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Chapter 21 - Chapter 21: Sub-station 7

The underworks were a different world, a forgotten circulatory system beneath the skin of the city. The air was thick with the smell of damp metal and geothermal steam. The oppressive silence was broken only by the constant, rhythmic dripping of water and the low-frequency hum of Terminus's unseen, colossal machinery.

Cain moved with a phantom's grace, leading them through the labyrinth of iron and stone. After an hour that felt like a lifetime, they found it: a reinforced iron door, almost swallowed by the darkness, marked with a faded, stenciled number 7.

The moment Cain picked the ancient lock and the door groaned open, they knew something was profoundly wrong. The tunnels outside were decaying, covered in rust and grime. Sub-station 7, however, was immaculate. The floor was swept clean. The rows of control panels were free of dust, their brass fittings polished to a dull gleam. The air was still and cold.

"I don't like this," Ronan muttered, his hand instinctively going to the dice in his pocket. He tried to read the [Probability Currents], but they were a tangled, chaotic mess. "The threads are all knotted. It feels like something is actively interfering with fate here."

Isolde raised a hand, her expression unreadable. "There are multiple cold spots," she whispered, her gaze sweeping across the room. "Voids. Several of them. We are not alone."

Ignoring the mounting dread, they moved cautiously inside. In the center of the room, on a master control panel, lay a single rolled-up schematic, illuminated by a single, focused beam of light from the ceiling. It was bait. They all knew it, but they had to see.

Liam approached it slowly. He unrolled the stiff parchment. It was the original, untampered design for the Pumping Station's pressure regulators, signed at the bottom with the clear, confident script: Elias Vance.

It was the proof. The truth they had been searching for.

As Liam's fingers brushed against the parchment, a deafening clang shattered the silence. Heavy iron gates slammed down over the doorways with bone-jarring finality, sealing them inside. A set of harsh, sterile emergency lights flickered on, bathing the room in a merciless glare and revealing the architects of their trap.

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