The service tunnel smelled like damp concrete and old power lines.
Cyrus moved quietly, boots barely scuffing the narrow maintenance path. The city above felt distant here, muted, insulated, as if the weight of the night pressed harder underground. Emergency lighting cast long amber shadows along the walls.
Gengar scouted ahead, phasing partially into the stone, eyes flicking back every few seconds.
"Gen."
"I see it," Cyrus whispered.
The signal Meltan had detected resolved into structure, magnetic distortions clustered too tightly to be natural. Equipment. Old tech, repurposed. The cult hadn't chosen this tunnel at random. It intersected directly beneath one of the city's lunar amplifiers.
They were trying to interfere with Cresselia's recovery.
Cyrus slowed, hand lifting.
Gengar halted instantly.
Ahead, voices carried, low, tense, reverent.
"…pressure's building. He'll respond tonight."
"The chains were never meant to hold forever."
"This is correction."
Cyrus's jaw tightened.
He stepped out of cover.
"City ordinance," he said evenly, "doesn't allow unauthorized gatherings in sealed infrastructure."
Flashlights snapped toward him.
Five figures. Hooded. Sigil stitched in dull thread across their sleeves. Not panicked. Not surprised.
One of them tilted their head. "You're the boy."
"Cyrus King," he replied. "And you're in the wrong place."
A pause.
Then one of them laughed. Nervous. "He stands in the nightmare's path and thinks he's a solution."
Cyrus didn't rise to it. His eyes tracked the equipment instead—portable pylons, dream resonance emitters, jury-rigged to spike instability rather than contain it.
"You don't know what you're doing," he said.
"We do," the leader answered. "We're ending the divide."
"You're feeding it."
The cultist's expression hardened. "Sacrifice is necessary."
Cyrus exhaled.
"Gengar."
The shadows moved.
Gengar erupted from the wall behind them, its form solidifying just long enough to send two cultists stumbling as the lights flickered violently. Shouts filled the tunnel. One figure reached for a control pad.
"Meltan!"
Meltan slammed into the nearest pylon, metal screaming as magnetic force tore components loose. Sparks flew, the resonance field collapsing unevenly.
A cultist hurled a Poké Ball.
A Malamar burst forth, eyes flaring, psychic energy flooding the tunnel in a dizzying wave. Cyrus staggered as vertigo hit hard, vision tunneling.
Gengar reappeared instantly, interposing itself, taking the brunt of the psychic surge. It hissed, form distorting but holding.
"Gen—!"
Cyrus clenched his teeth. "Shadow Ball. Left side."
The blast slammed Malamar into the wall, cracking concrete. Another cultist released a Honchkrow, which dove immediately, talons aimed for Cyrus's head.
"Ditto!"
The blue jacket peeled off his shoulders mid-motion, reshaping into a mirror image of Cyrus that took the hit instead, skidding hard across the floor.
He didn't hesitate.
"Tyrunt!"
The small blue Pokémon barreled forward with a fierce cry, jaws clamping down on Honchkrow's wing. Feathers scattered as the bird screeched and pulled free, bleeding.
Someone shouted. Another pylon flared dangerously, overloading.
"This isn't stopping anything!" one cultist yelled.
Cyrus advanced, eyes cold. "It's stopping you."
Gengar surged again, this time more violently. One cultist collapsed as the shadows wrapped around them, consciousness fading. Another dropped to a knee, clutching their head.
The leader backed away, hands shaking. "Darkrai will—"
"No," Cyrus snapped. "He won't."
He lunged forward, kicking the final pylon aside as it sparked and died. The tunnel fell abruptly quieter, dream pressure receding like a tide pulled back too soon.
The cultists froze.
Sirens wailed faintly above, delayed, controlled.
Cyrus stood there, breathing hard, every muscle tight. His hands trembled—not fear, adrenaline.
Gengar drifted back to his side, form ragged at the edges.
Ditto reformed shakily, thumbs-down, then leaned against him.
Cyrus swallowed. "You okay?"
Ditto gave a weak thumbs-up.
Security boots echoed from the far end of the tunnel.
Cyrus didn't look back.
Above them, Darkrai's presence shifted again—subtle, unreadable.
Night Four wasn't over.
But the cult's move had failed.
And somewhere in the city, Cresselia's recovery continued—uninterrupted.