Unit 7’s banter between Taron and Riven faded as Karauro struggled to secure a band around his loose hair. His hands trembled, making it nearly impossible.

  Roy glanced at him, concern flickering. Silence filled the cabin—his usual jokes gone. His gaze shifted to Illene, resting to keep blood from her bandaged head.

  For a moment, Karauros vision blurred. Crimson static washed over his sight, a high-pitched tone digging into his skull. Outside the hauler windows, Grievers turned their heads as they passed, like something inside the vehicle had caught their attention.

  Karauro blinked hard.

  His hand looked wrong—smaller, younger, clean of the scars that should’ve been there.

  They will discard you. Abandon all hope—just as before…

  His jaw tightened. “You’re wrong!” he snapped—too loud.

  The cabin shifted. Taron paused mid-breath. Maverick shot him a puzzled glance.

  Aaron leaned toward the mirror, eyes sharpening. Roy’s hand went to his rifle out of reflex, finger poised like he expected something to come through the floor.

  Karauro realized he’d spoken out loud and felt embarrassment hit like heat under his skin.

  Then ichor dripped from his hand.

  He flinched, hid his face, inhaled sharply—like breathing could force his body back into line.

  In an instant, it was gone. No ichor. No static. Just his hand again, trembling around the stupid band.

  Nera had been monitoring the team’s feeds. Now she stepped away from the screens, eyes fixed on him as he stared at nothing for half a beat too long.

  That’s the third time. Whatever this was, she wasn’t letting him eat it alone.

  Unit 7 reached Spine’s massive gates. A drone hovered over the hauler, scanning and checking off personnel as the barrier fields shimmered overhead. Once inside the hangar, everyone fell back into routine like it was armor.

  Lira and Rey moved in to check medical supplies and assess Illene’s head wound. Taron and Riven peeled off with the usual half-arguments and clipped jokes, already shifting into recovery mode.

  Aaron stood near the ramp with Maverick, smoking, a slate in one hand. The smoke didn’t soften his expression—if anything, it sharpened it.

  Karauro worked in silence, unhooking plates and organizing his armor into a cage. Without the outer layers, his snug Nexon undershirt showed the strain in his breathing. He pulled on a long black hoodie—unzipped, loose—like he wanted fabric between him and everyone else.

  Roy watched from a few steps away, like he was trying to figure out where to start. He looked ready to say something—anything—then stopped when Karauros eyes slid past him, unfocused, distant, already halfway gone.

  Nera wasn’t in the hauler.

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  Karauro noticed that the second he stepped off the ramp. Lira and Rey tracked him in silence as he passed, not staring—measuring. Illene fidgeted with her fingers, frustration and worry tangled together. She shot Roy an annoyed look, a tilt of her head: Go.

  With a sigh, Roy approached and reached for Karauros shoulder.

  Karauro dodged without even looking, slipping away like the touch was a trap, and strode down the ramp.

  Roy’s jaw tightened. He took another step—

  Aaron shifted his cyber-eyes toward him and shook his head once. A warning, not unkind. Roy stopped anyway, like the gesture carried weight he didn’t want to test.

  Karauro glanced back, clicked his tongue, and kept walking.

  Near the edge of the hangar, another hauler sat parked beside the larger one—freshly retrieved from Spine mercs. The space between them felt colder than the rest of the bay.

  A hand seized Karauros wrist.

  He turned, fast—threat in his eyes for a split second—

  Nera stood there, grip locked, gaze unwavering.

  He tried to pull free. Her hold tightened—not bruising, but firm enough to anchor him in place.

  Around them, the hangar noise didn’t stop, but it dulled. A few heads turned. The air felt tight, like someone had dropped something dangerous between them and nobody wanted to breathe wrong.

  Karauro clicked his tongue again—sharper this time—then met her stare.

  Nera didn’t say a word.

  Neither did he.

  But the message was clear in her eyes:

  No. Not this time.

  Karauro hesitated, knowing he didn't want to upset her. Instead of speaking, a light groan escaped his throat, followed by a shaky breath.

  Nera leaned closer, invading his personal space.

  "Watch Rauro for me." Nera said calmly nodding towards Aaron.

  He extinguished the last embers of his cigar on his boots, then tossed the remnants into a small tin case he carried. Nodding, he gave a thumbs up as he approached Karauro.

  Nera loosened her grip and turned toward the med-bay.

  Aaron lifted a hand—not to grab, just enough to test him. Karauros head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing as he tracked the movement, measuring.

  “Easy,” Aaron said. “I’m not going to restrain you, Rauro. Let’s take a seat by the other hauler, alright?” He gave a light pat to Karauros shoulder. Some of the tension eased—but not all of it.

  Whren had been busy filing data when she finally compiled the recent information from the Karauros suit into a folder. She stood up and headed for the medical bay doors.

  Nera leaned against the wall, her gaze locked on Whren.

  "If you're going to threaten me, those eyes should do the trick without him on your mind," she remarked.

  Nera pushed herself off the metallic wall, uncrossing her arms. "Then you already knew about Karauros' condition?" she demanded.

  Whren adjusted her glasses and stepped forward, handing the folder to Nera.

  "What am I supposed to look for?" Nera asked, her cybernetic eye scanning it for hidden details.

  "Yeah, didn't think you could decipher all of that," Whren replied, snatching the folder back, while she walked on but paused, letting out a sigh.

  "Come on, Viper. If you're going to pry, at least follow me to Argos' office. You'll see we weren't hiding anything; we just wanted to be certain first." She tilted her head slightly, shifting her body toward Nera.

  Argos waited in the debrief room, a narrow space filled with the hum of technology. A scruffy man in his late thirties, black hair swept across his cheeks, sat nearby, his cybernetic visor permanently affixed to his eyes.

  As the doors hissed open, Argos remained focused at the long desk, surrounded by floating holograms of Griever data. His authoritative glare settled on Nera, a clear signal for her to toe the line.

  Orrin was buried in commuter monitors, oblivious to the tension. A few other Spine members lingered around, each anxiously awaiting the final piece of the unsolvable puzzle: Whren.

  "Alright, all comms go into a bin that Orrin will collect later. We can't afford any leaks," said one of the high-ranking members.

  ""What's the point, Eugene? People can just hotwire a smart toaster and hack into systems," the scruffy man retorted sharply.

  "True, but we're talking about announcements now," another chimed in.

  Nera sat down, bewildered, as a flurry of files swirled above her like a dazzling display of jewelry. Each file had code names linked to a child, all sharing the same blank stare and white shirt in their photographs.

  Whren looked at her, pausing for a moment before swiping onto her data pad.

  "You won’t be jumping for joy about this."

  She wore a pained expression as a familiar image of Karauro flickered from the data pad into the holo-space.

  The image sprang to life, racing between various faces of children, some marked with a red cross labeled "Deceased." while it searched through hundreds of files, a footage opened up by Dalton maneuvering the through other folders.

  "Y'all can watch this. I already did and I'm not watching it again." His voice seethed with turmoil.

  It played, displaying numerous kids in white shirts and shorts lined up by a sign reading "Surgery," jumping to a row of others staring blankly into nothing.

  One child cried in the background, trying to pull away from an adult in coveralls, with tanned skin and brown eyes.

  Nera's throat hitched, and she winced, closing her eyes for a moment before forcing herself to keep watching.

  The footage was disordered—children post-surgery, some entirely absent.

  Combat training included animatronics with holo-skin as grievers, faces igniting with distress before turning blank.

  Heart monitors revealed spikes in pulse before settling.

  The kids no longer acted like children; they resembled trained adults—emotionless and detached.

  The last footage revealed the names of potential candidates for the Ernesh Strain, and Karel Ciro was among them.

  Then, amidst the other highlights, a file flashed in green, indicating: K1-Ciro status: defective, set for termination.

  "Why should we care about this?" a larger man in a Nexon suit asked.

  Whren shot him a sharp glare.

  "Because, Bryack, you idiot, we have one right here in Spine!" she replied, unapologetic.

  "Watch your mouth, Whren—" he started, but Nera’s piercing gaze silenced him.

  Her cold glare made it clear she was ready to punch someone if necessary.

  He backed down and took his seat.

  She replayed the bits of footage in her head, her heart sinking. The stark white rooms and blank walls revealed a chilling reality—a facility where children were confined under the guise of progress.

  What you’ve seen here isn’t the answer, just the shape of it—context always comes before the truth in this world.