REN PLUTO
The stairs down to Sub Level 4 weren't stairs. They were a throat.
With every step, the air changed. Grew colder. Thicker. A wet cold that didn't just sit on your skin—it pushed into your lungs, heavy as water. The mildew-and-rust smell of the lobby was a fond memory now. Down here, the stenches were sharper. Old plumbing. The electric crackle of failing wiring. And underneath, something else.
Something that smelled of iron. Like a butcher shop drain.
Old blood, Ren's mind supplied. Unhelpfully.
The hallway at the bottom was a concrete grave. A long, narrow tube weeping moisture from every surface. The only light came from bare, caged bulbs, each one flickering on its own spastic rhythm. Shadows jumped and twitched, making the walls look like they were breathing.
Ren quickened his pace. Weaved ahead of the group. Cut in front of everyone.
Not because he was brave. Not because he was a leader.
He led because he refused to have a single one of these liabilities at his back.
Behind him, their panic filled the tight space—a physical, suffocating thing.
"I think my phone lost signal." Ravi's voice was a tight, desperate squeak, swallowed by the damp stone.
Ren didn't turn. Kept his eyes forward, scanning shadows. "You think? We're fifty feet underground, dumbass. This is a dead zone. A blackout. They did this on purpose. You don't build a prison and leave the cell doors open."
"It's not a prison." Ravi's words sounded like a question. Like he was trying to convince himself.
Ren let out a dry snort. Hollow. "Keep telling yourself that."
The hall ended at a single heavy door. Fireproof. Painted the color of a fresh bruise. A small metal plaque was bolted to it, streaked with rust:
SUITE 734
"Seven... three... four." Zelie Mortmain's voice—usually a purr—had gone thin as wire. Pure disgust. "They don't even try to hide it. We're the 'Pigs.'"
Ren knew the code. 734. Police dispatch for a mentally unstable person. A psycho.
Welcome home.
He put his hand on the door. The metal was ice-cold. It vibrated slightly with the thrum of distant, unknown machinery.
He didn't wait. Didn't knock. He shoved it open.
The room was a shithole.
That was the only word for it. A long, narrow concrete box. Four military-grade steel bunks bolted to the floor on the left, four on the right. Eight beds for seven people.
At the far end, a shared bathroom, its door hanging on one hinge. Through the crack, Ren could see a yellowed shower curtain and a flickering fluorescent light that buzzed like a dying insect.
At the other end, by the door, was the "window." A joke. A high, narrow slit of glass reinforced with chicken wire, barred on the outside. It offered a stunning five-star view of a rock wall covered in black slimy moss.
The room smelled like Pine-Sol and desperation. And the Pine-Sol was losing.
The reaction was immediate. Ren took a hard visual inventory under the buzzing light. His unit. He had to know them.
"Oh." Ravi said it like the word had been punched out of him. Just... oh. The sound of a lifetime's worth of optimism being suffocated. He was tan-skinned, sandy-brown hair, a stupidly earnest face that still hadn't processed the danger. A golden retriever puppy in a wolf pit. Useless.
"I'm not." Zelie's voice was dangerously quiet. She'd dropped her expensive suitcase in a puddle. Brazilian, model-shapely even in the ugly uniform, light brown eyes scanning with pure disgust rather than fear. High maintenance. She'd sell them all for a warmer room. "I am not staying here. This is insane. I'm calling my father."
She whipped out her phone. Jammed her thumb against the screen. "No signal!"
"Of course there's no signal." Nyx's voice was flat. Hard. She dropped her heavy duffel by the nearest bunk with a solid, final thud. Tall, rich brown skin, dark chocolate eyes, black hair shorn close to a sharp jaw and slender muscular frame. She'd been watching the room since they entered—scanning the same things Ren was scanning. "Who were you gonna call, 430? The guy who just called us vermin? Get real."
Jules didn't say a word. Just made a small choked sound and slid his back down the damp wall. Pale skin, delicate frame, honey-blonde hair falling into his eyes. When he looked up, his eyes were deep sapphire blue—swimming in terror. Target. He'd be everyone's target.
Sayer was already gone. She'd drifted to the far end near the slimy window, hoodie pulled up. Long dark brown curly hair escaped the hood, framing caramel skin. Her eyes—strange, empty grey-hazel—fixed on the wall. An old faded scar cut from her lip to her chin. A statue. Useless.
And Maven Blackthorn. The mouse. Rank 500.
She was paralyzed in the doorway, clutching her suitcase. Tiny, barely five feet. Black hair pulled into a severe tight bun—like she was trying to take up less space. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, darting between rusty bunks and the exit. A prey animal.
Then, as if a switch flipped, she started frantically cleaning a spot on the wall.
A walking, talking, goddamn mess. All of them.
Ren ignored them. He was already working.
They saw a shithole dorm.
He saw it for what it was: a trap.
He caught his reflection for a second in the dark grimy glass of the barred window. Tall, messy black hair, hazel eyes that had gotten him into trouble his whole life. Eyes that saw too much and knew when to keep quiet.
He turned away.
One entrance. Heavy steel. A single high-security lock—on the outside. Lock them in.
Window? Useless. Too high, too narrow, barred. A taunt.
Vents? Two of them. Bolted shut. Just big enough to pump gas in.
Cameras? Two. Black mirrored domes in opposite corners. Tiny judgmental red lights glowing. They were being watched.
Furniture? Bolted to the floor. Nothing movable. Nothing usable as a barricade.
This wasn't a room. It was a cell. Designed to contain, to control, to demoralize.
And it was working.
"Well." Ravi's voice cracked with horrifying forced cheerfulness. He was unpacking. "At least we all get our own... bunk? And look, there's a spare! That's... that's good, right? An extra bunk. We can use it for... for storage!"
He was pointing at the eighth bunk. The last one on the right, shoved into the darkest, dampest corner.
Ren was already there.
He swept his hands over the cold steel frame. His stepfather—paranoid drunk—had hidden guns and cash in every room they'd shared. Ren had learned to find it all by age twelve. You check the places nobody wants to look.
"What are you doing, freak?" Zelie snapped, still fuming. "Picking out your new coffin? It suits you."
Ren ignored her. He got on his hands and knees.
The room was chaos. Zelie's rage. Ravi's pathetic organizing. Jules's quiet sobs. Maven's frantic rhythmic scrub-scrub-scrub at the wall.
Perfect cover.
He put his head to the floor. Tapped.
Concrete. Concrete. Concrete.
Thud.
Ren froze. A dull, hollow sound.
He looked up.
Nyx was across the room, leaning against her chosen bunk, arms crossed. Not unpacking. Not panicking. Watching him. Her dark eyes narrowed.
She'd seen him stop. Heard the sound.
Ren looked right at her. Put one finger to his lips. A single sharp silent command: Shhh.
Nyx's expression didn't change. Hardened. But her eyes flickered—to the bunk, to the floor, back to him. She gave a single sharp nod.
Your move, 498.
A truce. An asset. For now.
Ren turned back. Dug his fingernails into the crack he'd felt. Worked his fingers in. Got a grip. Pulled.
The panel sucked open with a small wet sound of unsealing.
Underneath: a shallow dry compartment.
Not empty.
Ren's heart kicked once. Hard.
He reached into the dark. His fingers brushed oilskin.
He pulled it out.
A small, tight, waterproof package. He tore it open, back to the room, hunched over, using his body to shield the discovery from the camera in the corner.
The smell of old leather and mold hit him.
Four things inside.
A burner phone. Old brick model. Dead.
Three small glass vials. Thick black-purple sludge inside. A tiny hand-scratched label on one: COUDHAYES.
A cheap tarnished silver chain. Small oval locket. He jammed his thumbnail into the seam. It popped open. Tucked into the tiny metal rim: a rolled piece of paper no bigger than a grain of rice. A code.
A small black leather journal. The leather warped from damp, pages swollen.
A goddamn dead drop.
Ren stuffed the phone, vials, and locket deep into his jeans pocket. He had to know. Now.
He flipped the journal open.
The handwriting was small, sharp, frantic.
...Day 47. They moved me again. Lower this time. I hear things at night—machinery, but not machinery. Like something breathing under the island. I asked K what's on Sub Level 12. She stopped talking to me after that. Three days silent. I think they took her to Processing.
Day 49. Found this compartment. Previous occupant. Name scratched into the frame: E. CHOI. She left these. The vials. The phone. I don't know if she's alive. I don't know if anyone who finds this will be alive long enough to use it.
Day 50. I'm wrong. They're not grading us. They're harvesting us. The mist isn't weather. It's the Coudhayes. It's how they keep us quiet. It's how they make the RNUKE.
RNUKE.
The word was a spike of ice in Ren's gut. It was real.
Day 52. If you're reading this—run. Not from the island. You can't. Run from them. From the ones with the high ranks. They're not students. They're not leaders. They're something else. They know. They all know.
Day 53. They're coming. I hear boots in the hall. I have to hide this. I have to—
The entry ended. Mid-sentence. No Day 54.
Ren's blood had gone cold. Colder than the room. Colder than the stone.
He flipped forward. Empty pages. Flipped back. More entries, but his eyes snagged on one near the beginning:
Day 12. The boy in 734 before me. Name scratched into the bunk frame: J. COLE. Disappeared after he asked too many questions about the fog. About the smell. They said he was "Redacted." No body. No ceremony. Just... gone. Like he never existed.
J. Cole. In this room. In this bunk.
Ren looked at the steel frame. Ran his fingers along the underside.
His nail caught on something. Scratched into the metal, faint and furious:
THEY LISTEN. THEY WATCH. DON'T TRUST 001. THE HOLE IS THE ONLY SAFE PLACE. TELL THEM—
The rest was scratch marks. Like fingernails trying to carve through steel until there was no strength left.
Ren's throat closed.
"Hey."
He snapped the journal shut. Whirled around, shoving it into the back of his jeans under his blazer. His body was on fire—pure chemical adrenaline dump.
The mouse. Maven.
She stood right behind him. Her hand half-outstretched, like she'd been about to tap his shoulder. Her cleaning forgotten.
Her eyes weren't on him.
They were on the empty black hole in the floor.
She looked up. Face pale. Eyes wide with a terror that matched the sudden cold dread in Ren's own stomach.
"I..." Her voice was a tiny trembling thing. "I saw you. What... what did you find?"