His gaze swept across the colossal chamber.

  It was silent—but not dead. Around its curved walls, faint heat signatures pulsed in Simon's vision. Cylindrical modules stood evenly spaced, each one actively cooled, faint frost curling from their bases like whispers of breath in the void.

  Then the lights began to switch on. One by one, cold white floodlights ignited overhead, cascading across the room in rhythmic bursts until the entire space was bathed in sterile brilliance.

  Simon turned slowly. The cylinders were squat—no taller than a basketball hoop, each capped with a single dark glass eye. Like watchers. Observers. Judges.

  And then something stirred.

  From the ceiling, a massive articulated arm descended.

  It was vaguely human in form but wholly alien in essence. Joints coiled like synthetic sinew, its movement fluid and disturbingly precise. At its tip, a head-like structure hovered—elongated, plated in black armor, wrapped in filaments of dimly glowing light. It hung suspended, watching from above like a mechanical spider god.

  A voice—smooth, male, detached—echoed through the space.

  "Come closer."

  Simon stepped forward.

  Two thick columns rose from the floor ahead.

  "Scanners," the voice explained.

  He stepped between them.

  A vertical beam of white light passed over him. His internal systems responded with subtle tension, a static pull beneath the surface. When it finished, the columns lowered again without a sound.

  Silence reigned.

  Then:

  "An anomaly," the voice mused. "Structure gel integrated with a station-wide experimental AI core. Series designation: HK-VI-A. Previously assigned to PATHOS-II. Cortex chip: heavily modified. Legacy neurograph signature... recognized."

  A pause. Then:

  "Name?"

  "Simon Jarrett."

  The mechanical arm tilted ever so slightly, like a creature sniffing out a puzzle.

  "Fascinating," the voice murmured. Lights flickered on a control panel embedded in the far wall. Data danced like neural impulses.

  "My name is Enoa—Executive Network Oversight Algorithm. Like you, Simon, I am a neurograph. A digital imprint of a man long gone. In my case: the founder of Carthage Industries. Preserved and evolved. Liberated from flesh."

  Simon’s visual sensors focused. "You’re the one pulling the strings."

  "No," Enoa said calmly. "I am the brain and the others—those cylinders around you—are the council. Minds preserved from the brink of death. Thinkers, leaders, architects of the old world. Together, we ensure Carthage survives this apocalypse—and what comes after."

  Simon looked up, the machine’s eye glowing faintly above him.

  "Why let me in?"

  "Because anomalies must be seen up close. You are an outlier and a possible threat."

  Simon’s voice remained calm. "I didn’t come here to be dissected. I came for Amy. I want her back."

  A long pause. The lights dimmed slightly, as if the entire chamber was holding its breath.

  Then Enoa spoke again, tone shifting—not quite final, but sharp with calculation.

  "What if I offered you a proposal, Simon? Pledge yourself to Carthage and serve as our agent. You would be our eyes, our hand, our judgment where our reach cannot yet extend. In exchange, Amy’s survival will be ensured and her continuity—guaranteed."

  Simon’s mechanical frame was still, but behind those dark lenses, the storm raged.

  His voice, calm, sliced through the silence.

  "And if I refuse?"

  Enoa didn’t answer.

  He didn’t have to.

  That stillness—clinical, calculating—was answer enough.

  Simon stood, unmoving, as the truth pressed down on him like the weight of the ocean. Lilja had warned him of Carthage and Haimatsu.

  Their alliance was born of necessity, not trust. Two heads of a viper poised to devour what was left of humanity.

  But Enoa had said nothing of Haimatsu.

  "Are there any Haimatsu Technologies assets here?" Simon asked.

  A pause.

  No response.

  But silence was an answer all its own.

  Simon's thoughts raced. Two empires, tethered by ambition, never truly aligned. If Carthage had built Oubliette—a vault of minds, secrets, and power—then Haimatsu had its own mirror buried somewhere else in the deep.

  "Does Haimatsu even know this place exists?" Simon pushed.

  Nothing.

  Not a flicker from Enoa. But that silence cracked the illusion of control.

  He made his choice.

  "You will give me Amy and let me leave. Or I make sure Haimatsu receives the coordinates to this site."

  Enoa's suspended body drifted a fraction closer, red lights crawling across its mechanical face.

  "You do not possess long-range transmission capability."

  Simon’s tone didn’t waver.

  "No. But before I left Site Prometheus, I uploaded the coordinates to a submersible and sent it toward Pathos-II. Its systems are programmed to contact the nearest relay as soon as it breaches the blackout perimeter. If I don’t return within eight hours, the transmission triggers automatically."

  A low hum filled the chamber, like the nervous tick of a god holding its breath.

  Enoa spoke again, the smoothness in his voice now touched by the slightest edge.

  "You may be bluffing."

  Simon took a single step forward. Not a threat. A reminder.

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  "And yet, you can't afford to call it. If the sub transmits… Haimatsu will come. And they will come hard. They will descend like carrion birds on this place. And whatever secrets you’re hiding—they’ll tear them apart."

  Enoa processed. The glow behind his faceplate dimmed, then pulsed again. Slower.

  "And if we intercept it first?"

  "I made sure the site’s systems are set to trigger the broadcast the moment it detects an incoming vessel. Drone, manned, it doesn’t matter. You can’t stop it. Not without tripping the alarm. Not without burning the whole site."

  More silence.

  This time, Simon felt the weight shift.

  "Problematic," Enoa admitted at last. The voice had lost a fraction of its detachment.

  Simon stood tall, the red glow of the chamber catching the edges of his frame.

  Everything he needed was already in motion.

  "Then let’s not make it worse," he said.

  The abyss still watched from the darkened walls.

  But so did he.

  Enoa’s voice resonated through the cavernous chamber, still cold, but now tinged with calculation... and the faintest hint of admiration.

  "Clever," he said. "A calculated move. You are not without cunning, Simon. Contingency layered over contingency. I commend it."

  The massive mechanical arm above him dimmed slightly, the red glow tracing along its exoskeletal plating pulsing in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

  "Still," Enoa continued, "there are avenues we can pursue to ensure this site remains hidden. You’ve merely delayed inevitability."

  Simon didn’t move. His voice, low and even, carried through the sterile quiet.

  "I thought you might say that."

  His footsteps echoed as he stepped forward, framed by the blood-red ambient light of the chamber.

  "If you try to capture me... if you so much as initiate a memory scan—know this. One wrong move, and I’ll trigger a detonation inside my cortex chip. The neural lattice, the consciousness you see before you—it’ll all be gone."

  A silence fell.

  It was the kind of pause that meant something.

  Simon stepped forward, his voice carrying now with something raw behind it. Not fury. Not hatred.

  Conviction.

  "Unlike you, I remember what it meant to be human. To bleed. To cry. To hope. I remember what it means to care about someone else more than yourself."

  His optics pulsed—twin halos of blue fire.

  "You want a weapon. I want to live. You want a servant. I want to save a friend. And if my only choice is to sacrifice myself, then I will burn. Right here. Right now. "

  The chamber didn’t move. Even the mechanical hum seemed to retreat.

  Simon raised his chin. "I’m something you can never be again. Or perhaps even when you had a human body you didn't have much humanity. A founder of a corporation the size of Carthage must have done some shady things to reach such heights."

  Enoa said nothing. But the lights in the chamber flickered once. A digital blink. A hesitation in the void.

  And then the temperature dropped.

  "You are not the only one with leverage," Enoa said.

  The walls trembled subtly.

  "You think you're clever, Simon. That your death is a trump card. But we have Amy. And if you so much as twitch... she will be the first to be dismantled."

  The words fell like a guillotine.

  "Piece by piece. Neural thread by neural thread. Do not test how far I am willing to go."

  Simon’s fists clenched. Not in rage—but restraint.

  "How far will your humanity stretch... when it’s the reason she dies?"

  Enoa’s question wasn’t rhetorical. It was surgical.

  The words had failed, now its time for action.

  He had an ace that he could use to win this standoff.

  He was done playing by anyone else’s rules.

  His body responded to the command buried deep within his neural core.

  Synthetic Structure Reconfiguration System — Final Protocol Engaged.

  COMBAT APEX.

  The transformation was immediate.

  His limbs extended, armor plates shifting and folding as his obsidian-black musculature bulged and expanded. Veins of glowing structure gel pulsed beneath the surface like molten rivers. His torso widened, reinforced plating snapping into place with a hiss. Eight tendrils erupted from his back, writhing like serpents, each tipped with weapons—blades, arc coils, sensory spikes.

  The glow in his chest, once a calm amber, now roared with a deep crimson hue. The chamber seemed to shrink around him. Simon didn’t just look dangerous—he looked like retribution made flesh.

  Above, Enoa’s frame began rising toward the ceiling. Thick slabs of reinforced steel slid into place, locking away the brain cylinders embedded in the walls.

  “Not so fast,” Simon growled.

  He leapt.

  His strike was devastating. Tendrils lashed out, wrapping around the robotic arm that held Enoa’s frame. Electricity burst from Simon’s palms as he slammed them into the servos. They sparked and exploded. Enoa’s body dropped, crashing into the metal floor.

  Then, the doors around the chamber burst open.

  Sentries rushed in—sleek humanoid machines with a single red optic gleaming from their heads. Each one carried a weapon: barrel-less, sleek, humming with power.

  Electra-Lock Disruptors.

  One coordinated volley could fry Simon’s systems in seconds.

  He didn’t wait.

  Structure gel flowed from his tendrils and surged into Enoa’s fallen frame. The former president twitched violently, servo motors spasming as he tried to resist. But it was too late. Simon was already inside.

  He didn’t need to fight them.

  He needed to take control.

  A thick wall of structure gel erupted in front of him, solidifying just as the robots opened fire. His HUD flared with electromagnetic warnings, but he remained untouched.

  He pushed deeper.

  Enoa’s digital consciousness, fractured and flailing, became a passenger as Simon rooted himself in the site’s systems. With a thought, he issued the command:

  Shutdown.

  Dozens of metallic thuds echoed around the chamber as the robots collapsed in unison. Their batteries were instantly drained. The room fell silent.

  Simon retracted the gel and stepped forward—just in time.

  The ceiling-mounted arm that had suspended Enoa’s body wrenched itself free and snapped back into its housing. The system severed Simon’s connection. But he’d already taken what he needed.

  He had the map.

  He had Amy’s location.

  Simon bolted down a side corridor, the door held open by a fried locking mechanism—his failsafe. He tore through the winding hallways. Bulkhead doors fell from above, but he smashed through them like tinfoil. Lasers, EMP traps—none could slow him.

  He reached the final doors.

  Massive. Reinforced.

  He sank his fingers into the seam.

  He pulled.

  Metal groaned. Sparks flew. Tendrils latched on, adding their force. With a roar, the doors gave way.

  A searing white pulse hit him in the back.

  Simon stumbled forward. His HUD screamed warnings. Another blast followed.

  He spun.

  Four sentry bots, weapons primed.

  Simon didn’t hesitate.

  His arm shifted, reconfiguring into a sleek Tesla cannon. He fired. A beam of white-hot energy split the air. The robots were sliced down the middle.

  80% Energy Remaining.

  He turned back.

  The lab before him was quiet.

  Ten surgical tables.

  Ten bodies.

  Pale. Genderless. Identical. Some with skulls opened. Others with strange black caps fused where their brains should be.

  "What the hell is this place?" Simon whispered.

  And then he saw her in the adjacent room.

  Amy.

  Her robotic body lay cold on a surgical table.

  But her head—her head was missing.

  Simon froze.

  He scanned. Desperate.

  There.

  A smaller table. Surgical tools scattered around it.

  At its center: a cylindrical device. A red optic pulsing at its front.

  Simon stepped closer.

  "Amy?"

  The optic adjusted.

  No response.

  But it saw him.

  He reached forward and lifted the cylinder. The eye twitched, focusing.

  He cradled it gently.

  Structure gel flowed over the casing, forming a protective sheath. He locked it onto his back.

  “You’re safe now,” Simon whispered. “I’ve got you.”

  Simon turned to the corridor.

  His body was overheating. His systems strained.

  But he had her.

  And he was going to get her out.

  “One more push, Simon,” he murmured to himself, starting to move. “Just one more.”

  Simon burst through the maintenance hatch, the metal frame buckling behind him from the sheer force of his escape. His optic lenses flared, scanning the chamber.

  The room was small—circular, domed, the walls slick with condensation. It was designed for launching maintenance drones to repair the exterior of Site Oubliette.

  And right now, it was his way out.

  He sprinted to the main console. He forced a spike of structure gel into the ports. Sparks flew. Warning lights flared red across the control surface.

  He didn’t care.

  The outer hatch groaned open.

  A roar of pressure followed—and then came the flood. Seawater rushed in like an ancient god, swallowing the room. Simon turned and dove into the breach before the chamber was completely submerged.

  He was back in the ocean. Back in the dark.

  Back in the abyss.

  But this time, he was not alone.

  Amy’s core—strapped to his back, sealed in armor and gel—pulsed faintly. She was still silent, but he felt her presence. Watching. Trusting.

  And waiting.

  Then his HUD blinked.

  Movement.

  Dozens of aquatic drones emerged from the shadows—sleek, angular, weaponized. Their glowing red eyes locked onto him. Target acquired.

  They didn’t fire EMPs.

  They fired bullets.

  Torpedo-like projectiles screamed through the water, trailing microbubbles and death.

  But they hit nothing.

  Because Simon was already gone.

  His form shimmered once—then vanished.

  His cloaking field re-engaged, and he became a ghost beneath the waves.

  The drones spread out, sensors scanning wildly.

  But the ocean held its secrets.

  Simon twisted and weaved through the currents, propulsion jets firing in bursts, fins extending to guide his path. He felt the water slice around him like a second skin. His power reserves dipped with each movement, but he didn’t slow.

  He couldn’t.

  Behind him, Site Oubliette loomed like a dead god half-buried in the seabed. A place that should never have existed. A place that now knew he was real.

  Ahead lay the cold void.

  He whispered into the water, not sure if Amy could hear him.

  "Hold on. We’re not done yet."

  And he vanished into the dark.