Aanchal’s heart pounded beneath the suffocating layers. Every movement felt exaggerated, but no one seemed to notice. She drifted closer to the chamber where the strange gas pulsed against the glass, alive, searching for cracks. The scientists tapped notes.

  “Stabilization cycle… incomplete.”

  “Spread velocity increasing at 0.4%.”

  “Containment efficiency still under 70.”

  She froze as a commanding voice cut through the din.

  Kairav.

  He stood near the central console, his sharp features more severe under the sterile lights. His tailored black suit contrasted with the lab coats around him, and yet he looked more in control than any of them. He gestured toward the chamber with a gloved hand.

  “Subject Seventeen,” he said, his voice cold, clinical. “How is it responding?”

  One of the scientists glanced nervously at the readings. “Stable enough, sir. Integration is nearly complete. But the synchronization is still irregular,”

  Kairav’s tone sharpened. “I don’t care about irregular. What I need is demonstration readiness. The military won’t wait for perfection. They want proof, proof this substance can be harnessed.”

  Aanchal stiffened, her gloved hands tightening at her sides. Subject Seventeen? Her mind raced. Was he referring to one of the experiments here? Or, God forbid a person?

  The gas chamber gave a faint pulse, as if in response.

  A group of scientists broke away from the console, heading deeper into the facility. The corridor split ahead, one path leading back to the lifts, the other deeper into the underground maze. Aanchal was ready to slip away when a gloved hand tapped her shoulder.

  “You. Suit’s already on? Good. With us,” a scientist barked, jerking his head toward the side passage.

  Her throat went dry. “I,”

  But before she could finish, another scientist muttered, “New rotation. Don’t argue. The Subjects need constant monitoring.”

  Aanchal nodded stiffly, falling in step. She followed, keeping a few steps behind. Her reflection warped in the visor of the NBC helmet, but no one gave her a second look.

  Her pulse thudded in her ears as they passed through another security gate. The doors slid open with a hiss, and the stench of chemicals and recycled air struck her immediately.

  Inside, the room stretched cavernous, lined wall to wall with glass tanks.

  Each tank was filled with a translucent liquid, pale blue and faintly glowing. And inside each floated a human being, men and women of varying ages, even one or two who looked barely out of their teens. Their bodies were suspended by a network of tubes: oxygen piped into their mouths, fluids coursing into their veins, electrodes attached to skulls and chests. Some twitched faintly, as though half-conscious.

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  Aanchal froze, her gloved hands curling into fists. The sight clawed at her stomach.

  One of the scientists tapped data on a console beside a tank. “Subject 9, stability decreasing. Increase infusion rate.”

  Another adjusted a dial. The body inside convulsed, glowing faintly orange along the veins before falling still again.

  “They’re,” Aanchal forced herself to speak, her voice distorted inside the helmet. “They’re… alive?”

  The nearest scientist shot her a sharp glance, but then shrugged. “Alive enough. The Noctirum rejects most hosts, but the data’s invaluable. If one adapts, even partially, it moves us closer to a viable subject.”

  The clinical tone made her skin crawl. She nodded quickly, pretending agreement, while bile burned in her throat.

  And then her eyes landed on the centerpiece.

  At the center of the hall, towering above the others, was a massive cylindrical Glass chamber. Inside pulsed something inhuman, a blob-like mass, translucent yet solid, its form shifting as if it couldn’t decide on a shape. Every few seconds, it glowed with a dull orange pulse, each throb rattling the chamber walls. Tubes snaked into its form, feeding it fluids, while banks of machines around it whirred, recording endless streams of data.

  “That,” one scientist whispered with something close to awe, “is our most successful test subject. It’s the only one to maintain resonance beyond ninety seconds without cellular collapse.”

  Aanchal couldn’t breathe. The thing looked alive, aware even, its pulsing rhythm eerily like a heartbeat. She had seen monsters in Noctirum’s fractured world, but this was worse. This wasn’t born, it was built.

  Her knees wobbled. She forced herself to step back, muttering, “I’ll… I’ll log vitals.”

  She edged toward the exit, every second stretching too long. No one stopped her; the scientists were too absorbed in their data. By the time the heavy doors slid shut behind her, she ripped the helmet off and pressed her back to the cold concrete wall.

  Her breaths came in ragged gasps. The afterimage of the tanks clung to her vision, faces slack behind glass, veins glowing like circuits. She bent over, nausea threatening to overwhelm her.

  “Subjects,” she whispered shakily. “God, they’re people.”

  She staggered down the corridor, desperate to put distance between herself and the nightmare. At the lift, her fingers fumbled with the keycard, but finally the doors opened. As the lift ascended, the sterile air thinned, and only then did she realize her hands were trembling uncontrollably.

  The lobby’s cool night air hit her like salvation. She slipped outside, blending with the few employees heading home, but her mind was still buried underground, trapped with those people in tanks, with that thing pulsing in the center.

  Her burner phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out with shaking hands.

  Pawan (PI group): Rajni’s given us something. Kairav’s using Noctirum for weapons. Ridge wasn’t an accident. She swears Shivam is tied to it.

  Almost instantly, another text came through.

  Shivam: Bhumika’s building something. A machine from her visions. I saw it. She says it’s the same every night. And she nearly burned out a transformer testing it.

  Aanchal stared at the screen, her breath catching. She typed with clumsy fingers.

  Aanchal: Subjects. Human experiments. Whole room of them in tanks. They’re trying to fuse Noctirum into people. And one… one thing in the center. “Most successful test subject.”

  Another ping.

  Aman: We’ve been running numbers. Noctirum here isn’t inert. It reacts like it’s still alive. That’s why it spreads, why it bends physics. It’s not an element. It’s parasitic energy.

  The chat thread filled with overlapping reactions.

  Mansi: Cross-checking Rajni right now. Her data matches classified leaks. Too much of it is real to ignore.

  Suchitra: If what Aanchal saw is true, they’re accelerating. Demonstration could be weeks away.

  Aanchal looked down at the glowing screen, ten voices now converging in a single thread, each one carrying fragments of horror. Her chest tightened with the realization none of them wanted to say out loud.

  They weren’t ready.

  And yet, the war SynerTech was building was already in motion.