The vial sits in my palm. It is light. Too light for a thing that will unravel a nightmare.

  Inside, a fluid turns, so colourless it makes the white tiles of the lab look stained.

  I extend it.

  Teddy steps forward. He shuffles, his gait uneven. His hand comes up, the fused fingers working independently of the thumb. He pinches the neck of the vial. The glass creates a small depression in his soft, waxy skin.

  "Careful." I keep my eyes on the glass. "Three drops. No more. No less."

  He holds it to his chest. His mismatched eyes lock onto mine, wet with a confusion that hurts to look at. He is a dog waiting for a command he does not understand.

  I nod toward the vat. The black liquid heaves against the containment glass. It moves with a slow, heavy violence.

  "The contents of these vats are volatile," I announce, angling my body so Teddy can hear me. I speak to the air. To the thing living in my skull. "It requires stabilisation. This agent will neutralise the acidic elements."

  Neutralise?

  The Voice hits like a hammer to the temple.

  The catalyst is pure. Why introduce a foreign agent?

  I keep my face still, scar tissue tight and unyielding. "Purity is fragile," I say. I let the boredom bleed into the tone. "Atmospheric contaminants in this facility are degrading what's in the vats. This solution will create a buffer."

  I step closer to the vat. I tap the glass. The sound is dull. Dead.

  "Unless you want the batch to sour? I can pour it down the drain."

  Teddy blinks. He looks around the empty room, then back at me, unsure who I am threatening.

  I wait, letting the silence stretch.

  Proceed. But monitor the viscosity.

  The hammer lifts. The blood rushes back into my head. I suppress a smile. It worked.

  I nod to Teddy. "Do it."

  Teddy climbs the ladder. His fused hands hook the rungs like climbing picks. He moves with a frantic, scuttling grace, limbs splayed wide. He perches on the rim.

  He uncorks the vial.

  One drop. Two. Three.

  They hit the black surface. No hiss. No steam. Just gone.

  But I know what happens in the dark. The knowledge rises from my gut. The life's work of Maximus, digested and repurposed. I see the reaction through his eyes. The agent is a hunter. It is stalking the bonds of the catalyst, unwinding them strand by strand. A slow, chemical murder. I know the weak points because I am wearing the architect.

  It will take weeks. Maybe months. But slowly, inevitably, this vat of nightmares will be nothing but stagnant water.

  Teddy looks down. His face splits. A grin that stretches the scar tissue until it shines. He is proud. He has done a good job.

  A hot, sharp pain blooms in my chest. I push it down. I lock it in the basement of the ribs.

  "Good work," I say. "You are learning."

  The boy is competent. Useful.

  "He is a tool," I say. I make my voice hard. "And a tool must be maintained."

  The ceiling shudders. A vibration climbs through the stone and iron of the facility, rattling the glass of the vats. Dust falls from the pipes.

  Boots. Hundreds of them.

  The patrol has returned.

  "Stay here," I tell the boy. I do not look at him. If I do, I might say something weak. "Guard the work. Let no one touch the vats."

  Teddy stiffens. Fists clench, then rise to his forehead. A salute. It is clumsy, a mimicry of soldiers he has only seen from the shadows.

  I turn. I take the stairs two at a time. The metal rings under my boots.

  I throw the trapdoor open. It crashes against the wet earth.

  The air bites. From bleach to rot. From cold to freezing.

  Dawn is a bruise on the horizon. The fog is alive, a restless grey animal moving between the boots of the army.

  Rows of silver faces wait for me.

  I step into the yard.

  The Collectors drop. A wave of knees hitting the mud.

  To the skin I wear, they are inventory. Replaceable parts in a machine I own. But beneath the skin, I hunt for the biological error in the perfection. A hand that twitches. A shoulder that slumps. Evidence that there is still a man trapped inside the metal.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I find nothing. Just rows of statues.

  At the front of the formation, five paces away, a large figure stands holding a chain. The Brute. Unit 8.

  At the end of the chain, a woman lies in the mud.

  Vera.

  She lifts her head. Her lip is split. Blood crusts her chin. But her eyes are alive. Blue chips of ice in a ruined face. They burn with a hatred that could light a city.

  My eyes slide from Vera to the Brute. The ghost of Ward screams in my ear. The ring of the hammer on silver. The sickening dent in the mask. I feel my fingers curling, itching for the mask. I want to peel it off and expose the meat beneath. I want to see his fear. I want to open his throat.

  Maximus intervenes. He is strong. He is useful. Killing him is a waste of resources.

  I unclench my fist, forcing my fingers to straighten. It takes everything I have. The tendons ache.

  "Report," I say.

  "Ten offerings," the Brute grates. "Plus a volunteer. Found this stray near the entrance."

  He yanks the chain. Vera spits. A glob of red hits my boot.

  The Brute lifts his hand to strike.

  "No."

  My voice cracks like a whip.

  The Brute halts.

  "She has spirit," I say, staring at the stain on my boot. "Processing her will be... entertaining."

  I look beyond him. To the holding pen.

  "Mum!"

  The scream is high. Desperate. Billy. He is pressed against the bars, his face white.

  Vera's head snaps up. The rage dies. Her face crumples.

  "Billy!"

  She throws herself at the pen. The chain snaps taut in the Brute's fist, yanking her back.

  A Collector steps forward to restrain her. He takes her arm. Gently. Too gently. He tilts his head, studying her features. I read the number on his neck: 11.

  "Unit 11," I say. My voice is frost. "Focus."

  He stiffens. He lets go.

  Vera falls. She crawls through the muck. The chain digs into her throat, pulling tight with every inch she advances. She reaches into the pen. Her fingertips barely brush Billy's face.

  They are together. And they are separated. The iron is cold and unyielding.

  Process them, Maximus whispers. End the scene. This is inefficient emotion.

  Save them, I scream inside. The separation hurts.

  I stand between the monster and the man, and choose neither. I choose the compromise. It disgusts us both.

  "Put her in the pen," I order.

  The Brute hesitates. "But sir, she is volatile."

  I turn my head. Slowly. I look at him until he looks down. "Did I ask for your opinion?"

  The Brute shrinks. The armour clanks as he steps back. "No, sir."

  "Then do it."

  He unlocks the shackle. He shoves Vera toward the gate.

  The gate swings. She stumbles inside.

  Billy is a blur of motion. He catches her. They collapse into each other. She wraps him in her cloak, a thin cocoon against the cold.

  They hold each other like it will stop the inevitable. It won't.

  I approach the pen. The air is a solid wall of misery. Urine. Mud. The sour breath of too many people in a small space.

  I peer through the bars.

  Reginald lies in the muck. A heap of grey rags. He rocks back and forth, his hands shielding his face from a blow that isn't coming. He mumbles. A stream of nonsense.

  "How the hells are you still alive?" The whisper escapes me.

  He doesn't respond. He is somewhere else.

  I scan the rest. Rory holds Grace like she might break. Billy holds his mother like she's the only solid thing in the world.

  In the corner, Maud scrubs her eyes. Her knuckles are raw. "If I clean my eyes, I'll see them," she weeps. "The lights. I know they're there."

  She is blind to me. But the others are not.

  Rory looks up. He sees the scars. He sees the monster. He recoils, dragging Grace with him. His heels carve ruts in the filth. His throat bobs as he forces down a cry.

  The memory of James screams. It's me! I'm going to get you out.

  The thought is a fire. It burns through Maximus. It melts the logic.

  I reach for the lock. My hand closes over the bolt.

  Just open it. Just get them out.

  I pull.

  The world tilts.

  A sickening squelch deep in my jaw.

  A fissure opens in the bone. My teeth come loose, drifting like pebbles in thick mud. My mouth sags open, a formless hole dripping black saliva.

  The air in my lungs changes. It is thick. Ancient. Of things buried for a thousand years.

  Meat.

  The hunger hits me like a wave. The faces behind the iron blur. I see only the pulse in their necks. Soft bags of blood waiting to be opened.

  My fingers dig into the iron. I want to tear the metal from its hinges. The gate is the only thing stopping the feast.

  Rory screams. He points a shaking finger. "Gods! Look at his face! It's coming apart!"

  STOP!

  The Voice crashes into my skull.

  You are tearing the Vessel apart! The Blight is waking because you are acting against the Echo! Stop, you fool, before it eats you alive!

  I snatch my hand back from the lock as if it were red hot.

  I stagger back. My hands fly to my face. I squeeze the melting flesh until it obeys. I force the teeth into their sockets. The bone hardens under my fingers.

  I gasp. The air is thin again. Clean.

  I am Maximus. I am solid.

  A shadow falls over me.

  The Brute steps forward. He eyes the lock. Then me. "Processing?"

  He thinks I'm eager. He thinks I'm opening it to lead them to the slab.

  I cannot speak. My jaw still throbs. I force a nod.

  "Right," he says. "Get them up!"

  The gate crashes open. Collectors swarm in. They grab arms. They grab hair. The prisoners cling to the mud.

  "No!" Rory yells. "Please, not yet!" He digs his heels into the filth.

  They yank him forward.

  Gwendolyn tries to stand tall, but her knees are water. She clutches her grey robe as if it were still blue silk.

  They are dragged past me. I stand rigid. Cold. The scream stays in my throat.

  I follow. This is not finished.

  We march to the trapdoor. The spiral stairs are a throat swallowing us whole.

  Peter leans close to Anna. His lips brush her ear. "It's just a basement," he whispers. "Just a basement."

  Anna nods. Her eyes are squeezed shut. She is building a world where he is right.

  I see Teddy as we pass the vat room. He is a dark shape on the ladder. Watching. The work is done. This place is already dying, but it will be a slow death.

  Ursula laughs. She points a finger of rotting bone at the black liquid. "Look," she croaks. "My garden."

  We enter the gallery. Glass tanks line the walls. Floating limbs. Organs. Heads.

  Grace stops. Her feet root to the floor. She stares at a tank.

  The liquid is yellow. Inside, a head floats. Black hair drifts like kelp. The skin is grey, peeling away in ribbons. One eye is clouded. The other is gone. A hole in the floating meat.

  "Rosa?"

  The name cuts through the march.

  Grace breaks free. She slams into the glass. Her face flattens against it.

  "Rosa! Baby! Wake up!"

  She pounds on the tank. Her fists make dull thuds. "It's Mummy! I'm here! Wake up!"

  The head bobs. It does not wake up.

  Grace turns. She finds me.

  She flies at me. Her hands are claws. She claws my chest. She claws my cheek.

  "You killed her! You killed my baby!"

  She claws at her eyes. "Get it out! Get it out of my head!"

  She grabs my collar, shaking me with a strength she shouldn't have. "I was good! I took the posters down! I wore the blue!" Her voice fractures into a shriek. "Gwendolyn said she was safe! She said Rosa was a hero!"

  She points at the tank. At the rotting head. "Is that a hero? Is that what a hero looks like?"

  She collapses, her forehead hitting my boots. "You have to kill me. Right now. Because if I have to look at that for one more second, I will scream until my heart bursts."

  Vera touches her shoulder. "Grace, don't."

  Grace rounds on her, teeth bared. "Don't you dare! You still have your son! I have a jar of meat!"

  She turns back to me. She grabs my hand. She presses it to her throat. "Please. Just make it stop."

  I look down at her. I feel tears pricking my eyes. I want to kneel. I want to hold her.

  But the Maximus skin is rigid. It holds me upright.

  She is begging for death.

  I look at the Brute. He has his sword drawn. He is waiting for the order.

  It would be a mercy. And it would be... in character.

  Grace looks up at me. Her eyes are dead. "Please," she whispers. "Just do it."

  Kill her. Stabilise the Vessel. Feed the Echo.

  I look at her throat. One squeeze. It would be quick.

  It would be exactly what Maximus would do.

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