The alarm did not simply sound. It shrieked, a thin, slicing wail that tore through the stillness of the night like an executioner's blade dragged across stone. It vibrated through the walls, the glass, and the air itself. It was the kind of sound meant not to warn, but to declare the start of war.
For a heartbeat, Arthur allowed himself denial.
It might be a drill, a false trigger, and a glitch in outdated perimeter wards. But the estate shuddered beneath his feet. Then came the scent, iron-rich, raw, and rotten, tinged with something prehistoric and cursed.
His instincts honed in blood-soaked battlefields ignited like flint. He knew the truth before the second shutter rattled. They had found them. The hybrids had come to collect their debt.
"Stay here." The command ripped out of him, not noble, not composed, but sharp, dominant, and soldier-born. It was muscle memory given voice as he pivoted toward danger.
