The upper levels of Facility X were rubble.
What remained of the walls leaned at wrong angles, their steel bones exposed to grey sky. The floors had collapsed into each other, layers of concrete and metal and dust stacked like a child's failed tower. Fires still burned in places—small ones, dying ones, the kind that would smolder for days before finally giving up.
The lower levels were intact. The lower levels were always intact. The Architects had built their prisons deep, where the bombs couldn't reach and the monsters couldn't dig.
Absolute 2 Eva stood in the wreckage of what had once been a hallway. Her mask was black, unmarked, expressionless. Her hands were at her sides. Her breathing was slow.
Absolute 4 stood across from her, his hands clasped behind his back, his mask tilted as he surveyed the destruction around them.
"Well." His voice was light, almost cheerful. "It was fun. Let's try this again some other time."
He turned to leave.
Absolute 2 Eva watched him go. She didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't raise a hand to stop him.
She let him leave.
On purpose.
The rubble shifted behind her. Somewhere, a beam groaned. Somewhere, a fire crackled. Somewhere, far below, the lower levels hummed with the sound of machines that didn't know the world above them had ended.
Absolute 2 Eva stood alone in the ruins, her black mask reflecting the dying light.
She had let him leave.
She had her reasons.
Chapter 23: The Confession and the Gathering
Zoey's room was small. The walls were grey, the bed was unmade, the window looked out at nothing but sky and the occasional bird that had somehow survived the end of the world. She sat on the edge of the mattress, her hands pressed against her cheeks, her face the color of a fire hydrant.
OH SHIT. OH SHIT. OH SHIT.
The words looped in her head, faster and faster, a record stuck on the worst and best track imaginable. She couldn't stop them. Couldn't slow them down. Couldn't do anything except sit there, burning, replaying the moment over and over.
I like you, Zoey.
He had said it so casually. Like he was telling her the weather. Like he was asking her to pass the salt. His golden eyes had held hers—no smirk, no deflection, no sarcastic comment waiting in the wings. Just... honesty. Raw and uncomfortable and completely, terrifyingly real.
More than I should. More than I want to.
And then he'd left.
Didn't wait for an answer. Didn't give her time to respond. Didn't even let her open her mouth before he turned and walked out of her room, out of the hallway, out of the facility, leaving her alone with the echo of his words and the heat spreading across her face.
Why now?
She flopped backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. The cracks in the plaster looked like rivers. The water stain in the corner looked like a cloud. She had never noticed either of them before.
Why like this?
She pressed her palms against her eyes. Her heart was pounding. Her stomach was doing something complicated and unpleasant. She felt like she was going to throw up. She felt like she was going to laugh. She felt like she was going to do both at the same time and then die of embarrassment.
Why didn't he let me answer?
She rolled onto her side, grabbed her pillow, and screamed into it.
The sound was muffled. The pillow smelled like her. The scream went nowhere and did nothing.
She screamed again.
---
The meeting room was tense.
Not the kind of tense that comes before a fight—the sharp, electric tension of bodies preparing for violence. This was heavier. Slower. The kind of tense that settled into bones and stayed there, pressing down on everyone in the room like a hand on the back of the neck.
Wolfen sat at the far end of the table. His arms were crossed. His eyes were fixed on the scout who had just finished speaking. His face was unreadable—not the bored mask he usually wore, not the sharp smile he used to deflect, just... nothing. A blank wall where a person used to be.
Warden sat beside him. Her visible eye wasn't on the scout. It was on Wolfen. Tracking the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers pressed into his arms, the almost imperceptible tightness around his eyes. The kid was tucked close to her side, his notebook open but untouched, his pencil hovering over a blank page.
Leo stood by the window. His reflection ghosted over the grey sky, pale and insubstantial. His arms were crossed too, mirroring Wolfen without meaning to. His jaw was tight.
Jordan leaned against the wall near the door. His katana was across his knees, his hand resting on the hilt. He wasn't looking at anyone. His eyes were fixed on the floor, but his grip was white-knuckled.
Lena stood beside him, close enough to touch. Her hand wasn't on his, but it was near. Ready.
Maya sat at the table, her fingers drumming against the wood. The sound was soft, rhythmic, unconscious. Her eyes darted between Wolfen and the scout, between the door and the window, between nowhere and nowhere.
Eva wasn't there.
She was in the lower levels, in the room where they had restrained the wrong Eva. The other version of herself—the one who had screamed and laughed and begged to be killed—was conscious now. Her eyes were open. Her wrists were still bound. Eva sat across from her, watching, waiting, her face as blank as Wolfen's.
The scout's voice was steady, but his hands were shaking. He was young—younger than most of them, young enough that his voice still cracked sometimes when he got nervous. His uniform was too big for him. His boots were scuffed.
"They came out of nowhere," he said. "Derek was on the wall. He saw one of them walking toward the gate—someone who looked like him. Same face. Same build. Same scars."
Leo's jaw tightened further.
"Derek engaged him. They fought. Derek was winning." The scout swallowed. "Then another one showed up. Different. Looked like Leo. Same face. Wrong smile."
Jordan's grip on his katana tightened.
"Derek killed him. The one who looked like Leo. He killed him, and then..." The scout's voice dropped. "Then there were ten Wolfens."
The room went still.
"Ten of them," the scout continued. "Different from each other. Some looked like him. Some looked like... things. Monsters. They attacked. Derek fought them. He was losing. Badly."
Maya's drumming stopped.
"Then a woman showed up. White hair. Pale skin. She fought them off. Saved Derek. Brought him back to the settlement." The scout paused. "She said her name was Selene."
Wolfen stood.
His chair scraped against the floor, loud in the silence. No one moved. No one spoke. He didn't look at anyone—not at Leo, not at Maya, not at the scout with the shaking hands. He walked to the door.
Leo opened his mouth.
Warden's hand shot out, catching his arm. She shook her head once. Sharp. Final. Let him go.
The door closed behind Wolfen.
The room was quiet.
---
Wolfen walked.
The corridor was empty. The walls were grey. The lights were weak. His footsteps echoed, bouncing off the concrete, following him like ghosts. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care.
He thought about Zoey. The way her eyes had widened when he said it. The way her mouth had opened and closed, no sound coming out. The way she had looked at him like he'd just handed her a bomb and asked her to hold it.
I like you, Zoey. More than I should. More than I want to.
He had meant it. That was the worst part. He had meant every word.
He pushed through the facility doors and stepped into the cold.
The snow was falling again—light, soft, almost gentle. It settled on his shoulders, his hair, his eyelashes. He didn't brush it off.
He walked into the trees.
---
The clearing was empty.
Wolfen stopped in the center, his breath fogging in the air, his hands in his pockets. The snow was untouched here, smooth and white and silent. No footprints. No blood. No sign that anything had ever happened.
He waited.
They came out of the trees one by one.
The first was the zombie. Its skin was grey, cracked, peeling. Its eyes were milky, unfocused, staring at something that wasn't there. Its jaw hung loose, and its arms swung at its sides like it had forgotten how to use them. It swayed slightly, like it was listening to music no one else could hear.
The second wore an Architect mask. Grey, cracked, the eye slits dark. Its clothes were pristine—stark white, unwrinkled, absurdly clean for someone who had walked through a snowstorm. Its hands were clasped behind its back. It stood like it was waiting for a meeting to start.
The third stood with its arms crossed, its chin lifted, its expression the particular boredom of someone who had seen everything and found it all lacking. The world was below him. Everyone was below him. His golden eyes were half-closed, uninterested.
The fourth had no face. Just smooth, pale skin where his features should have been. It tilted its head when it saw Wolfen, like a bird examining something small and curious. Its hands hung at its sides, twitching.
The fifth was burning. Flames licked at its clothes, its hair, its skin—but it didn't seem to notice. Didn't seem to feel. The snow around it melted, steamed, evaporated. It stood in a circle of bare earth, watching Wolfen with eyes that glowed like embers.
The sixth was crying. Tears streamed down its face, silent, endless, freezing on its cheeks. Its hands were pressed over its ears, like it was trying to block out a sound that wouldn't stop. Its shoulders shook.
The seventh was laughing. No sound came out, but its shoulders shook, its mouth stretched wide, its eyes were wet. It looked at Wolfen like he was the funniest thing it had ever seen.
The eighth was covered in scars. Old ones, new ones, some still healing. Its clothes were rags. Its hands were wrapped in bloody bandages. It stood with its weight on one leg, favoring an injury that would never fully heal.
The ninth was perfectly still. Not breathing, not blinking, not moving at all. A statue wearing Wolfen's face. Its eyes were open, but they saw nothing.
The tenth stood at the front. The one who had kicked Derek around. The one with the too-bright eyes and the half-smile and the hands in his pockets. He looked at Wolfen like he was looking in a mirror.
"Well, well," he said. "Look who finally showed up."
Wolfen didn't answer.
He cracked his neck. Rolled his shoulders. Flexed his fingers.
"Alright. I am going to kill you for what you did to derek . ," he said.
The Wolfens smiled.