Chapter 18 · The Blood Server

"Get your hand off the console before I carve it off your wrist," Lyra snapped, her voice cutting through the static of the server room. She had the muzzle of her sidearm pressed firmly against Darek’s temple, the cold steel biting into his skin.

"Just... give me five seconds," Darek grunted, his fingers dancing over the holographic interface. His left arm—the one fused with the forbidden reactor—was dead. Not just dormant, but frozen in a jagged, metallic spasm, sparking white-hot arcs that smelled like ozone and burnt hair. "The encryption is a recursive loop. I can't just 'hack' it, Lyra."

"You have three seconds," she replied, pressing the gun harder. Her breathing was shallow, her chest brushing against his shoulder. He could feel the heat radiating off her, the scent of gunpowder and something sharp, like citrus, clinging to her tactical gear. "The sweepers are already on the floor. If we don't move, we're both going to be scrap metal by midnight."

"Almost... there," Darek hissed. He slammed a command into the terminal.

*CLANG.*

The heavy blast doors at the end of the hall groaned. The sound of rhythmic, metallic footsteps echoed—heavy chrome borgs. The Cartel's elite sweepers.