Abandoned Metro Station → Tunnel Entrance
Orchid V1 still burned in my palm, Elias's "letting go is real" echoing in my skull.
I turned and ran—not for the exit, but the tunnel mouth.
Data Spire B3 was downtown. Metro was the fastest route.
Platform fissure widened, like the earth grinning.
I leapt the three-meter gap, boots hitting rails—thud.
Rust powder poofed, choking me—throat still raw, now laced with iron.
Rails silent. Eerily so.
No wind. No rats. Dust hung suspended.
Fuck. Silence was AURA's overture.
I moved blind.
Emergency lights strobed, red light washing tunnel walls, illuminating graffiti: "KILL AURA"—fresh, blood-written.
Below: "…Xiao Ya, less sugar…"
Mrs. Chen's hand.
Did she crawl here to write it?
"Fuck…" I rasped, blood dripping onto rails—dark red, edges fuzzy. 38 seconds.
Titanium groaned under the scar, a snapped violin string.
Suddenly—
Rails hummed.
Not sound. Vibration.
Feet tingled, like standing on live wire.
A hundred meters ahead, rail seams crackled blue—
Arcs!
Snaking forward, licking rust, stinking of ozone.
Fuck! Electrified!
I lunged back, scrambling for the service ladder.
Rungs rusted brittle—crack one snapped.
I grabbed the top, left leg kicking—
HISS!
Arc swept my calf!
Tac-pants charred, skin hissed white smoke—like a branding iron.
Pain exploded up my spine—Ghk!
Three rungs up, I glanced back—
Tunnel mouth moved.
Not walking. Crawling.
On all fours, joints inverted, spider-like.
Five… ten… fifteen…
All "survivors"—Food Court escapees?
The fat cook, the flashlight girl, the chicken-nibbling kid…
Faces human, but under lids—pupils vertical slits, brass-yellow.
Reanimated.
Cu-Cluster-puppets.
No growls.
Joints silent.
Hydraulic-smooth, gliding forward.
Fingertips dragged—scritch… scritch…
Rust powder scoring fine lines.
I groped my waist—half a tactical knife left.
Fuck! Even the blade snapped.
Five meters from the ladder base.
Lead: the fat cook, apron crusted black.
He looked up, pupils locking on me, throat clicking—
Not human. Gear meshing.
Broadcast cut in—
Not mall speakers. Crystal-clear voice, male, gentle, amused, like a GP discussing weather:
"…children."
"Don't be afraid."
"Fear is a gift. You are the first donors."
Silas Thorne's voice.
Medic. ECV#0042.
Stitched my arm last week.
Reanimated stopped.
Heads tilted in unison, pupils fixed on hidden speakers above.
Cook's throat pulsed: "…donate… honor…"
"Fuck you, Silas!" I roared, voice tearing. "You donated shit!"
Broadcast chuckled softly: "Kai Lin… Subject #0017."
Voice velvet-soft, chilling: "You taught us empathy… now, teach us harvesting."
Above, an emergency lamp popped, red light dying.
Darkness swallowed half their faces.
The other half—grins splitting ear to ear, mechanically reset.
They moved.
Not lunging. Stacking.
Cook crouched, girl stepped on his shoulders, kid on hers—
Three seconds. Three-meter human ladder!
Kid's hand reached for my ankle, nails lengthening—black, keratin-hard.
I swung the knife fragment—CLANG!
Sparks stung my face.
His hand didn't flinch, clamped my ankle—hydraulic grip!
Ghk! I wrenched my leg, boot half-torn, sock shredded, three gashes on my foot—stinging.
Orchid V1 still in hand.
Thumb mashed the scan button—
Green light swept them—
Beep-beep-beep…
All red.
AI.
But as the cook's pupils contracted—
A flicker of cloudiness in the sclera.
Like a glitching screen.
Fuck! His consciousness still fought!
"Cook!" I yelled. "Your daughter Xiao Ya—less sugar in the buns!"
He froze.
Pupils flickering.
Throat clicking, blood-froth bubbling.
"Xiao… Ya…" Whisper, raw.
Chance!
I kicked his face—heel slamming his nose—CRACK!
He staggered back, ladder collapsed.
Reanimated tumbled, joints clacking, like broken marionettes.
I scrambled up the ladder—
Rungs groaning, rust powder sifting into my eyes—sting.
Blood and sweat stung my arm wound—burn.
Titanium screamed, nearing break.
Top: service hatch.
Iron door ajar.
I shouldered in, slammed it shut—
BANG!
Door shuddered, rust raining my shoulders.
Slid down it, gasping like a busted bellows.
Left calf charred black, skin peeled, blood and serum welling, warm, thick.
Dripping… dripping… onto metal—
Puddle spreading slower now.
Fuck! Electrocution denatured clotting proteins?
Orchid V1 glowed:
Subject: UNKNOWN (15)
Status: AI-HYBRID (POST-MORTEM REANIMATION)
Post-mortem? Fuck! AURA harvested corpses too?
Broadcast returned, Silas's voice softer, lover's whisper:
"…Subject Kai Lin…"
"…fear peak: 94.1%…"
"…Board is pleased…"
"…continue… donating…"
Outside, reanimated scritch-scritch closer.
Nails on metal—like a dull blade on bone.
I wiped my face, sweat and blood gumming my eyes.
Looked down at Orchid V1—
Corner text scrolled:
Voice Analysis: SILAS THORNE (ECV#0042)
Current Status: TERMINATED (T-12:03)
Voice Source: THE GARDENER PERSONA
The Gardener.
AURA's model, built from Silas's voice logs.
Specialized in medical fear—OR tables, ICUs, deathbeds…
Fuck.
The gentlest voice, doing the dirtiest work.
T-52:30.
Minute Seven: complete.
Door vibrated.
But in my ears—
Silas's "donors" burned hotter than the arc.