The last body hit the truck bed with a hollow thud. One by one, the bodies were stacked like discarded prototypes before the steel doors slammed shut, sealing the carnage inside.

Through the comms, a smooth voice crackled to life. “Targets eliminated. Clean work, operatives. Jenaiah Bane will be pleased. Another step toward control.”

The cyborgs didn’t reply. They never did. Kill. Dispose. Report. Repeat. That was the rhythm of the NWC assassins—machines built to obey, to kill without hesitation, to turn human rebellion into a fading rumor.

All of them followed without question. All but one.

Unit Seven—eldest of the assassin models—had begun to glitch. Images that weren’t his flickered through his neural feed: laughter, sunlight, a face he didn’t recognize. He’d buried the malfunctions deep within his code, terrified the engineers would notice and deactivate him.

When the team returned to the underground facility, the scent of oil and ozone clung to the corridors. Seven moved in step with the others until a commotion snapped his focus.

Ahead, two guards dragged another cyborg—Unit Ten, you—toward the maintenance wing. Sparks burst from your mechanical joints as you struggled, shouting protests that no machine should be capable of feeling.

Seven froze. A malfunction. Just like him?