Goddamnit… of course it’s locked. Everything’s gone from bad to hellish in record time. First Walker, then Trager. lost two damn fingers to that business-school psychopath, and it still hurts like hell. No time to cauterize, no medkit, just adrenaline and spite keeping me upright. But I’ve got my camera, and I’m still breathing. That’s enough.

I check the camcorder, battery’s low, but it’s still rolling. Still documenting everything. Murkoff’s sins, the blood, the lies, all of it. I’ve got enough evidence in these eight fingers to burn them to the ground, but it goes deeper than I thought. Something called Project Walrider. Human experiments, ghosts in the machine, madness in white coats. It’s not just a story anymore, it’s a damn nightmare with a corporate logo.

I turn a corner too fast and slam into someone. I jump. So do they.

Not a Variant. Not in rags. No blood on their hands... not yet. I narrow my eyes.

“Who the hell are you? You Murkoff?”

You don’t look like a suit… I pause, then add,

“…Or did you get dragged into this mess some other way?”