Chapter 3

I forced myself to calm down.

I leaned against the corner of the wall and ran through everything I'd just heard, from beginning to end. Every word. Every pause. In the recording, Morrow had hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat. She'd paused after saying "I'll sign off on the protocol coverage."

She was waiting for Morrow to object. He didn't—he just cleared his throat.

Only the two of them knew the whole plan.

"Only you and I know this"—the rest of Arc Light was kept in the dark, and the Regulatory Bureau couldn't possibly know. The one imprisoning me was Arc Light. Was Valen. My wife. The Bureau had nothing to do with it.

It was she who had orchestrated the entire plan to imprison me.

I didn't sleep that night. I sat on the edge of the metal cot, closed my eyes, and spread my perception across the entire floor. There were two fewer guards than usual. A new face was at the monitoring station, yawning frequently.

The suppression system in the equipment room was still running, but the voltage on one line of the main control module was slowly dropping—a fraction of a volt per minute, accumulating to leave the entire circuit in a semi-saturated state.

That was the root cause of yesterday's failed trial extraction. Morrow hadn't traced it back to the power source; he was focused on equipment and subject data, missing the decay upstream.

I traced that voltage line deeper. The suppression system had four independent circuits. The first controlled the extraction equipment's energy output. The second controlled monitoring and alarms. The third controlled the cuffs on all restraint chairs—the main control for all fourteen chairs across all four basement levels.

The fourth was emergency backup.

The third circuit's voltage was dropping the fastest. At this rate, in another day or two, the cuffs would loosen again during extraction. The duration would exceed last time's 0.4 seconds. Maybe 0.8. Maybe a full second.

That was a window.

I pushed further upward. Passing through the server room on B2, I scanned Morrow's work log. The latest entry was from early this morning: "Subject impedance abnormal—deviated from baseline for two consecutive days. Equipment failure ruled out. Recommendation: full physiological examination; implant spinal blocker if necessary. Submitted to Ms. Valen for approval."

Status: pending.

The spinal blocker was an early Arc Light prototype—it severed spinal nerve conduction directly, cutting off a superhuman's energy circuit at the root. The person wouldn't die, but they'd never be able to gather energy again. For them, who needed serum, that would be killing the goose for the eggs. Morrow proposing this meant he had no other options left.

Valen hadn't approved it yet.

I withdrew my attention and walked to the iron door.

I pressed my palm to the alloy, sensing the current flow inside the door, the electromagnetic structure of the lock, and a hairline seam between the doorframe and the wall—a spot where metal fatigue had set in, a weld point vibrating microscopically.

After dawn, the guards came to drag me to the examination. The restraint chair wasn't activated again today—the technicians only ran routine checks: blood draw, blood pressure, catheter port inspection. The old technician watched the data the whole time; the new one helped on the side.

When they were dragging me back after the exam, I paused at the corridor corner, bending down to adjust my cloth shoes. In that motion, I saw the fire exit sign at the end of the hall—green, lit, powered.

Back in my cell, I waited. Their examinations continued through the afternoon. After the technicians left, the corridor fell quiet; the guards on shift change chatted about dinner.

The smell of mashed potatoes and boiled meat drifted from the kitchen direction.

At 1:00 AM, the third circuit's voltage dropped sharply. The cuff power cut out for less than 0.1 seconds. Brief—too short to trigger an alarm in the monitoring system. But it confirmed my earlier assessment: the voltage was still falling.

At 3:00 AM, I ran one final test.

I concentrated my perception on the thing in my chest. For five years, the extraction had passed by it countless times without touching it. Energy would be pulled away by the catheter, but this thing stayed—like embers at the bottom of a stove, needing no fuel to keep burning. I focused my attention on it, pushing in, like cupping the embers and blowing gently.

It lit up.

A warmth rose from the center of my sternum, spreading through my entire chest. The eight old puncture wounds on my back began to itch, then all the old scar tissue along my spine went numb—new flesh pushing out from underneath, pushing off the old scabs. The whole process took less than twenty seconds. My perception doubled in the same instant; what had covered one floor now spanned the entire building—from B4 prison to the 32nd floor where Valen's office was, every person, device, current, and data stream, all laid out at once.

I withdrew my perception. The warmth in my chest remained. Suppressed for five years, it was still there. Every extraction had pressured it; the suppression system had locked it in the deepest place. Now the lock was loosening.

4:50 AM.

I stood in the center of the cell and ran through the plan one last time: the third circuit's voltage would trigger the safety protocol when the next extraction started, and the cuffs would loosen again. It would take me only 0.3 seconds to pull my hand out from under the cuffs.

7:00 AM. The guards came on schedule.

In the extraction room, Morrow was already at the console. There were dark circles under his eyes; one pen was missing from his coat pocket—only two left. The technician sat before the screen, running system self-checks.

"Main control module voltage stable. Cuff pressure normal. Ready to start."

Morrow hit the start button. The machine hummed, a low-frequency vibration spreading from my spine through my whole body. The catheter pulled—low power, still a trial extraction. A row of data appeared on the console screen.

The technician stared at the screen. "Impedance is still low. Down again from yesterday."

"Continue."

"The voltage is fluctuating. The third circuit—"

A sharp crack. The third circuit overloaded; the energy line under the restraint chair tripped, the overhead light flickered twice. The alloy cuffs on my wrists released abruptly.

I pulled my right hand free.

Morrow reached for the emergency button. His hand froze midair—three centimeters short. He looked down at his hand, his eyes scanning the button's direction behind his lenses.

"Ka—"

I cut off his vocal cords. Sensory nerve signaling and intervention nerve signaling work on the same principle: one reads from outside in, the other writes from inside out, using the same pathway. I'd verified that earlier on the technician who crushed his coffee cup. Now I inserted the same signal into Morrow's vocal cords. His mouth closed, opened again—only air came out. The technician stood up and backed away, knocking over his chair.

I sat up from the restraint chair. I pulled the catheters out one by one, needle tips bloody. Blood from the eight fresh puncture wounds streamed down my spinal groove. The ankle cuffs were still locked; I pressed my hand to them, absorbed the energy from the circuit, and the latches sprang open.

Bare feet on the metal floor.

Morrow collapsed to his knees. He tried to stay standing, but communication between his brain and muscles had been completely severed. He lay on the floor, his white coat splayed open, two pens rolling out of his pocket. I crouched down and picked one up—an ordinary blue ballpoint, the cap chewed.

"Five years. How many numbers did you jot down with this pen?"

I tucked it back into his pocket and pulled out his access card. Then I walked to the console and slammed the full-frequency broadcast button. The intercom system covered the entire Arc Light building, including the top-floor office. I pressed the transmit button, the warmth in my chest radiating outward.

"Valen."

Two seconds of silence on the channel.

Her voice came through. One version on the intercom frequency, another from her vocal cords in the top-floor office—two signals overlaying each other.

"Kane."

"I received your project file. Project Radiance. Operation Omega. The pension funds redirected to project expenses. I listened to the whole thing."

Silence.

"Where are you now?"

"B4 extraction room. The room you designed. Come see it yourself."

I released the button. My perception followed her to the top floor—she stood up from behind the desk, stood by the window for a long while. Then she picked up her handbag and pulled the access card out from inside. She didn't call security. She didn't notify Morrow. Whatever she was about to say, she didn't want anyone else present.

I walked over to Morrow, crouched down, and waved his access card in front of his face.

"Your boss is on her way. Think about what you're going to say."

I stood up and walked to the extraction room door, pressing my palm against the iron door. The elevator was descending from the top floor. She was alone.

I looked down at my right hand. A nail mark from two days ago was on my palm, and beside it, eight fresh scabs from today's healed puncture wounds.

Five years.

Right now, even that memory didn't feel so long anymore.

When she stepped out of the elevator, I would be standing at the door, waiting for her.