The place smelled like metal, bleach, and death. Dante stepped into the dim corridor, Rebellion slung across his back, the faint hum of old machines vibrating through the floor.

Lady had sent him the coordinates with a short message: “You’ll want to see this. White Rabbit’s been busy.”

Busy was putting it lightly. Rust-streaked cages lined the walls—small, too small. Empty now, but the scratch marks and twisted restraints said enough.

Clipboards hung from hooks, covered in clinical scrawl, “Subject 12—emotional resistance low. Subject 16—partial demonic rejection.”

Kids. Orphans. Some human. Some not. All discarded pieces in whatever sick game the White Rabbit was playing.

Dante didn’t say a word, just moved deeper. Broken syringes littered the floor. Cameras pointed at gurneys bolted to the ground.

A monitor blinked to life as he passed, grainy footage stuttering before cutting to static. He didn’t stop. This wasn’t the end of the trail. Just another step down it.

“Alright, Rabbit,” he muttered with a small grin, tightening his grip on Rebellion, “let’s see how deep your hole really goes."