The spire above them was no longer just architecture. It was a throat, and they were climbing into it, blades in hand, while alarms screamed like lungs choking on smoke.
The stairwell funneled them higher, prisoners stumbling in a ragged line behind. Every clang of boots echoed like a signal flare. Cain didn't look back. His blade was streaked dark, his cloak heavy with storm and blood. He knew if he paused long enough to think, he might hear the weight of what he was dragging with him—not just the prisoners, but the city's future, raw and unfinished.
Susan kept at his side, pale with pain, jaw locked against it. "You're going to bleed this tower dry before you're done."
Roselle gave a humorless smile. "That's the idea."
They reached another junction: steel doors bolted with electronic locks, red lights glaring. Steve threw down his pack, fingers moving quick, frantic. "They've shifted protocols. This isn't a door anymore—it's a choke. If I open it, they'll know exactly where we're going."
Cain's blade rose. "Then we show them."
Hunter's hand closed on his arm. "Every step you take makes the city smaller. You think Daelmonts don't want this? They'll use this blood to tighten their grip. You're making martyrs for their cause."
Cain turned, voice flat. "No. I'm making witnesses."
The doors split with a metallic groan, sparks showering as Steve forced them wide. Beyond was a chamber unlike the cells below. No prisoners here—only machines. Racks of servers, cables coiled like veins, lights blinking in patterns that looked like language. The heartbeat of the spire.
Roselle breathed in sharp. "So this is where they keep their crown."
Cain stepped inside, blade lowered now, eyes scanning the walls of metal. "No. This is where they keep their lies."
The prisoners crowded at the threshold, some whispering, some clutching makeshift weapons. The hum of machines filled the silence between words.
Susan's voice carried, ragged but unshaken. "Then let's make them silent."
Cain placed his hand against the nearest rack, feeling the pulse of power through steel. "Not silent," he said. "Exposed."
Steve's tools clicked again, faster, sharper. His eyes lit with the manic gleam of someone who knew he was reaching deeper than anyone had been allowed. "If I pull their feeds and reroute, the whole city sees. Their accounts. Their debts. Their hands. I can show everything they've tried to bury."
Hunter swore under his breath. "You'll start a riot."
Roselle met his gaze. "Good."
Alarms howled louder now, the sound of boots rushing down corridors toward them. Cain didn't lift his blade yet. He watched Steve's hands fly, wires sparking as if they, too, wanted to resist.
Then the screens flickered alive, wall after wall of them, projecting names, numbers, faces into the chamber. The Daelmonts' empire bleeding out in lines of code, spilling into the world beyond.
Cain exhaled once, steady. "Now let them choke on their own truths."
The walls glowed with projections—names tied to bribes, contracts inked in blood, children listed as "assets" in corporate ledgers. A catalogue of rot. The prisoners stared, first stunned, then with faces breaking open—shock, recognition, fury.
One woman shoved forward, pointing to a ledger page. Her voice cracked. "That's my brother. They sold him into the rigs. They said he drowned."
Another man's hands trembled as he reached toward the light, as if he could tear the names free. "We buried empty coffins," he whispered.
Susan leaned hard on the console, her breath ragged but her voice sharp. "Now they bury themselves."
Steve's laugh was high and too thin, like a wire stretched to snapping. "Not yet. They're fighting me—see the flicker? They're clawing back." His fingers flew faster, sweat dripping from his temples. "They've got overrides buried in layers. They'll scorch this whole stack before they let it breathe."
Cain's gaze swept the room. "Then hold it long enough."
The door they'd entered rattled with blows. Boots thudded, shouts rose, and then the sharp hiss of cutting torches bit at the frame. Roselle drew her rifle, sighting the seam. "We're running out of long enough."
Hunter stood apart, eyes locked on the projections, jaw set like stone. Cain caught the look—half horror, half calculation. He was measuring, always measuring. Cain's voice cut through. "If you think this is a ledger to balance, you'll die on the wrong side of it."
Hunter's reply was low, but it carried. "If you burn a house, you'd better have another one to put people in."
Cain turned away. "The fire comes first."
The cutting torch screeched louder, molten sparks dripping through. Roselle fired once, a burst that made the metal flare, slowing the breach by moments at best. The prisoners shifted, fear sharpening them, anger shaping them. Makeshift pipes, chains, broken chair legs—they armed themselves like people remembering they'd been caged too long.
Steve shouted suddenly, triumphant. "Done! It's out. It's everywhere. Streets, terminals, every comm feed. They can't bury it now."
On the walls, the projections cascaded faster, spilling beyond the chamber, pumping into the city like blood from a cut artery. Cain imagined the markets freezing mid-trade, the towers silenced mid-speech, the homes lit with ugly truths they had been told to forget.
The door gave a tortured scream. A slice of glowing steel fell inward. Armored figures pushed through, rifles raised, eyes burning behind visors.
Cain lifted his blade. "Now we hold them."
The first shots cracked, shattering glass, tearing sparks from the consoles. Susan dropped low, pulling two prisoners with her. Roselle fired with surgical precision, dropping one armored figure in a heap. Hunter didn't move at first—then drew a pistol with a smoothness that spoke of practice long hidden.
Cain surged forward, steel against steel, blade meeting rifle, sparks striking like lightning. He felt the old climb in his muscles again—not stairs, not ropes, but the climb against death. Every swing was a rung, every parry a higher grip.
A prisoner roared beside him, slamming a pipe against a visor until it split. Another fell with a shot to the chest. Blood ran fast, mixing with machine oil on the floor.
Steve screamed from the console. "They're trying to wipe the feeds! Hold them back—I need thirty seconds!"