I look down at my side.
The bleeding has already slowed. Not stopped—but controlled. The edges of the wound have darkened and thickened faster than normal. I press lightly. It hurts, but it holds.
It clots fast, healing efficiently.
My breathing evens out. The heat under my skin hasn't faded yet, but it's stable now. Whatever the leechsteel did during the fight, it isn't escalating.
Good.
I stand up and move toward the door Ashlynn dragged Gary through.
Inside, Gary is slumped against the wall. Ashlynn has his arm braced against her knee, cloth already wrapped tight around what's left of his wrist. She's pressing hard.
"Luckily it's the hand that already lost two fingers," Gary lifts his right arm, forcing a weak chuckle.
"Stay still," Ashlynn snaps. She is focused on his wrist.
The bleeding on Gary's arm eventually slows. Not fast enough, but enough to buy time.
I watch for a moment. Letting the silence endures longer.
"Are they supposed to talk?" I ask.
Gary exhales. His humor drains out of him.
"No."
A beat.
"I was wrong. We were wrong."
"About what?" I press him, my tone getting higher.
He doesn't answer immediately. Just stares at the floor.
"That feral," he says finally. "It wasn't degraded enough. It shouldn't have been able to do that."
Ashlynn finishes the wrap and ties it off. There's no hand left. Just clean pressure and cloth.
"We need proof," Gary continues. "Evidence. Before we leave this floor."
"Leave?" Ashlynn says as her eyes drift between me and Gary. "I thought this was the bottom."
"It is," Gary says. "Which is why it matters."
He braces himself. "Help me up."
Ashlynn and I take either side and pull him to his feet.
"This is the fifth floor," Gary says once he's steady. "I suspected it earlier, but I'm sure now."
He looks toward the corridor. From one end to the other.
"This is where the prison— the master of this place keeps his notes."
Gary walks ahead then opens one of the doors along the corridor. We follow.
Inside is a cell—defined by a line of thick steel bars set into the floor and ceiling. The space beyond them is vast. It's big enough you can put 3 buses.
Buses?
Another word with hollow meaning.
The word comes easily enough, but the image behind it is blurry. I don't think much about it.
On our side of the bars, the floor is fitted with restraint mechanisms: locking braces, anchor points, clamps designed to immobilize limbs or torsos. Heavy-duty. Overbuilt.
Beyond the bars, centered in the chamber, stands a raised platform. Chains hang from above and from the platform itself, their ends fitted with clasps and locking rings.
Nothing is bound fortunately.
The cell door stands open.
"A containment chamber," Gary says as he walks along the bars.
"For what?" I ask.
"Inhumans," he replies. "People who've undergone alchemical body alteration."
He pauses.
"Willingly," he adds. Then stops, looking at me.
A brief silence.
"Or not," Ashlynn finishes.
So that's what inhuman means. I gulp.
We step into the chamber. It is empty. Near the entrance, a single paper is clipped to a metal board bolted into the wall.
"Read it," Ashlynn walks closer to me.
"Combat Project," I read aloud.
The document is clinical. Procedural. I skim, then slow.
"Human neural structure implanted into a feral combat frame. Cognitive retention: partial. Physical output: extreme. Notes on obedience degradation. Failure thresholds."
Near the bottom, a designation.
Specimen traits: triple caudal extensions.
Three tails.
But the chamber is already empty.
"Let me take that," Gary says.
I hand him the note. He folds it once and slips it into the inner pocket of his coat without comment.
We leave the chamber and open another door. Then another—checking layouts, restraints, configurations.
More of the same cells in the corridor but different configurations with the similar purpose.
"This whole section is for containment," I say.
"So it seems," Gary agrees.
We continue down the corridor.
"Where are we going?" Ashlynn asks.
"I need to bring something valuable back," Gary replies.
"But you already have the note," I say.
He nods once. "That was one experiment."
He pauses.
"There are others."
The corridor changes before we reach the end.
The stone here is lighter, cut into uniform blocks instead of rough slabs. The seams are precise. Maintained. Shallow channels run along the floor edges, sloping toward narrow metal grates. Old stains cling to them despite repeated cleaning.
Pipes run overhead—thick metal lines bolted directly into the ceiling. Some are wrapped in insulation. Others are bare, fitted with valves and pressure wheels etched with numbers instead of labels.
"This is an alchemy wing," Gary says.
I already know.
Every door here is reinforced. Thick hinges. Sealed frames. Small glass panels set at eye level, each protected by a sliding metal shutter. Most of them are closed.
We stop in front of one door.
A blue eye is etched into the metal plate above it. The same blue eye that also appears on one of the page in the red notebook. Allen's notebook.
Not decorative.
Deliberate.