The ruins of Substrata Level Three groaned as if the bones of the city itself resented their presence.

  Rowan adjusted his grip on his spellgun, keeping the barrel pointed low as they moved in formation. Dust floated in the stale air, catching the beams of their wrist-lanterns in lazy spirals. Each step echoed far too loudly against the warped metal floorplates.

  Mika, at the front of their little trio, skipped lightly over a pile of collapsed ceiling tiles, her orange tail flicking with restless energy.

  “You know,” she said, voice pitched low but laced with her usual sass, “this place would make a killer hideout. Little fixer clubhouse. Secret tunnel parties.”

  “You just want somewhere to nap where no one can find you,” Vera said, scanning the crumbled corridors with her grimoire implant glowing faintly.

  “And steal everyone’s snacks,” Rowan muttered under his breath.

  Mika’s ears twitched. “I’m right here, you know.”

  “And we know you,” Vera replied, dry as bone.

  Their map projection flickered above Vera’s open palm. The northeast lab sector lay ahead—if the half-collapsed corridors didn’t betray them first. Somewhere in that maze, a synthetic spirit, stitched together from broken souls and machine logic, was awake and very likely homicidal.

  Rowan kept his breathing steady. His heart hadn’t fully settled after the fight with the first spirit—the way its distorted scream had rattled through his bones lingered like a bad aftertaste.

  He caught Vera giving him a sidelong glance.

  “Stay sharp,” she said quietly.

  “I am,” Rowan answered, hoping it was mostly true.

  Ahead, Mika darted to a halt, tail rigid.

  Rowan felt the shift instantly—the air grew colder, heavier, as if the facility itself were inhaling. Somewhere ahead, the lights guttered and died.

  Mika crouched, one hand pressed to the floor, ears swiveling. She looked almost serious for once.

  “Movement,” she whispered. “Big.”

  Vera signaled silently, flattening her free hand downward. Stay low. Move slow.

  They advanced into a wide, high-ceilinged chamber that must once have been a loading bay. Broken conveyor belts and shattered mana-core forklifts littered the space like corpses. At the far end, near a collapsed loading tunnel, something glowed faintly.

  Rowan squinted.

  A figure.

  No—several.

  Shadows moved, indistinct but massive, their edges trailing ghostly motes of broken spellwork. One… two… no, three entities, their forms flickering between humanoid and utterly alien shapes. Synthetic spirits, but evolved beyond the pitiful thing they’d fought above.

  “No way we’re supposed to clean this up at Grade Nine,” Rowan breathed.

  “Welcome to fixer work,” Vera said grimly. “Plan?”

  Mika grinned, stretching her arms overhead with a feline twist.

  “Chaos,” she offered.

  Vera didn’t even dignify that with a response.

  “We isolate one,” Vera said briskly. “Overwhelm it. No solo heroics. We find their core matrices, disrupt, and purge. Rowan, suppressive fire. Mika, look for glyph seams. I’ll tank the hits.”

  Rowan nodded, heart pounding. Mika cracked her knuckles with glee.

  “On three,” Vera said.

  They moved.

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  The first spirit noticed them halfway across the chamber.

  It—or he maybe, once—twisted its form into something vaguely like a man, though half its body was a tangle of mana-fed wires and bone-white armor plating.

  It roared without sound, a pulse of force flattening the dust around it, and charged.

  Vera met it head-on, shield shimmering into place. The collision rattled the floor, sending vibrations up Rowan’s legs. Mika shot left, a blur of motion, while Rowan raised his spellgun and fired.

  The kinetic round hit the spirit in the shoulder, staggering it just enough for Vera to pivot and slam her shield into its side. Mika darted in, slashing a trio of glyphs across its exposed back—brilliant orange marks that sizzled against the spirit’s unnatural hide.

  It flailed, sending arcs of corrupted mana whipping through the air. One bolt scorched past Rowan’s cheek, close enough to singe hair.

  Focus.

  He switched cartridges, loading a stun round, and fired again. The blue-white shot struck true, locking the spirit’s body in a twitching spasm.

  Vera didn’t hesitate. She plunged her fist into the seam Mika had carved, her gauntlet glowing with a disruptive counterspell.

  The spirit convulsed—and then collapsed, melting into a heap of ash and flickering light.

  Rowan exhaled shakily.

  One down.

  But the others had noticed now.

  The second spirit—a towering mass of what looked like interwoven swords and armor—let out a psychic screech that felt like knives across Rowan’s mind.

  Mika stumbled, clutching her ears. Rowan gritted his teeth, raising his spellgun with both hands.

  “Vera—”

  “On it,” Vera snapped.

  She slammed her shield into the ground, a ripple of stabilizing magic washing over them, damping the worst of the mind-scream.

  Mika shook herself, glaring murder.

  “Okay,” she growled, voice raw. “New plan. I’m pissed.”

  Before Vera could order otherwise, Mika charged.

  Rowan cursed and followed, covering her reckless advance with suppressive shots. Vera moved too, flanking left with grim determination.

  Mika was a blur of speed and violence—claws flashing, glyphs exploding in rapid succession. She was feral, barely controlled, but devastating.

  Rowan saw the openings she created—tiny cracks in the spirit’s armored hide—and took them, his shots precise, each one disrupting the thing’s cohesion more and more.

  Vera struck from the side, her shield driving a massive rupture through the spirit’s chestplate.

  It staggered, half its body unraveling into wild light.

  Mika vaulted onto its back, plunged both clawed hands into the exposed core, and ripped.

  The spirit disintegrated with a sound like shattering glass.

  Breathing hard, Rowan scanned the room.

  Only one left.

  The third spirit had hung back—larger, more intact than the others, its form almost regal. It regarded them with eerie calm, then began to retreat toward the collapsed tunnel.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Vera said.

  “Chase?” Rowan asked.

  Vera nodded once. “Fast and hard. Before it can call friends.”

  Mika didn’t need to be told twice.

  The chase plunged them deeper into the ruins.

  The corridors narrowed, debris forcing them into single file. Strange glyphs—half-worn and half-corrupted—flickered along the walls.

  Rowan felt a wrongness growing in the air. As if they were passing through layers of dreams gone rancid.

  “It’s leading us somewhere,” he warned.

  “Trap,” Vera agreed grimly.

  Mika was undeterred.

  “Good,” she said, tail lashing. “Let ‘em try.”

  The spirit led them to a vast open space—an old reactor core, judging by the twisted remains of mana-conduits sprouting from the floor and ceiling.

  It waited at the far end, standing atop a raised dais marked with deep, ritualistic carvings.

  Rowan’s blood ran cold.

  “Veylen experimental site,” he said aloud. “Unregistered. Illegal.” He pointed at the glyphs. “They were trying to fuse multiple spirit cores. Create something… bigger.”

  Vera’s expression darkened.

  “A proto-synthetic deity.”

  Mika blinked. “Is that bad?”

  Rowan laughed a little hysterically. “That’s end of the city bad.”

  The spirit raised one hand, and the glyphs on the dais flared to life.

  Energy built, thrumming through the ruined reactor.

  Rowan didn’t wait.

  “FIRE!”

  They unleashed everything.

  Rowan burned through cartridge after cartridge, stun rounds and disruptor shots slamming into the spirit. Vera hurled her shield like a cannon shot, glyphs etched along its edge flaring as it struck.

  Mika darted around the perimeter, carving counter-glyphs as fast as she could, trying to break the ritual circuit.

  The spirit absorbed the blows, staggering but not falling.

  Rowan’s spellgun hissed—overheated. He dropped the weapon, switching to his backup disruptor blade, the short weapon buzzing to life with a snarl.

  “Going in,” he snapped to Vera.

  She nodded once—no time for words.

  Rowan sprinted, dodging a blast of raw mana that seared a crater where he’d stood.

  Mika shouted something—he couldn’t hear what—but he trusted her to cover him.

  He reached the dais. The spirit loomed above him, hollow eyes burning.

  Rowan slid under its reaching arm, drove his disruptor blade into the seam where the spirit’s ribs met its core.

  The blade flared, overloading, burning his hand even through the hilt.

  The spirit screamed.

  The ritual collapsed.

  Rowan was thrown back by the shockwave, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

  Silence fell.

  When he sat up, ears ringing, he saw the spirit—or what was left—crumbling into dust.

  Vera limped toward him, shield arm sagging. Mika bounded over, singed but grinning.

  “Told you,” she said breathlessly, offering him a hand up. “Chaos. Best plan.”

  Rowan laughed weakly and let her pull him to his feet.

  Vera surveyed the ruined chamber, grim satisfaction on her face.

  “Mission complete,” she said, tapping her badge.

  The tiny holographic recorder flickered, logging their success.

  Rowan looked around—at the destroyed reactor, the fading glyphs, the ghosts of terrible ambition—and felt something fierce ignite in his chest.

  They weren’t just Cell 43.

  They were Fixers.

  And they were damn good at it.