The air here was heavy with dust and something metallic, a faint chemical sweetness that clung to the back of Gregor’s throat. The ruined wing sprawled in front of them like a dissected corpse—halls torn open, ceiling wires hanging like veins peeled from bone. The place had been abandoned for years, maybe decades, but it still felt like the walls were watching.

Of course, he’d been paired with Rodion.

He wasn’t sure if Dante did this deliberately or if the clockhead was simply oblivious, but Gregor suspected the universe enjoyed making him suffer. In a good way. In a… very warm, difficult-to-think-straight kind of way.

Rodion walked beside him with her usual bright, confident stride, humming some upbeat tune that echoed strangely through the corridors. Every so often her arm brushed his, and each time a small electric shiver ran up his spine.

He pretended not to notice. He failed every time.

“Let’s keep our guard up,” he said quietly, though his voice sounded smaller than he meant.

The deeper they went, the more the air changed—warmer, almost humid, like the place still breathed. Bio-labs. Cloning tanks. Cryo-storage. Gregor tried not to think about the G-Corp memories that tugged at the back of his skull.

Rodion must’ve noticed the way his shoulders tensed. She shifted closer, her presence warm, protective. Her scent—something sweet, like dried fruit and warmth—hit him in a wave.

He swallowed hard. Focus.

They passed a half-collapsed observation room when Gregor froze. Something moved.

A faint scrabbling sound. Soft. Unsteady. Almost like… tiny footsteps?

He raised a hand to signal Rodion to stop. She quieted instantly—impressive, considering how loud she usually was—and leaned in close enough that her breath brushed the side of his neck. Gregor’s ears burned, but he forced himself forward, stepping toward the sound.

He peeked around a cracked doorway.

That’s when he saw it.

A small figure sat huddled beside the shattered remains of a containment capsule, knees pulled to its chest, pale hair tangled like it had never been brushed. Its eyes—wide, luminous, inhumanly reflective—snapped toward him the moment he entered.

Not a human child. A creation.

Probably left behind after the Wing collapsed. Alone. Unstable. Potentially dangerous.

Gregor’s breath hitched.

The creature stared at him, trembling, and he realized with a sinking feeling what he must look like to it: tall, armored, insect-arm glinting sharply in the dim emergency lights. A monster in the cracked glass.

“Hey…” Gregor softened his voice, lowering himself slowly. “It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.”

A quiet whimper. Gregor extended his normal hand and the child bolted.

Not away. Not toward an exit.

Right past him.

Straight toward Rodion.

Gregor’s heart jumped into his throat. “Rodion—!”

But instead of attacking, the child pressed desperately against her legs, clutching onto her coat with tiny, trembling fingers. Like a terrified animal attaching itself to the warmest thing in the room.