The comms cut off.

Santali stowed his binoculars and turned to Yuri. "Ready?"

Yuri's face was the color of ash, but he gave a tight nod.

They circled to the rear of the building. The ventilation grate was sturdier than expected, but Santali was prepared. He pulled a palm-sized thermal cutter from his pack and aimed it at the grate's edge. A blue-white flame hissed out silently, melting and slicing through the metal. Thirty seconds later, a man-sized opening appeared.

Below yawned darkness, carrying a draft of moving air and… far more complex odors. Antiseptic, formaldehyde, decay, and a cloying, nauseating sweetness—like overripe fruit left to ferment.

Santali secured his rope and went down first. After a five-meter vertical drop, the shaft turned horizontal. He switched on his headlamp—the inner walls were stained with black residue, in places, a viscous fluid still seeped and dripped. The air was damp, hovering just around freezing, noticeably warmer than outside.

Yuri followed. They began crawling through the ductwork toward the "main ventilation junction." The system was a labyrinth, but Santali navigated with an uncanny, internal certainty—he barely hesitated at intersections, consistently choosing the correct path.

"How… how do you know the way?" Yuri whispered, the sound swallowed by the close metal walls.

"The air," Santali replied simply. "Direction, temperature, humidity… the ventilation parameters differ for each zone. Areas storing valuable items have finer air filtration and more stable flow."

Arcana. Yuri understood now. This man was an Arcanist. That explained the wind control, this perception of minute atmospheric changes.

After roughly ten minutes of crawling, they emerged into a larger space—indeed a junction, a circular node about three meters in diameter. A metal grate platform provided a temporary place to stand.

Santali checked his wrist display: two minutes to the rendezvous time.

He leaned against the wall and suddenly smiled. It wasn't his usual gentle facade, nor the excited grin from before. This was a smile of… dark, genuine amusement.

"You know, Yuri," he said, his voice creating a slight echo in the duct, "when I was a kid, I saw this old movie about explorers in an underground labyrinth. Every time they believed they'd found the exit, they'd merely stumbled into a deeper, more elaborate trap."

Yuri looked at him, uncomprehending.

"I'm getting that feeling now," Santali continued, tapping the duct wall with a knuckle. "It's been too smooth. The patrol gaps were just right for us to slip through, the vent was conveniently unlocked, the route was clear… It feels as though someone has rolled out a red carpet and lit the path with welcoming torches."

His smile widened. In the beam of the headlamp, his violet eyes looked like twin pools of abyss.

"Tell me," he mused, voice dropping to a whisper, "don't you think the one who laid that carpet is likely watching us on a monitor right now, waiting for the show?"

The moment the words left his mouth, footsteps echoed from the other side of the conduit.

Not the light tread of X, nor the heavy mechanical stomp of the Sentinel. These were the crisp, clear sounds of leather shoes on metal. Unhurried, casual, like someone taking a stroll.

Santali raised the muzzle of his pistol.

A figure emerged from around the corner.

Dressed in a crisp white lab coat, gold-rimmed glasses, a tablet held lightly in one hand. An Asian face, early forties, appearing gentle and refined.

It was Matsuki Kenichi. Or rather, a perfect likeness of him.

Upon seeing Santali and Yuri, he displayed no surprise. Only a standard, polite smile.

“Welcome, visitors,” he said in flawless English, his tone smooth and unnervingly mild. "I am Matsuki Kenichi, the... receptionist here. Please excuse the lack of a more formal welcome, but resources have been tight lately."

"Which one are you?" The muzzle of Santali’s pistol pressed hard between his eyes.

“Number Seven,” the fake Matsuki replied candidly. "Designation 07, in charge of reception and guidance. Please don’t shoot. I’m unarmed, and... killing me won’t get you what you want."

"And what do I want?"

“The cerebral units of the Whites, correct?” The fake Matsuki tilted his head, his curiosity eerily childlike. “They are on Sub-level B-4, within the Pioneer Preservation Vault. In good condition. Memory extraction progress... ah, just completed. What a coincidence—your timing is perfect."

Too fortuitous. A coincidence that felt chilling.

Santali’s mind raced. This replica knew their target, their identities, even their arrival time. The only conclusion: they had been under surveillance since leaving Moscow. No, since even earlier. Every step anticipated, guided, orchestrated.

They were pieces on a chessboard, every move predicted, directed, controlled.

And the player moving them now stood smiling before them, waiting for the next play.

“Lead.” Santali lowered the gun, but his finger remained on the trigger.

“The honor is mine.” The fake Matsuki turned with a fluid gesture. “This way. Exercise caution. Some areas... aren't quite safe.”

They followed him through the labyrinthine ducts. The route was complex, but he navigated it with ease. Several observation windows punctuated the path, offering glimpses into chambers below.

The first room resembled a standard lab, bustling with researchers in white coats.But upon closer look, every researcher was identical: Asian male, around forty, gold-rimmed glasses. All were clones of Matsuki Kenichi.

The second room was a cultivation chamber. Rows of incubation tanks held suspended embryos or juveniles—some humanoid, others more twisted forms. The technicians tending to these tanks were also Matsuki clones.

The third room…

Yuri froze.

Inside were not Matsukis.

Inside was himself.

At least twenty “Yuri Petrovs,” clad in identical white coats, working at consoles. Their movements were synchronized, machinelike. One of them looked up, met the gaze of the real Yuri through the window, and… smiled.

The exact same, weary smile.

Yuri’s breath hitched. He stumbled back, his shoulder striking the duct wall.

“This… this is—”

"Early products of the Project ME," the fake Matsuki explained, his tone casual as if introducing a new product. "Yuri Petrov, former researcher at the Soviet Academy of Sciences, excellent neural interface specialist. His consciousness template proved stable, suitable for basic cognitive labor. So we made a few more."

He looked at the real Yuri, his smile deepening.

"By the way, your escape... was actually part of the plan. That 'malfunction' four years ago—someone modified your monitoring parameters, created an opportunity for you. Any idea who?"

Yuri shook his head, his face ashen.

"We don't know either," the fake Matsuki shrugged. "But that person was skilled, capablebreaching what was then our peak security. We've spent four years investigating, only tracing faint leads—pointing to a member of the 'Veil' codenamed 'Master.' Do you know him?"

Yuri’s pupils contracted violently. He remembered the figure who had extracted him, taught him to vanish, then disappeared.

"It seems you do." The fake Matsuki nodded, satisfied. "Good. Another clue."

He moved on. Yuri stood transfixed, trembling. Santali glanced at him but remained silent, only nudging him forward with the barrel of his gun—move.

For the rest of the journey, Yuri moved as if in a trance. He saw more of his clones—walking corridors, working in labs, even... disposing of failures. As twisted monstrosities were dragged into incinerators, the "Yuri" at the controls showed no expression, as if handling trash.

"I'm... I'm not them..." Yuri muttered to himself.

“You are,” the fake Matsuki said without turning. “CCCP-MIRAGE-07, Mirror Instance Number Seven. Your original died in 1993, in a lab accident. The memories you possess are merely the result of data imprinting. Your 'daughter,' your 'escape,' your 'revenge'... all scripted.”

He stopped, turned, and observed Yuri’s disintegrating composure.

He stopped, turned, and looked at Yuri's crumbling face.

"But don't be upset. At least your performance was excellent. You aided in stress-testing agents S and X, and helped us… confirm several key variables.”

Before the words faded, Yuri screamed.

It was not a human sound—more a screech of corrupted systems. His eyes rolled back, limbs convulsed in jarring, robotic spasms, white foam bubbling from his lips.

“Ah, system overload.” The fake Matsuki stepped back, observing dispassionately. “Early-generation models, after all. Stability thresholds remain… inadequate.”

Santali watched Yuri thrash on the grating, fingers clawing grooves into the metal, nails tearing, blood welling. His eyes were vacant, consciousness utterly gone.

Without hesitation.

Santali raised his pistol, aimed at the center of Yuri’s forehead, and fired.

A muffled thud. The suppressed gunshot was mostly absorbed by the duct. Yuri’s body jerked once, then went still. Blood bloomed from the neat entry wound.

The fake Matsuki raised an eyebrow. "Decisive. I thought you might hesitate."

“A corpse has no utility. A madman is dead weight,” Santali holstered his weapon, his tone calm as if he'd merely swatted a fly. "Besides, he was no longer useful—you had already drained him of all intelligence, hadn't you?"

The fake Matsuki smiled, this time a genuine smile, tinged with appreciation.

“Perceptive. I enjoy engaging with perceptive individuals. Shall we proceed?”

“Proceed.”

They walked another five minutes, arriving at a vertical access shaft descending into darkness. The fake Matsuki pointed downward. “B-4. Pioneer Vault. Your target is down there. However…”

He paused into an ambiguous smile.

“Your companion, X, took another route. She should have reached… the main laboratory by now. Far more engaging things reside there. Do you assist her, or secure the brains first?”

Santali stared at him. "You're trying to split us up."

"I am presenting a choice," the fake Matsuki said. "A friendly reminder: the extraction of the Byakusan brains is complete, but the preservation tanks have a thirty-minute stabilization window. After that, if unattended, they will be flagged for disposal and transferred to… the 'Cleanup Crew.' "

"Cleanup Crew?"

“You will see.” The fake Matsuki turned and wave."Good luck, S. Or Santali. Or... whatever you call yourself. The game continues."

He vanished around a duct corner.

Santali stood still, his mind processing at combat speed.

X was in the main lab—possibly a trap, potentially holding vital clues. The Whites’ brains would be in danger in thirty minutes—a feasible window if he moved now.

A choice.

He recalled X’s unusual demeanor on the ice field earlier—her deliberate provocations, the barely-perceptible flush at her earlobes. What was she concealing? Suppressing? Or… was it her method of farewell?

Santali took a deep breath.

Then he turned—not toward the shaft, but in the direction the fake Matsuki had disappeared.

Ten meters later, he halted.

The duct ahead branched into three. The fake Matsuki’s scent—disinfectant undercut by faint cologne—was distributed equally across all junctions, as if he had entered all three simultaneously.

No, not evenly distributed. The air had been deliberately scrambled. Someone—or something—was interfering with his senses.

Santali closed his eyes, unleashing his aerokinesis fully.

Currents of air extended like invisible tendrils into the three ducts. Left: airflow steady, temperature constant, leading to some climate-controlled area. Center: airflow turbulent, mechanical vibrations, possibly a server room or power plant. Right...

Faint, peculiar sounds came from the right.

Not footsteps. Not machinery. Something… echoing, like breathing. As if a massive lung expanded and contracted in the dark, countless breaths perfectly overlapped, synchronized with terrifying precision. And beneath it, the sound of dripping liquid, thick, slow.

Santali opened his eyes and, without a second’s pause, crawled into the right passage.

The interior was cold and damp, reeking of metal mixed with something organic. Thirty meters in, light glowed ahead. He shifted silently to the duct's end and peered down through a ventilation grate.

And then he saw.

The space below was vast, like a hollowed-out gymnasium. The floor wasn't floor—it was a thick "carpet" of living tissue, its surface pulsing with networks of vessels. And upon this living carpet sat at least two hundred individuals.

They all looked identical: Yuri Petrov.

Yuris in lab coats. Yuris in hazard suits. A number of gaunt, hollow-eyed Yuris in hospital gowns. They sat in concentric rings, facing the center, eyes open but void, lips moving in perfect unison, murmuring. Countless whispers merged into a low, droning hum—a chilling chant rising from the deep.

At the center of the rings, a platform rose, also built of the same living tissue. Upon it rested…a brain.

Not one in a tank—this was exposed, suspended within a force field, its surface crawling with thousands of hair-thin, crystalline optical fibers that floated and swayed like neural cilia. The brain itself was slowly, rhythmically contracting and expanding, emitting a faint bioluminescent glow. With each pulsation, the bodies of the two hundred-plus "Yuris" below shuddered in unison, as if yanked by a single string.

It was the "Core Brain." The consciousness hub for all these clones. The sole true vocal cords producing this horrific drone.

Santali understood. Yuri was no ordinary clone; he was an Arcanist—a psychic-type. His ability had been used to link all the clones, forming a collective consciousness network. And the parameters modified by that "mysterious person" four years ago had likely been a temporary severance from the Core Brain, giving him the illusion of independence.

But now, the link was restored. Or perhaps it had never truly been broken. Every “him” here was merely a replaceable terminal extending from the same central mind.

So the earlier breakdown was no accident; it was the system resynchronizing. And Santali's shot... might have actually helped him, granting him final release.

The ceremony below continued. The Core Brain pulsed faster, the Yuris' chanting swelled in volume. An energy that made one's scalp prickle gathered in the air, like static before a storm.

Santali retreated silently. This was not his fight. Not yet.

He returned to the junction and this time chose the center duct—toward the server room. If the fake Matsuki was playing a “game,” he would break the board.

But as he crawled inward, X’s voice crackled through his comms—urgent, laced with a rare, visceral tremor.

"Santali, the main lab... the terminal's already been moved. But... Whites and... they’re..."

Her voice shook. Not with fear, but with rage—cold, incinerating, absolute.

“They’re feeding something. Feeding it to—”

An explosion.

Not through the comms—a real explosion from below, from deep within the structure. The shockwave traveled up through the ductwork, metal groaning.

Then came the cold.

Not merely dropping temperature, but a cold that leached into the marrow, that could freeze a soul. Santali felt his blood thicken, his exhaled breath crystallize instantly into ice mist.

X had unleashed her Arcana. And she had unleashed it at full magnitude.

Santali no longer calculated. He charged toward the source of the quake.