Guren's POV
The sterile whiteness of the room pressed against Guren's senses. He leaned against the smooth wall, trying to ground himself, yet the dizziness didn't ease. The blood loss—or rather, the depletion caused by his prior fight with Alane—made his head spin like a top in a storm. He felt light, almost ethereal, as if the edges of his consciousness were fraying.
He crawled slowly toward Kaito's bed, the faint hum of the ventilation brushing past his ears. His fingers gripped the metallic pipe, attaching it to Kaito's veins again. The chemical transfer stabilized him slightly, but dizziness remained, a nagging reminder that he had pushed his limits. Guren's mind, foggy yet hyper-aware, began to process the events that had just unfolded.
Alane… that Crimson Domain. What is its true backdrop? he pondered, brushing his palm over the edge of the bed. The red glow that had enveloped the room, the way it drained his blood despite his precautions—he tried to quantify it. Is it a condition? A rim restriction? Or merely a function of time? He frowned, pressing the pipe closer to his vein to draw more of Kaito's blood.
His thoughts wandered. He recalled how Alane had retreated mid-fight. It couldn't just be pride. Could it be time? The duration of the domain has limitations, that's clear. Or some rim condition I don't fully understand yet… He shook his head slightly, trying to clear the dizziness. Either way… I have to anticipate the next engagement. I can't afford miscalculations.
The slight warmth from Kaito's blood seeped into him, grounding him physically, even as the whirl of his mind spun with tactical calculations. He studied the white walls and the sterile lights. Every line, every angle, every reflection of his shadow painted a puzzle of spatial possibilities.
I need to understand Alane's domain fully before the next encounter… he muttered to himself, voice low. His blue sword still rested at his side, glowing faintly. It wasn't enough, but it would have to suffice for the next confrontation. For now, he allowed himself to lean back against the wall, closing his eyes for a short reprieve, though the hum of the ventilation above reminded him that the world outside was far from calm.
---
Arthur and Kaito Father POV
Crawling through the narrow ventilation ducts, Arthur's hands scraped lightly against the metallic walls. Every sound—every creak or distant echo—set his nerves on edge. Below them, muffled voices drifted upward, the distant shouts of soldiers or guards moving along corridors. The ventilation hummed softly with recycled air, and their own movements were ghostly whispers.
Arthur signaled to his uncle, Kaito's father, to stop. They pressed themselves flat against the floor of the duct, ears straining. "I hear voices… soldiers?" Arthur whispered.
"Yes," Kaito's father replied. "They're moving below. We have to stay quiet." He leaned forward slightly, peering through a small grate. The soldiers passed, unaware of the two figures in the ventilation. After the footsteps faded, they exhaled quietly, the tension in their bodies slowly releasing.
"We need a plan," Arthur said softly. "These ducts—where do they lead? We can't wander blindly."
Kaito's father shook his head slightly. "I don't have a full layout… just a vague idea. Sui mentioned the maps earlier—how the ducts connect to the utility canals. There should be multiple canals, possibly three, but the exact exits… I'm not certain."
Arthur frowned. "So you're saying we have to rely on intuition?"
"Not exactly," Kaito's father said. "When Kuro showed us the maps, I noted the possible connections. One path likely leads to the kitchen or mess area. Another probably leads to the hunting grounds. That's all I can estimate."
Arthur nodded slowly. "And if we go to the hunting grounds… Michael, Andreo, and Mark… their fights could be over by now. But that area could also be swarming with reinforcements."
Kaito's father leaned back against the duct wall. "It's risky. We need to minimize encounters. Let's head to the kitchen first. It's closer, and we can scout before deciding to push toward the hunting grounds."
Arthur exhaled softly, adjusting his grip on the edge of the vent. "Agreed. Let's move carefully."
As they advanced, the duct offered little comfort. Cold air whipped past their faces, the metal edges biting their skin. Every few feet, they paused to listen. Distant echoes of boots, the clang of weapons, and low murmurs of guards filtered through the walls. They moved silently, each step deliberate, using the ventilation's twists to mask their sounds.
"I don't like this," Arthur whispered. "Even if we reach the kitchen, there's no telling who or what we'll encounter. Kuro's plan is… still unclear. And if he's tracking us…" His voice trailed, leaving the thought unfinished.
Kaito's father tightened his grip, nodding. "We'll just have to rely on stealth. Slow, deliberate movement. And hope the guards are tired enough to miss us."
They paused again, the vents creaking slightly under their combined weight. Arthur pressed a hand to the grate above, listening. A faint shuffle indicated movement far below. "Patience," Kaito's father whispered. "We move when it's safe. For now… we wait."
The two continued their slow, meticulous crawl, the duct cold against their hands, every movement a test of patience. The faint hum of the ventilation system seemed to amplify every thought, every distant sound, keeping them alert. They inched forward carefully, knowing that even a minor misstep could mean immediate detection.
Finally, after several minutes of careful navigation, they reached a junction. Arthur peeked into the branching pathways. "Kitchen to the left, hunting grounds to the right… as you said," he murmured.
Kaito's father nodded. "Yes. We proceed to the kitchen. It's closer, safer, and we'll have a chance to plan again. After that… we decide our next move."
Arthur exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. "Let's move."
Slowly, carefully, they continued forward, shadows among shadows, the ventilation duct carrying them deeper into the facility, toward the next unknown—but calculated—step in their escape.
---
They moved like a band of ghosts through the underbelly of the facility: four silhouettes hunched inside the maintenance tunnel, shoulders brushing the low, corrugated ceiling. The air in the service duct tasted of oil, rust, and the faint chemical tang that clung to places where experiments had once bled into the walls. Pipes ran along the left—cold, sweating veins—while the right wall had been scored and patched in a dozen places, evidence of hurried repairs and abandoned attempts to seal breaches. Fluorescent strips overhead flickered in a lazy, irregular rhythm, painting their faces in pulses of sickly light.
Kaito hunched against one side, silent as stone. He walked—if walking could describe what he did—mechanically, each footfall measured, as if conserving the fragile balance between motion and collapse. His eyes were hard coals; they watched the tunnel but looked through it. Alia kept close, one hand permanently near his arm, fear threaded into every breath she took.
When they slid through the iron door into the basement corridor, the space opened into a lower, wider service way. Dampness pooled in grout lines; the floor tiles were scuffed and stained with years of unlovely traffic. The hum of distant machinery was a constant, like a breathing beast. A faded sign above a rusted hatch read UTILITY — KITCHEN, with two other arrows marked HUNTING GROUNDS and TOILETS, their paint flaked by time and neglect.
Alia took a breath that sounded too loud in the small group. "We should introduce ourselves properly," she said, trying to force normality because the alternative—back to running—felt like surrender.
She stopped, stepped forward, and smiled with an effort. "I'm Alia," she said. "And he's Kaito."
Kaito didn't look up. He only glared, the kind of glare that warned strangers away without words. It made the air thinner.
Sofia drew in a breath and gave a small, humorless smile. "I'm Sofia." She flicked a hand toward the lanky boy leaning against the pipe. "That's my idiot brother, Carl."
Carl offered a quick, irreverent salute. "Idiot by design," he said, voice low.
Alia nodded. The introductions were a sliver of civility, a way to anchor them in a world that had been unmoored by tests and violence. "So—what's the plan?" she asked.
Sofia's face softened into practicality. "There's a utility canal network under the service ducts. It connects everywhere—kitchen, hunting grounds, toilets. It's old, narrow, and disgusting, but it's faster and less guarded than the main corridors. From the position we're at, the kitchen canal is closest. If we can reach it and move fast, we can slip past most patrols."
Kaito's stare didn't move from the far wall. He listened as if the plan was background noise. Sofia pulled a small, folded map from a cracked pocket of her jacket and flattened it along a rusted pipe. Her finger traced a line: service → maintenance → hatch → canal. The path zigged like the veins on a leaf.
"There are three canals," Sofia continued. "The hunting-grounds branch ends close to the game enclosure—they lock that down tight. The toilet branch dumps into waste systems, and the kitchen one exits into the staff kitchen area. The kitchen has access to supply tunnels that run out to the east loading bay. We go kitchen branch. Quick, silent, and we avoid the main security nodes. The guards are scattered—this is the moment to move."
Alia swallowed, the color leaving her face a little. "And Kaito? If they see you—"
"We'll keep him concealed," Sofia said. "Carl will… keep him regulated." Her words were blunt but practical; there was no illusion of comfort in them. Safety, she implied, was not about promises but about actions you could take in the next three breaths.
Kaito—who had been a statue of suppressed motion—blurred. One heartbeat he was there, the next he was not. The absence hit like a physical shove; Alia lunged instinctively toward the open corridor.
"Kaito!" she hissed, the small sound full of panic.
"Don't," Sofia snapped, flat and immediate. Her palm hovered over the pipe as if to push Alia back with the force of command, not tenderness. "He bolting now will get him shot. Or worse."
They froze as a distant bootbeat clanged on metal above them—heavy, measured, the sound of patrols on a route. Voices drifted briefly down as well, muffled and officious. Footsteps paused, then moved on. The four of them held their breath until the cadence faded and the danger receded into the network of pipes.
"He's gone," Alia said, voice barely a thread. The floor seemed to slant under her. The plan—small and fragile—felt suddenly precarious.
Sofia's jaw tightened. "We can't go up after him. Not now." She folded the map and slid it back into her pocket. "We need a plan. If he's out there, he's not safe. But rushing to find him will only scatter us and draw attention. Guards will be searching, and reinforcements will link up. Our priority is getting everyone out."
Alia's hands shook visibly. "But Kaito—" she began, raw pleading in her voice. "He can't be out there alone."
Sofia met Alia's eyes and held them with the steady, unblinking calm of someone used to making hard calls. "City of men or machine," she said quietly, "you can't save everyone at once. We secure the exit, we get out in a group. Then we come back with information and a plan. That's how rescues don't become deaths."
Alia's face crumpled. The choices stretched like a hunger: risk everyone by chasing a single lead, or salvage the group and keep the chance of a future rescue.
While the debate scraped between them, the scene beyond the service entrance was different.
Kaito ran.
The corridor system he chose was darker, narrower—forgotten pathways where light didn't bother to lick the corners. His steps were silent despite their speed; he had learned to move through hazard with a predator's gait, a cadence honed on hospital floors and observation rooms. The ringing in his ears from the earlier pain had turned into a dull metronome.
He scanned constantly, not with the frantic eyes of someone escaping, but with the rapid assessment of someone cataloging exits and threats in real time. Doorways, vents, maintenance panels—the map of the facility unfolded in his mind like lines on skin. He saw guards as nodes—positions that could be bypassed, neutralized, or observed.
A pair of patrols crossed a junction ahead: two guards in pale uniforms, flashlights sweeping the hall. Kaito watched them fold their fingers around the rails of their rifles, the movement slow and ritualized. He didn't think of their breaths as breaths—only as pressure points.
He didn't linger. A measured inhale, a step into the shadow beside a collapsed service trolley, and a tiny, precise pulse of rim energy—barely a wink of light—leapt from his fingers. The guard nearest the junction flinched as the air behind him popped like a small static explosion. The second man dove instinctively, training toward the sound. The first guard staggered, his lamp dropped, and he went down with a choked cry, black smoke blooming from a small scorch where the rim touched his boot.
Kaito didn't look back. The pulse had been careful, surgical—enough to disable, not to explode. He wanted to avoid noise. He wanted, more than anything then, to find Kuro, to find Alexander, to find any trace that would let him pay the debt pressed to his bones.
Where are you? he thought, not aloud. The facility was vast and maze-like; rumors of Kuro were like a heat map in his head. Where did they take him? Where is Alexander hiding?
He ran on, the corridors wrapping around him like a skin. His ribs still ached, each breath a jag through the cage of bone, but the pain sharpened him. He cataloged, plotted, moved. The hunt had begun—quiet, patient, inevitable.
---
The storage room swallowed sound. It was a cavern of corrugated metal and stacked shipping crates that rose like a forest of dead trees, aisles narrowing into shadows. The only light came from a single, whining lamp hung from the ceiling—its bulb buzzed and threw hard-edged squares of light across dust motes. The air smelled of cardboard, machine oil, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Kuro moved through the maze without hurry; his boots made no sound on the concrete.
He found a gap between two towers of sealed boxes, sat down with one hand on his knee, and let his back press into cool cardboard. For a moment he breathed, slow and measured, as if inhaling could stitch his scattered plans back together. He let the silence sit on his skin, listened to the building's lazy breathing—the distant clank of doors, the far-off rumble of motors—and then thought, sharp and precise in the dark:
Of course.
He had expected obstacles. He had expected firefights, an overprepared defense, the predictable cruelty of Regan protocols. He had not expected a third party—someone else moving through the facility with motives that were neither Fern's nor his. That someone had been following him; the evidence had been there in the footprints he found at the hatch, in the pattern of lights that blinked when he passed. Harmless, so far. Harmless enough to let him breathe.
He let out a dry laugh and shook his head. My idea… it screwed up. The words were not surprise, only a recalculation. He had planned the infiltration like a clean equation: distraction, secure Kaito, extract, burn the rest. He had not budgeted for others with agendas of their own. A third party ruined the neat cascade; it had cracked chances he had counted on.
Yet there was the other side of the coin. Good, he told himself. If they're here it gives me cover. They had drawn attention and chaos into the halls—chaos that made escape possible, that made the guard patterns fractal and messy. He had slipped through those cracks. He had survived. Survival was the first victory.
Kuro's eyes skimmed the room, taking small inventory—crates stamped with faded logos, a dented drum of solvent, a pallet trolley abandoned in a corner. He noted exits and choke points by feel, like a man who had learned to read lines in a map without looking. His fingers found the seam of his coat; the pocket held a small, cold object, a token of a lie he kept: the skull mask case. He thumbed the metal as if testing its weight, then slid it back.
He thought of Guren next. The thought warmed and complicated itself with equal measure. Guren was the axis around which Kuro's more audacious dreams had spun—an agent, a broker, a man who wore masks with the ease of a monarch changing coats. Guren collected funds, secrets, the kind of favors that bought silence and doors. He was the leader the group needed: lawfully sanctioned on paper, rebelliously pragmatic in action. Kuro had joined him to use him—use the network, the resources, the cover. But he had never been content to be second. He had always been the man who watched the leader and asked where a better seat could be taken. He had planned to betray Guren, to steal the thing that all of them wanted: Kaito's Eclipse, the key to power beyond ordinary authority.
He allowed a short, bitter smile. He doesn't trust me. He has reason. Kuro had fed Guren false loyalties when it served him, tendered feints of obedience. But he had also stockpiled his own options—contacts in the black markets, a few knives hidden in the folds of his jacket, a handful of bribes owed to those with too many debts. If fortune and momentum permitted, he would crush them all and leave with the prize. He pictured the two of them crossing in a future that would be quick and silent: one final betrayal, his hand closing where Guren's had opened. The image had the cold geometry of a chess move.
Yet tonight, the girl with ref hair had thwarted him. The thought tasted like grit. He'd been counting on the small vulnerabilities of a traumatized boy—on how the shadows in a mind could be tugged and turned. He had expected the purple-haired projection to slip into Kaito and take the reins. That had been the original trick: plant a voice, make the boy mirror the script, hand the operation to a ghost and walk away with the spoils. But the projection had failed. Some tiny variable—some human touch—had broken the pattern.
He pictured the moment again: the aura swelling, the silent flash of takeover, and then—nothing. The storm had scattered at a pinch of skin, because the girl had touched him. Her palm had been a clamp, a breaker of the weave. A breaker, he thought now with a sharpening gaze. The knowledge pushed at his chest with pricking heat. He had misread the lab's outcomes; the technicians he'd bribed, the data he'd purchased—it had all pointed to a predictable response. He had been arrogant enough to assume a formula would repeat in the field.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. So that's that. The projection had not taken Kaito. That meant Kuro's immediate plan—leave with Kaito and Guren already boxed in the same exit—had been ruptured. Worse, the third party had been a variable he had not accounted for: people active inside the facility who weren't on his ledger. They were either lucky or dangerous. Possibly both.
He checked his watch. The digits glowed in the dim: 02:30. The hour sat heavy on his shoulders like a sentinel. Not too long, he murmured. Reinforcements would begin to converge as the base's systems flared. Regans would call back units. The longer he stayed, the more layers of security would congeal around the place like coagulating oil. His main priority, for now, shifted inwards: escape. But Kuro did not escape alone. His plans depended on people worth using—a choir of opportunists, a rope to tug them across the threshold.
He could feel the machinery of his mind turning into contingency sequences—if Mark and Andreo are in jail, then their value is different; if Guren has leeway, I can use it. He imagined bargaining: favors exchanged for silence, gunfire traded for corridors left unsearched. He had always been a man who preferred to barter with the world instead of breaking its back outright.
He let the notion sit, then pushed to his feet. The crates would keep their secrets; the lamp would keep its tired halo. He moved with the silence of a predator, testing doors, mapping exits. Each click of his boot was a bead of planning. He did not pretend regret; his mind did not spin in moral knots. He weighed opportunity. He weighed risk. He weighed which names would buy him a gap in the coming tables.
A harmless follower, he told himself once again—harmless so far. But harmlessness could be a mask, and masks were his old trade. He would not be fooled twice. If that shadow decided to tighten into teeth, he would be ready. For now, however, the fragility of his position was plain and cold: his plan was busted, his ability to force the boy was neutered, and time—time always—moved him toward corners he disliked.
Use others to get out, he thought finally, voice only for himself. They are useful. Their desperation is leverage. Bring me a path. Make it fast.
He stepped out into the thin flood of corridor light, the boxes standing silent behind him like rows of witnesses. The facility breathed around his shoulders, a living map with doors and alarms and the promise of chaos. He had no illusions about the night; he only had the calculation of it. And calculation, in Kuro's hands, was a weapon he preferred to sharpen slowly before the kill.