The address led me to a corpse.
Not a literal one. A building corpse. A twenty-story tower of rusted steel and shattered glass that leaned fifteen degrees to the left, held up by nothing but spite and a few welded support beams. Back before the Collapse, it had been a luxury condominium. Now it was a tomb with a view. The kind of place where people went to disappear.
The card said Floor 14. Unit 1407.
The elevator shaft was a black hole filled with dangling cables and the faint smell of decay. I took the stairs. Thirteen flights of crumbling concrete, each step a gamble. My leg didn't ache. That was still strange. Three days ago, climbing a single flight would have left me wheezing and clutching the rail. Now I took the steps two at a time and barely felt my heart rate tick up.
Small mercies, I thought. You get bitten by a cosmic horror, but at least the arthritis clears up.
Floor 14 was a long hallway of sealed doors. Most were welded shut or marked with quarantine symbols. Unit 1407 was at the end. The door was heavy steel, reinforced, with a small camera lens embedded above the peephole. No markings. No welcome mat.
I knocked.
Silence.
I knocked again.
A speaker crackled. Female voice. Flat. Unimpressed.
"You're early."
The door didn't open. I stood there, feeling the camera's gaze on my face.
"Grimm sent me," I said, holding up the card. "He said—"
"I know what he said. I'm deciding if I care."
More silence. I shifted my weight. The hunger stirred in my chest, annoyed by the waiting. It didn't like being evaluated. It wanted to push.
My mind is mine.
The door hissed. Hydraulics. It slid open to reveal a space that shouldn't exist in a dead building.
The interior was clean. Not "Warrens clean"—actually clean. White walls, polished concrete floors, soft lighting that didn't flicker. Workbenches lined the walls, covered in tools I didn't recognize: plasma cutters, molecular welders, racks of components that glowed with faint blue energy. A forge. A real forge, with a crucible and everything, sat in the corner like it belonged there.
And in the center of it all, bent over a workbench with a plasma torch in one hand and a half-assembled gauntlet in the other, was Lena Vance.
She was shorter than I expected. Compact. Wearing a grease-stained tank top, cargo pants with approximately nine hundred pockets, and a pair of industrial goggles pushed up into messy dark hair streaked with purple. Her arms were covered in faint scars—burns, mostly, the kind you get when you work with hot metal and don't flinch.
She didn't look up.
"Close the door. You're letting the dust in."
I stepped inside. The door hissed shut behind me. The soundproofing was so good that the ambient hum of the Warrens just... vanished. We were in a bubble.
I stood there, not sure where to put my hands. The place was immaculate and I was covered in Mud Sea residue and dried Rager blood.
Lena finally glanced up. Her eyes were sharp, dark, and entirely unimpressed.
"You look like shit."
"Good morning to you too."
"It's not a criticism. It's an observation." She set down the plasma torch and picked up a tablet, swiping through data. "Grimm sent me your bio-readings from last night. Heart rate, Lunacy saturation, cellular regeneration rate." She looked at me over the tablet. "You're a mess."
"I've been told."
"No. I mean your biology is a mess. Your Lunacy levels are spiking and crashing like a bad reactor. Your regeneration is working overtime even when you're standing still. And your thermal signature is three degrees higher than baseline human. You're literally running hot."
She set the tablet down and crossed her arms.
"That's not normal. Even for a Newblood."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
Lena studied me for a long moment. Then she jerked her chin toward a stool near the workbench.
"Sit. Take off your shirt."
"Excuse me?"
"I need to see the bite site. The Void-Touched scar. Grimm said it healed, but healed wrong." She picked up a handheld scanner. "Unless you're shy. In which case, get over it. I've seen worse than a scrawny Stalker with body image issues."
I sat. Pulled off my torn jacket. Peeled away the shredded remains of my shirt.
The scar was there. I'd avoided looking at it in the mirror—didn't have a mirror in the squat, and the reflection in the Mud Sea had been too distorted. But now, under the clean white lights of Lena's workshop, I saw it for the first time.
It was wrong.
The bite marks had healed, but not into smooth skin. The scar tissue was raised, silver-gray, and formed a pattern. A spiral. A galaxy in miniature, etched into my shoulder like a brand. It pulsed faintly. In time with my heartbeat. In time with something else.
Lena leaned in, scanner humming. Her expression didn't change, but I caught the slight tension in her jaw.
"Interesting."
"That's not the word I'd use."
"The scar is still connected to the source. The Void-Touched that bit you... it left a piece of itself behind. Or maybe the Primeval did, through it. Either way, this scar is a conduit. It's pulling Lunacy directly from the moon."
She straightened up, tapping the scanner.
"Every time the Red Shift happens, this scar is going to light up like a signal flare. And every time it does, the Lunacy in your blood is going to spike. That's why your levels are unstable. You're not just a Stalker. You're a Stalker with a direct line to the thing in Tartarus."
I looked at the spiral scar. At the faint pulse beneath my skin.
"Can you remove it?"
"Cut it out? Sure. But the connection isn't in the skin. It's in your DNA. The scar is just the visible part." She walked to a different workbench, pulling out a set of tools. "What I can do is build you something to regulate it. A dampener. Something to smooth out the spikes so you don't go Feral every time the moon gets moody."
She started assembling components. Her hands moved fast, confident, the way Grimm's moved when he fought.
"You can do that?"
"I'm a Forger. It's what I do." She glanced back at me. "Stalkers need gear. Not just weapons—any idiot can swing a claw. They need control. Armor that adapts to shifting anatomy. Injectors that stabilize Lunacy levels. Comms that work in the Nocturne. Without that, you're just a time bomb with fur."
She held up a small silver disc. It was the size of a coin, etched with circuitry too fine to see.
"This is a Lunacy Regulator. Prototype. I've been working on it for two years. It won't stop the spikes, but it'll cap them. Keep you from hitting one hundred percent unless you really, really try."
"Why would I want to hit one hundred percent?"
Lena's lips curved. Not quite a smile. More like a knife finding its edge.
"Because sometimes, you need the beast. Full shift. Maximum power. The regulator isn't a cage—it's a valve. It lets you choose when to open the floodgates. Without it, the Lunacy chooses for you."
She tossed me the disc. I caught it. It was warm. Humming.
"Consider it a welcome gift. Grimm vouched for you. That means something." She turned back to her bench. "Now put your shirt back on. You're distracting."
I looked down at myself. Scrawny. Pale. Covered in old scars from a lifetime of salvage work.
"Distracting how?"
"My forge is calibrated for thermal stability. Your body heat is throwing off my sensors." She didn't look at me. "Nothing personal."
I pulled on the ruined shirt. It barely covered anything.
Lena sighed. Opened a drawer. Tossed me a bundle of black fabric.
"Try not to bleed on that. It's expensive."
The fabric unfolded into a shirt. Simple. Black. But when I put it on, it adjusted. Tightened around my shoulders, loosened at the waist. The material felt like cotton but moved like something alive.
"Smart fiber," Lena said without turning. "Adapts to minor anatomical shifts. Won't shred when you partial-shift. Most Newbloods go through three shirts a week. You're welcome."
I ran a hand over the sleeve. It was the nicest thing I'd worn in years.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Thank Grimm. He's paying for it." She paused. "Well, he's paying in information. Which is better than credits, in my line of work."
I stood up, pocketing the regulator disc. The hunger was quieter now. Maybe it was the shirt. Maybe it was being in a space that felt... safe. Controlled.
"What kind of information?"
Lena finally turned to face me fully. Her dark eyes measured me.
"Grimm thinks you're special. He thinks the Primeval chose you for a reason. I think Grimm is a sentimental old wolf who sees ghosts in every Newblood with silver eyes." She shrugged. "But he's usually right. Annoyingly right. So I'm investing."
She picked up a tablet and tapped it. A holographic display flickered to life above the workbench—a map of the Warrens, overlaid with red dots. Dozens of them.
"These are Stalker bio-signatures. Every one Grimm has identified in the Chicago sector. Most are Newbloods. A few Nightfangs. Two Alphas." She highlighted a cluster of dots in the northern Warrens. "This is the Scavenger Pack. Small. Desperate. They hunt Ragers for Heartstones and sell them on the black market."
She highlighted another cluster. Larger. More organized.
"This is the Iron Maw Pack. Run by an Alpha named Kael. Ex-Helios military. He thinks Stalkers are the next step in human evolution and everyone else is cattle. He's been trying to recruit me for months."
"And Grimm?"
"Grimm isn't on the map." She smiled thinly. "Grimm is old. Older than the Red Shift. He was a Stalker before there was a name for it. He doesn't show up on scanners unless he wants to."
I filed that away. Older than the Red Shift. What did that mean?
Lena closed the hologram.
"Here's the deal, Cade. I'll build your gear. I'll upgrade it as you climb the ranks. But in return, you feed me data. Blood samples. Combat recordings. Lunacy readings. Anything that helps me understand the connection between Stalkers and the Primeval."
"Why do you care about the Primeval?"
She was quiet for a moment. Then she pulled down the collar of her tank top.
A scar. Just below her collarbone. Faint. Silver. Spiral-shaped.
"I was bitten too. Five years ago. Void-Touched, same as you." She let the fabric fall back into place. "But I didn't become a Stalker. The Lunacy didn't rewrite my DNA—it just... marked me. I can't shift. I can't heal. But I can feel the moon. Every Red Shift. Every pulse from Tartarus. It's in my head, all the time."
Her voice was steady. Matter-of-fact. But I saw the tension in her shoulders.
"I build gear because I can't fight. I study Stalkers because I can't be one. And I'm going to find out what the Primeval is, because it's the only way I'll ever sleep through a Red Shift again."
The workshop fell silent.
I looked at her scar. At the spiral that matched my own.
Two of us. Bitten. Marked. Chosen.
"You think we're connected?"
"I think the Primeval doesn't do anything without a reason." She turned back to her workbench. "Grimm has his theories. I have mine. Right now, the only thing we know for sure is that you're the first silver-eyed Stalker in twelve years. The first since her."
"Grimm mentioned her. The one who went to the moon."
"Vera." Lena's voice softened, just slightly. "Her name was Vera Thorne."
The name hit me like a punch to the chest.
Thorne.
I didn't have family. Never had. I grew up in a Helios orphanage, told my parents died in the Collapse. No records. No history. Just a name. Thorne.
"Was she..."
"Your mother? No. Your aunt. Your father's sister." Lena didn't look at me. "Grimm didn't tell you because he wasn't sure how you'd react. But I don't believe in keeping secrets from people I'm going to work with. Vera Thorne was a Stalker. A powerful one. She led the resistance against the first Cleaner purges. She trained Grimm. And twelve years ago, she flew a stolen Helios shuttle to the moon and never came back."
My hands were shaking. I hadn't noticed.
"She's still alive?"
"I don't know. No one does. But the Red Shift got stronger after she left. And the silver-eyed Stalkers stopped appearing. Until you."
I stared at the spiral scar on my shoulder. The mark of the Void-Touched. The mark of the Primeval.
My aunt was on the moon. Fighting. Or dead. Or something worse.
I am the hunter. I am not the prey.
The Litany felt thin now. Fragile.
Lena watched me. Her expression was unreadable.
"If you want to walk away, I'll understand. This life—it's not a choice. It's a sentence. You can hide. Suppress the Lunacy. Live quiet. Some Stalkers do. They last a few years before the beast catches up."
She picked up the plasma torch, adjusting the flame.
"Or you can fight. Train. Climb the Red Path. Get strong enough to survive. And maybe, one day, strong enough to find out what really happened to Vera Thorne."
I thought about the Mud Sea. The Rager's teeth in my shoulder. The howl in my skull. The moon bleeding overhead.
I thought about the hunger. The beast curled around my spine.
My claws are tools. My fangs are weapons. My mind is mine.
I looked at Lena.
"What's the first upgrade?"
Her smile returned. Sharper this time.
"I thought you'd never ask."
She spent the next hour showing me her arsenal.
Not the pretty stuff—the functional stuff. Claw sheaths made of reinforced polymer that could extend and retract with a partial shift. A chest plate that distributed impact force and doubled as a Lunacy monitor. Boots with micro-servos that compensated for the unnatural speed of Stalker movement, preventing the kind of stumbling I'd done in the Nocturne.
"This is all prototype," she said, fitting a gauntlet onto my forearm. "Stalker physiology is unstable. What works for a Newblood won't work for a Nightfang. And what works for a Nightfang will explode if an Alpha tries to wear it. You're my test case. If you survive, I get data. If you die, I learn what not to do."
"Comforting."
"I'm not in the comfort business."
The gauntlet clicked into place. It was lighter than it looked. The inner surface was warm, almost organic, and I felt it connect—a faint hum as it synced with my Lunacy signature.
"Whoa."
Lena nodded, checking a readout on her tablet. "Good sync. Better than expected. Your Lunacy is... compatible. That's rare."
"What does the gauntlet do?"
"Three things. One: it reinforces your claws when you shift. A Newblood's claws can cut steel, but they'll fracture if you hit something too hard. The gauntlet adds a molecular edge. Cuts cleaner. Lasts longer."
She tapped the wrist.
"Two: impact absorption. You're fast now. Faster than your bones can handle. One wrong punch and you'll shatter your own arm. The gauntlet redistributes kinetic energy. Lets you hit harder without breaking yourself."
"And three?"
She pressed a small node near the thumb. A thin blade—no, not a blade, a needle—extended from the wrist.
"Emergency Lunacy suppressant. If you feel yourself going Feral, press this. It'll flood your system with a synthetic stabilizer. It won't stop the shift, but it'll buy you a few seconds of clarity. Enough to recite the Litany. Enough to leash the beast."
I stared at the needle. At the faint liquid glimmering inside.
"How many doses?"
"One. I'm working on a refillable version, but the stabilizer is expensive. Hard to synthesize. Don't waste it."
I retracted the needle. The gauntlet hummed against my skin.
"It's incredible."
"It's basic." Lena turned back to her bench. "Wait until you see what I build for a Nightfang."
I flexed my fingers. The gauntlet moved with me, seamless. I could feel the potential in it. The promise of controlled violence.
"Why do you do this? Build weapons for people who might turn into monsters?"
Lena was quiet for a moment. She picked up a small component—a power cell, glowing faintly—and turned it over in her fingers.
"Because the monsters are coming anyway. The Primeval is waking up. The Red Shift is getting stronger. When Tartarus breaks—and it will break—the galaxy is going to need Stalkers who can control themselves. Who can fight for something instead of just against everything."
She set the power cell down.
"I can't be a Stalker. But I can arm the ones who might save us. That's my fight. My Litany."
I looked at the gauntlet. At the regulator disc in my pocket. At the smart-fiber shirt on my back.
"I'll bring you data. Blood samples. Whatever you need."
Lena glanced at me. Something flickered in her dark eyes. Not warmth, exactly. But acknowledgment.
"Good. Now get out. I have work to do, and you have a training session with Grimm tonight."
She tossed me a small comm unit. Sleek. Black.
"Channel seven is encrypted. If you need me, use that. If you're dying, use channel nine. I'll try to care."
I pocketed the comm.
"Lena."
She looked up.
"Thank you. For the gear. For the truth about Vera."
She held my gaze for a long moment. Then she turned back to her bench.
"Don't make me regret it."
I left the workshop as the sun climbed higher over the ruins. The Red Shift was a memory now, faded into pale blue sky. But I could still feel it. A faint pressure at the edge of my awareness. A thread connecting my scar to something vast and distant and hungry.
Vera Thorne.
My aunt. A Stalker. On the moon. Fighting.
I didn't know what to do with that information. So I did what I always did. I walked. One foot in front of the other. Toward the Slaughtered Lamb. Toward Grimm. Toward whatever came next.
The gauntlet was warm on my arm. The regulator disc hummed in my pocket.
And the hunger walked with me.
My claws are tools. My fangs are weapons. My mind is mine.
Tonight, I would learn to shift.