Varek Voss ended the audience with a sharp gesture of his mechanical arm. The amber hum of the ether dimmed as a subordinate stepped forward to guide us toward the resting quarters.
"You have three hours," Voss declared, without looking up from his tactical reports. "Get some rest and wash off that sand. I will summon you to the main mess hall to discuss the terms of your first incursion under my command."
We left the office, escorted by a silent soldier. The journey through the concrete corridors felt eternal under the dim light of the fluorescent panels. The air here was different: recycled, freezing, and free of the stench of death that permeated the outside world.
We stopped before two reinforced metal doors in a side hallway. The guide handed us magnetic keycards and withdrew without a word. I was left alone with Ha-jin in the corridor.
"Looks like we survived another day, Haji-kun," I whispered to break the silence.
He glanced at me sideways. The tension triggered by the name "Zero" still vibrated in his posture.
"Don't lower your guard, Takamori-san. This place is just a cell with better walls. Try to sleep; whatever comes after those three hours won't be easy."
"You too," I replied.
He gave a brief nod and entered his room. The hydraulic closure echoed in the empty hallway. I swiped my card through the reader and entered my sanctuary, shutting the outside world out behind me.
The room was spartan: a narrow bed, a bolted-down desk, and a prefabricated bathroom unit. The silence hit me with the force of a physical impact.
I slowly peeled off my tactical jacket. The fabric, once pristine, was now tattered and crusted with dried blood. I removed every piece of premium gear until I stood before the mirror.
My reflection took my breath away. This wasn't an idealized avatar; it was me, replicated with terrifying fidelity.
I looked at my body: the bust I usually hid, the curve of my hips, and the strength in my legs forged by years of exercise. Every mark and mole was identical to my reality. That technical perfection made me feel nauseous. Being myself in a world where death is final was a form of psychological torture.
I stepped into the shower. The water fell icy cold before shifting into a piercing heat that scalded my skin. I leaned against the metal and closed my eyes. The darkness was worse.
Images of the hunt returned with vivid clarity. I saw the girl again, drained by the mist, her hand outstretched and the emptiness in her eyes. Regret gripped my throat. I could have run faster, I could have done something, but fear had anchored me to the spot.
Then came the others. The crunch of bones under the worm's jaws echoed in my mind, merging with the hiss of the water.
Tears finally surfaced, hot and bitter. They vanished into the stream of water as my shoulders shook under the weight of an unbearable reality. I didn't want to be a Vanguard, nor did I want to carry chrome weapons or infected cores. I only yearned to wake up in my room, under the weight of my real blankets and the safe silence of my home.
"I want out..." I whispered. My voice broke in a stifled sob. "Please, just let me out."
The system did not respond. Only the hum of the machinery and the echo of my lament filled the room. Trapped in a prison of hyperrealism, my beauty and strength were nothing more than tools for a war I hadn't chosen.
I stepped out of the shower. The steam dissipated against the cold metal walls. Resting on the bed was a vacuum-sealed package: a replacement for my bloodied rags. I dried myself off roughly. I wiped away the traces of my tears with the same disdain one might use to clean mud from a boot. Self-pity was a luxury; the system rewarded efficiency, not weeping.
I broke the seal. Voss's clothing was a blend of industrial pragmatism and survival technology. I pulled on the ash-gray thermal shirt, designed to regulate temperature and absorb impact. Then, I stepped into the rugged synthetic fiber cargo pants, reinforced with polymer panels at the knees.
As I tightened my belt, a translucent window flickered before my eyes:
[Infantry Tactical Uniform - "Bastion" Model] Type: Light Armor / Faction Standard. Tear Resistance: +20%. Spore Filtration: Active (Level 2). Status: New.
I fastened the magnetic buckles of the vest in front of the mirror. The difference was staggering. The Premium gear had felt like a high-fashion second skin—elegant and lethal. This, on the other hand, was coarse and heavy. It lacked sophistication, but it radiated an honest durability. I had to find a way to repair my original clothes.
This was gear for digging trenches, not for standing out on a warriors' runway.
I tightened the laces of my boots. With every buckle fastened, the Ichika who had cried in the shower receded to the back of my mind. The vulnerability didn't disappear; it was buried under layers of synthetic fiber and protective plating.
My conclusion was bitter: the special package had been a mirage of security. This gray uniform was the reality of Zone 4. I was no longer a guest; I was a war resource on Voss's payroll.
I stepped out with an impassive face. The warrior returned out of a pure instinct for self-preservation.
Ha-jin was waiting by the airlock, also clad in the monotonous gray. His appearance was now more lethal and rugged, like a mass-produced weapon designed for impact. I walked forward with my chin held high. His gaze scanned me, stopping at my swollen eyelids. There was no pity in his expression, only a shared seriousness.
"The system cleans the blood, but not the desert's remnants in your eyes," he said. His tone was dry, without a trace of compassion.
"I'm fine. Just tired," I replied sharply.
"No one is fine here," he cut in. He adjusted my shoulder strap with a technical motion. "What you saw out there is the price of the game. If you don't let go of that weight, it will sink you in the next incursion. Don't be ashamed of being human, Takamori-san, but don't let it cloud your aim."
There were no hugs or empty promises—only the recognition that we both carried the same mental baggage. That brutal honesty restored my balance more effectively than any consolation.
"Understood," I replied. I felt my warrior mask snap back into place, stronger this time.
"Good. Let's go. Voss doesn't appreciate unpunctuality."
The Commander didn't waste a second on formalities. He stood before a holographic map where several red dots pulsed erratically.
The amber light from his arm cast long shadows over the tactical blueprints, while the hum of his hydraulics set the pace for a restrained urgency. He didn't even look up when he noticed our presence.
"The situation has escalated," he declared with sharp gravity. "The team that took down the second leader worm is being ambushed. Your mission is to reach Zero and bring the first team back alive. The enemy is uncertain."
Ha-jin tensed. That player's name hung in the air once again, but to Voss, it was nothing more than an identifier on a screen. The Commander turned, his steel-gray eyes scrutinizing us with cold pragmatism.
"This Zero character isn't special to me. Right now, he's just an escort sent to assist a valuable asset who's cornered. I cannot afford to lose the few individuals capable of taking down level 18 infected specimens. If that team falls, my supply routes will be worm fodder."
He struck the table sharply with his titanium hand. The metallic crash resonated like a starting pistol.
"Deploy immediately. You have the coordinates on your visors. I want those three players operational and back at the bastion. I will not accept a casualty report."
There was no room for rebuttal. To Voss, we weren't heroes, but soldiers sent to protect a strategic investment. We left at a brisk pace, with Zero's name echoing in my mind like a war drum.
The calm was over; the hunt into the unknown had just begun.