KALEBDriven by a cold, desperate urgency, we tore our eyes away from the horrific album and began scouring the rest of the dark vault.
Our mixed auras cast long, dancing shadows against the damp concrete walls as we pried open reinforced metal lockers and broke through rusted latches. But we didn't find weapons, or more drive cores, or mechanical siphons.
We found dresses.
Dozens of them, hanging neatly in a row inside a hidden wardrobe unit at the very back of the vault. They were tiny, delicate, and covered in fading floral patterns—bright yellows, soft pinks, and sky blues. And on the collar of every single one, stitched with meticulous, agonizing care in white thread, was the designation: A-195.
