dash. If they don't know yet… they need to."
Gene nodded.
Gene pressed her back to the glass, every nerve alert. Somewhere beyond the fogged panes, the security lights pulsed once, then again, flickering like the eye of something half-asleep but waking.
The vines along the far wall twitched as if stirred by breath, though the air was still. It felt wrong. Alive in the wrong places. Watching.
"Did he remember anything?" Maisie asked, her voice quieter now, almost reverent, as though to speak too loud might summon the thing they were trying to outrun.
Gene shook her head. "He knew me. For a second. But it was like reaching through water. Something's scrambled him, chemical, neural, maybe both. But I saw the break forming."
Maisie's brow furrowed, the glass above her fogging faintly from her breath. "If they activated him... what if it's too late?"
Gene looked at her, not blinking. "Then we stop them before he turns into what they want."
The wind pressed against the greenhouse with a groaning sigh, like the house itself resented their presence. A long crack spiderwebbed across one pane above them, catching the moonlight like fractured bone.
The two women stood in silence beneath its glow, one trying to preserve the last thread of trust between them, the other holding back the full scope of what she'd seen done to Subject Eight.
Then, just past the thorns and frost-bitten herbs, a whisper crackled from Gene's comm unit, a phantom line of static, barely audible.
"Someone's tapping the estate feeds," she murmured. "Dash?"
Maisie shook her head. "He's offline."
That was all the confirmation Gene needed. Something else was moving through the mansion now. And it was already too close.