"That said," Seyfe began, his voice tightening, "how will you bring the child to a home? Does the government just put it into adoption like a pet?"
He turned away from her, stepping closer to the window. The horizon was shifting—blurring under the weight of a thick, creeping sandstorm that swallowed everything in its path. The sky beyond it was bruised, heavy with unnatural color. The kind of sky that warned of things worse than weather.
Behind him, Aki didn't move right away. Her hands hovered over the sleeping child, her gaze flickering briefly to the glass where Seyfe stood.
"No," she said at last. "Not like a pet. Not anymore."
Seyfe scoffed quietly, not turning back. "Could've fooled me."
"I place them myself," Aki continued, her voice low. "Every orphan I recover. I don't let the system decide where they go."
That made him pause. He turned his head slightly, enough to catch her in the reflection—her stance firm, her face calm, but not cold.
"You saying that like it's supposed to mean something," he said.
"It should," she replied. "Because no one gave me that choice when I was a child."
The storm outside groaned, a low distant howl pressing against the glass.
Seyfe didn't say anything.
But the silence that followed wasn't the same as before.
Seyfe's jaw tightened. The weight of Aki's words still clung to the air, but he wasn't ready to follow that thread. Not now.
His gaze drifted back to the storm curling on the horizon—rolling in like a wall of fractured glass and dust, streaks of static crackling across its underbelly. Something about it felt off.
"Storm's coming in fast," he said, shifting the subject.
Aki followed his gaze, her posture tensing just slightly.
Seyfe spoke again, quieter now. "That doesn't look like a natural shift break. What happened out there?"
There was a pause before she answered. "Grade C was found dead."
That made him glance back at her, eyes narrowing. "Found?"
"In the ruins. What's left of Sector 3," she said, voice calm but edged with unease. "The body was mangled—almost unrecognizable. Limbs twisted wrong, cavity half-caved in like something tore it apart from the inside."
She hesitated. "It was still surging with residual current. The echoform hadn't even begun to stabilize."
Seyfe frowned. "No scorch marks?"
"None. No signs of Veiler engagement. No surviving surveillance either. Whatever happened there, it wasn't us."
A cold ripple moved through him, though he didn't know why.
"And now the Shift's retracting," he muttered.
Aki nodded. "Slowly. That abomination's death triggered a reality reset in the region. It's... messy, though. Unstable. Like the system doesn't know how to process what happened."
Seyfe turned back to the storm, watching as it clawed at the ruined skyline like a wounded animal retreating.
"Doesn't make sense," he murmured. "Grade Cs don't just die."
"No," Aki said, her tone firm. "They don't."
But something had killed it. Something powerful. Precise.
And neither of them realized the answer was standing right there, watching the sand writhe across the glass.
"Besides," Aki added, her voice steady as she kept her eyes on the storm, "it would take at least one Veiler ranked A to handle a Grade C abomination alone."
Seyfe raised an eyebrow.
"And if you don't have an A?"
"Then you send a team. Six to eight B-rank at minimum," she said. "With full support. Burn authorizations, sonic destabilizers, fail-safes. Even then, there's no guarantee."
She stepped away from the child, adjusting the folds of her uniform with unconscious precision. "We're not built equally. Whether human or machine, we're ranked based on cognitive override, reactive time, and combat integration. S through D."
Seyfe frowned. "You mean they rank machines and people in the same system?"
Aki gave a nod. "They have to. In the field, function matters more than origin. S-rank Veilers are rare—flawless synchronizers. The kind who don't hesitate. The kind who walk into a Shift and come back unchanged."
"You?"
"I'm B," she said simply. "Specialized, but not elite."
He glanced back out at the storm, unease stirring beneath his calm. "And you're telling me something tore through a Grade C… without backup, without trace… without being seen?"
"Yes," she said. "And if it wasn't one of us... it changes the board."
She looked at him then, just for a moment longer than necessary.
Something flickered in her eyes. Not suspicion—yet—but a sharp awareness. As if a puzzle had just shifted in her head and one of the pieces didn't quite fit anymore.
"Seyfe," Aki said, her voice leveled but laced with something careful. "Have you taken note of what the Grade C looked like?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze still fixed out the window. "Hmm... I don't know. Not really."
A pause.
"But," he added, glancing sideways at her, "I did spot a similar abomination. Tall. Twisted limbs. Looked like its insides were flickering with... light. Or something close."
Aki froze for the briefest second.
She didn't interrupt, just listened—quiet, still.
"It was prowling the edge of a collapsed sector," Seyfe continued. "Didn't think much of it at the time. Thought I was hallucinating, honestly."
Aki's fingers twitched at her side. "What happened to it?"
He hesitated. "It got too close... So I ran."
Another pause. That wasn't the full truth, but he wasn't sure why he held it back.
"I see," Aki said slowly, her tone unreadable. "You didn't... touch it, did you? No exposure?"
Seyfe scoffed. "I'm not stupid."
But Aki was already thinking, calculating, the weight behind her gaze growing heavier.
She knew what he didn't: that only one entity had been found near the site. Mangled. Crackling with residual current. An echoform, dead without a trace of standard Veiler engagement.
And now Seyfe described something eerily similar. Down to the inner surge.
But it was impossible.
Wasn't it?
Aki took a few steps closer, her arms folding loosely as she watched Seyfe, expression still measured.
"The Grade C we found…" she began, voice softer now, like she was watching for more than just his reaction. "It was about three meters tall. Vaguely humanoid, but the limbs were wrong. Elongated, jagged. Bone exposed through what looked like burned metal plating."
Seyfe's brow furrowed slightly.
"Its torso was partially open—like it split itself every time it moved," she continued. "And inside… residual current. Lightning. Surge arcs lacing through muscle and wire. It didn't breathe. It hummed."
Something clicked behind Seyfe's eyes. Not recognition—remembrance. Distant. Uneasy.
"It had no eyes," Aki added, her tone sharpening just slightly. "Only a mouth. Vertical. Stretched from jaw to sternum. Lined with something we couldn't classify—organic, but reactive. Like it felt through sound."
Seyfe looked away, swallowing hard. His hand drifted toward his side unconsciously, fingers brushing a line of scar tissue that disappeared beneath his shirt. Thin, jagged lines ran along his ribs and part of his back—wounds he never could remember getting in full.
Aki noticed the movement.
"You've seen it," she said, quiet and certain.
"I… I don't know," Seyfe replied, his voice brittle.
"Where did you get those scars?" she asked, stepping a little closer. Not aggressive—just intent.
He hesitated. "I woke up with them. A few days after the last break. Didn't remember much except the smell of ozone and a loud ringing. Thought I'd just gotten caught in a blast."
"Burns like that aren't from explosives," she said, almost to herself. "That's surge trauma. Controlled discharge. Whatever hit you didn't miss—it marked you."
Seyfe looked at her, throat dry. "What are you saying?"
Aki held his gaze, unreadable.
"I don't know yet," she answered. "But you might have survived something no one else has."
Seyfe's hand lingered on the scar as Aki's words echoed in his mind. Surge trauma. Vertical mouth. No eyes.
But the image in his memory twisted differently.
"No…" he muttered, almost to himself. "That's not what I saw."
Aki's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"
Seyfe looked up at her, confusion swimming in his eyes. "The one I saw… it had eyes. Thousands of them. Covering its arms, chest, even its back. Like they were growing out of it—blinking, twitching. Watching from everywhere."
Aki didn't respond immediately. Her jaw tensed, and a flicker of something uncertain passed through her expression.
"That doesn't match the report," she said finally. "There were no ocular traces found on the corpse. No sockets, no sensors, no organic eyes at all. Only that mouth."
Seyfe shook his head. "I know what I saw. It saw me."
A silence stretched between them.
Aki folded her arms again, this time slower. More thoughtful.
"Either we're talking about two different entities," she said cautiously, "or it changed. Or… it made you see something else entirely."
Seyfe's chest felt heavy, the memory returning in fractured flashes—the creature twisting out from shadow, all those eyes opening at once like lanterns in the dark. He remembered the fear, sharp and wordless. But most of all, he remembered the feeling of being recognized.
"I didn't kill it," he whispered. "I couldn't have."
Aki didn't argue. She didn't reassure.
She just looked at him with that same quiet calculation and said, "Then something else did. And it either let you walk away… or didn't see you as a threat."
Another beat of silence. The wind outside howled against the structure.
"But either way," she added, eyes narrowing, "you were there. That's not a coincidence."
Aki's tone changed—less curious now, more clipped. Measured. The calm before something colder.
"Seyfe," she said, her voice firm, "if the government catches wind of your proximity to that abomination, and they bring you in for questioning…"
She paused, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
"You'll have to tell the truth."
Seyfe bristled. "Or what? They'll kill me?"
Aki shook her head slowly. "No. They won't waste the resources. They'll study you. Bleed your memory dry with extraction scans. Strip every fragment of that encounter from your mind until it's dust. And when they're done?"
She leaned in just enough that her words sank beneath his skin.
"They'll throw you back into the city. But you won't come back whole. And you won't remember why you feel broken."
Seyfe stiffened, his jaw tightening.
"So I should just lie?"
"I didn't say that," Aki replied coolly. "But if they find out you withheld anything—especially something like this—they'll assume you're compromised."
"Compromised by what?"
Her gaze didn't waver.
"By it."
Silence bloomed between them again, heavy with implications neither of them dared voice.
Aki straightened, folding her arms again. "You think life in the Dead City is already hell. But if they mark you, it'll become something far worse."
Then, almost softer.
"Don't give them a reason."