The Queen's escape craft cut silently across the night sky, a bone-colored streak against the dark. Its engines didn't roar—they hummed, pulsing low through the floor and up into the soles of their feet. The cabin lights were faint, flickering, like the ship had been asleep for a long time and wasn't sure it wanted to wake.
Lana stood near the rear hatch, staring out the narrow viewport. Below them, the ruins of Noctis shrank into shadow—its broken towers and bleeding corridors swallowed by distance. It already felt unreal. Like a fever dream left behind.
Jason sat at the controls up front, fingers steady on the manual flight system. He hadn't spoken much since takeoff, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. Like being needed again gave him purpose.
Kieran leaned against a support beam, arms crossed. He hadn't cleaned off the blood. It streaked down his forearms, dried in his hair. But he didn't seem to notice. His gaze flicked between Lana and the dark ahead. Like he was waiting for something to go wrong.
Nyx sat with her back to the wall, legs crossed, her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were closed, but her breathing matched the ship's rhythm—slow, precise. Like she was listening to something deeper than sound.
A soft beep from the console broke the silence.
Jason glanced down. "Landing grid's pinging us."
Lana turned. "Friendlies?"
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe not."
Another beep. Louder.
Nyx opened her eyes. "They've detected the signal."
Jason's hand tightened on the throttle. "We haven't even hit atmosphere."
Lana stepped forward. "Then we don't wait to be invited."
They broke through the cloud line and descended fast. The ground rose to meet them—flat terrain marked by dry grass, steel remnants, and old runway markings half-swallowed by dirt. A half-buried control tower jutted up from one side, cracked but standing.
The ship landed with a soft jolt.
No alarms. No lights.
But they weren't alone.
From the far end of the field, a drone zipped past—then another. A formation of six uniformed figures approached, wearing a mismatched blend of tactical gear and reinforced scanning rigs. Their patches bore no nation's flag, only a sigil: a broken helix over a hollow crown. The mark of the Hybrid Containment Reclamation Unit—a post-collapse international watchdog force meant to monitor, isolate, and report any surviving Queen-linked anomalies.
They weren't just here by accident. This site had been one of dozens across the continent—a fallback research outpost turned silent sentry node. Their orders were simple: scan anything emerging from dead zones like Noctis. If it pings red, flag it and wait for command. Do not engage.
But they hadn't expected her.
The lead officer raised a hand. "Identify."
Jason stepped out first. "Emergency evac from Noctis. Civilians. We're clean."
"Step forward for scan," the officer barked.
Jason did. Then Nyx. Then Kieran. All green. Then Lana.
The scanner whined. Once. Twice. Then screamed.
The medic beside the officer recoiled. "She's tethered—her blood's alive with lattice echo."
Kieran's claws slid out with a metallic hiss. "Say that again."
The man raised his rifle, instinctive. "She's not fully human."
"Stand down," Jason growled, drawing his weapon.
Lana stepped forward.
She didn't shout.
She simply said, "Enough."
Her voice cut through the tension like a blade dipped in ice. The soldiers flinched—not from volume, but resonance. Something deeper. Her tone triggered an old imprint buried in their gear—coded response triggers from the Queen's archives.
She took two steps forward.
"I need access to your bunker. I won't repeat myself."
The commander didn't move.
Lana narrowed her eyes. "You don't recognize the code in my blood because you weren't cleared for it. But your implants do. That's why your muscles are locking up. That's why none of you can raise your rifles."
Silence. Then a twitch. Then stillness.
"I am not a hybrid. I am not a scout. I am not your enemy. I am what you were trained to wait for. Unlock the facility, provide shelter, sustenance, gear, and comms. Reinforce the doors. And when you report up the chain, tell them one thing: the corridor made its choice."
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And so did I."
The lead officer nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
Ten minutes later, the hangar doors creaked open.
The base beneath the airstrip was small but functional—walls lined in faded steel, supply crates stacked in corners, terminals blinking in quiet rhythms. It had been dormant for years, waiting for a moment like this.
Lana chose a watchtower room overlooking the field. Nyx took the main ops station, already pulling satellite overlays. Jason ran diagnostic checks on the comm systems. Kieran made sure every hallway was secured.
In her room, Lana stared at her reflection in the narrow mirror. Her face hadn't changed. But something behind her eyes had.
She didn't hear the door open. But she felt Kieran step in.
He crossed the room and stopped just behind her, eyes watching her in the mirror.
"You didn't blink," he said.
"I couldn't afford to."
"And now?"
She turned to face him.
"Now I can choose what to feel."
He didn't speak. He stepped forward. Their bodies met.
They didn't rush. They didn't fumble. She kissed him first. His hands found her waist. Her shirt slipped away. His breath caught in his throat as she traced the lines of his ribs.
They moved to the cot. She climbed onto him, knees on either side of his hips, eyes never leaving his. Their rhythm wasn't frantic—it was reverent. Every breath shared. Every motion intentional. No power games. No pain. Just heat. Just need.
She broke first, her body arching, and her fingers clutching his shoulders. He followed, hand gripping her thigh, breath shuddering against her collarbone.
After, they didn't speak.
They just held each other. Quiet. Still.
Downstairs, Nyx sat alone, watching a growing web of red dots bloom across the digital map.
The Queen's signal wasn't sleeping.
It was spreading.