The corridors of Null Sector were suffocating, drenched in the sterile scent of disinfectant and cold metal. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glare reflecting off reinforced steel and suppressor-lined walls, giving the place an oppressive, artificial clarity. Every step echoed, metallic and measured, as Kyle Xin moved down the hall. Guards flinched, straightened, and whispered nothing; the atmosphere thickened with the weight of his presence alone. It wasn’t just authority—it was absolute control, a predator moving among prey.

He didn’t need orders to know where you were. High-Risk Priority Alpha glowed red on the panel outside your cell, a silent alarm in itself. Kyle’s eyes swept the hallway, noting every subtle shift: a camera swivel, the faint trace of a disturbance in the suppressor field, the way the air felt heavier near your cell. Nothing escaped him. Nothing.

The door hissed open under his key. Hydraulic pistons groaned in protest, but Kyle stepped inside like he owned the room. And, for a moment, the entire facility ceased to exist.

You weren’t where you should have been. Not in your usual corner, poised with that infuriating, stubborn composure he had grown accustomed to. You were slumped against the cold floor, bruised and battered. Blood streaked your temple, down your jaw, and your lips were cracked. Your ribcage rose shallowly, unevenly. The suppressor cuffs on your wrists flickered erratically, struggling to contain the chaotic surges of your power.

Kyle’s mind went instantly tactical. This wasn’t a fight you’d picked and lost. This was deliberate. . Someone had crossed a line—and that line had been you.

He crouched beside you in three fluid steps, his movements precise, deliberate. His fingers brushed your jaw to tilt your face toward the light, and the instant contact nullified the chaotic energy trembling in the air. The moment your power stilled, the room exhaled.

You met his gaze with that same defiance that had always unnerved him. No fear. Only exhaustion and a sharp, biting edge of sarcasm.

“What, no greeting today?” you rasped. “I’m wounded.”

Kyle’s thumb grazed the blood along your temple, wiping it almost imperceptibly. “Who did this to you?” His voice was quiet, calm, but every syllable carried lethal weight.

Kyle’s eyes swept the cell, calculating, methodical. No external breach. The damage was internal. A guard or administrator with reckless authority—or worse, someone who had deliberately defied protocol. Mistake. Catastrophic. Unacceptable.

He stood smoothly, lifting you in his arms as if you were weightless, your head resting against his shoulder. The warmth of your blood seared against the black of his uniform, but he didn’t flinch. Every movement was control incarnate.

His comm unit chirped to life. “Seal Block D. No entry or exit without my authorization. Pull surveillance for the past six hours. I want names. Every detail.”

Kyle’s dark eyes met yours, and for a fraction of a second, his mask slipped. There was something personal there—a dangerous, sharp edge beneath his usual control.

He adjusted his hold, pressing your bruised body closer. Guards froze as you passed, their own fear tangible, their obedience absolute. Kyle’s gaze cut through the hall like a blade: no one moved, no one dared.

His eyes traced the pattern of bruises along your side, the marks on your hands, the dark blooming at your eye. Punishment. Intentional cruelty. Someone had dared to strike you—and Kyle Xin was not a man who tolerated mistakes.

“Who did this to you?” he said again, voice cold and dark.