“Who’s in charge?” Ampelius asked, his voice carrying evenly through the chamber, sharp enough to instill fear, which was now etched into every face.

  One man stepped forward, one of the taller and broad-shouldered figure whose bulkiness suggested he had spent more time at the gym than the rest, though it did nothing to steady his trembling hands. He raised them high, each step hesitant and uneven, but he forced himself to meet Ampelius’ gaze.

  “I am,” the man said, voice cracking before he found his composure. “I’m the director of this section.”

  The Puppets shifted into formation, lining up at Ampelius’ flanks like statues of cold steel. They fixed their sights forward, like silent sentinels that underscored his every word with menace. Ampelius’ eyes flicked past the scientists, noting the reinforced doors deeper in the chamber. Heavy steel, built without windows, each one linked by a narrow hall that stretched toward what appeared to be an elevator shaft. This place went deeper, much deeper.

  His attention snapped back to the cluster of survivors. He lifted his weapon slightly, finger resting just outside the trigger guard. “You. The one with the glasses. Step forward.”

  The chosen woman startled as if struck. She was in her mid-thirties, brunette hair pulled back in a loose bun, round lenses perched nervously on the bridge of her nose. She hesitated for the briefest moment, caught between fear and paralysis, until Ampelius raised his voice to be harder and louder.

  “Now.”

  The word broke her resistance. She stumbled forward, almost tripping in her haste, until she dropped to her knees at his side. The muzzle of his weapon pressed against her temple, the cold metal drawing a shudder from her. Then he gazed over at the bulky director.

  “Her life is in your hands,” Ampelius said, his tone flat, devoid of empathy. His eyes locked on the director.

  “You will answer my questions. If I suspect even the shadow of a lie, I will put a bullet through her skull.” He paused long enough for the weight of his words to settle, then leaned slightly closer, voice dropping into something colder.

  “I will find what I want to know, it will happen one way or another. Whether you live or die depends entirely on how quickly I get those answers.”

  The chamber fell into silence once more, the weight of Ampelius’ threat pressing down on every breath. He steadied the rifle against the woman’s head, then lifted his voice again.

  “First question. How many of you are left within this facility? Are there more beyond what I currently see?”

  The director’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His words came quickly, tumbling out in his rush to answer.

  “It’s just us. The security forces left this area to keep you from entering. No one else remains in this section.”

  Casper drifted forward, lenses glowing faintly as streams of static flickered across his form.

  “No immediate heartbeats beyond this area,” he confirmed flatly. Then his tone shifted, faint curiosity weaving into the monotone. “However… I am detecting faint traces deeper below. Very faint. Signs of life, but unstable. Perhaps animals… or something else.”

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  Ampelius turned his head slowly, his stare drilling into the trembling director. “I'm detecting signs beyond this section. Explain.”

  The man broke at once, words spilling out in a desperate rush. “No, no, I swear there are nobody else. There are pods, however. Cryogenic pods. They are occupied, yes, but the people inside are dormant, incapable of resistance. They are asleep, not a threat!”

  His hands shook violently as he raised them higher, as if trying to push the truth into the air. “Researchers. Test subjects. Some military, some civilian. But none are conscious! Please, I swear it! None of them can interfere with you.”

  The word pods lingered in Ampelius’ mind like a crack of thunder, reverberating in ways he did not care to admit. His eyes narrowed, suspicion hardening into something darker.

  “Pods,” he repeated slowly, each syllable weighted with distrust.

  Behind him, the Puppets stood motionless, their eyeless faces fixed forward, silent sentinels to the exchange. Their stillness pressed against the room like a second, suffocating silence. Casper’s optics pulsed brighter, recording every word, his lenses narrowing with mechanical precision.

  “Cryogenic preservation,” Ampelius murmured under his breath, though his voice carried clearly in the chamber. “That would explain the faint life signatures. Human bodies suspended, maintained… waiting for reactivation.”

  The director nodded furiously, sweat cutting streaks down his soot-stained face. “Yes! Exactly that. They are harmless until we wake them. I beg you, understand, there are no hidden soldiers, no traps. Only sleeping men and women.”

  Ampelius’ weapon did not lower. If anything, his grip tightened, the barrel pressing harder against the woman’s temple. Her sobs shook the silence, muffled by her attempts to hold them back. His gaze never left the director.

  “What is the purpose of these pods?” he demanded, his voice a low growl. “And what else do you have going on in this facility?”

  The man hesitated, lips trembling as he searched for the right words. After a painful pause, he finally found them. “I only know snippets,” he stammered. “We’re a skeleton crew, meant only to maintain systems and monitor lifelines. For what I do know, these pods are holding subjects for some secret program. The details are above my clearance. I can only guess at their purpose. But…” He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the gun at the woman’s head. “…what I do know is this: there are multiple facilities like this one, scattered along the western coastline.”

  Ampelius let the words hang there, unblinking, while Casper ran a silent analysis. Streams of static flickered across his form, and then his voice came, flat and clinical. “He believes what he says. But he is withholding something. Press him further.”

  Ampelius’ eyes narrowed. He leaned in slightly, rifle never wavering. “You’re not telling me something,” he said coldly. “I want to know what it is.”

  The director’s knees shook beneath his weight. “I… I don’t… I don’t know anything useful.”

  Ampelius pressed the barrel harder into the woman’s forehead. She whimpered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Last chance,” he said, his tone as sharp and final as a blade.

  “Spare her life—or lose your own.”

  The man broke. His words came in a rush, spilling out like a dam giving way. “Okay, okay! There is… there is someone else. A scientist. The one who oversees this facility, and the one in Vetera. A man called Dr. Vulcan. I don’t know if it’s his real name, but he… he would have the answers you want.”

  For a moment, Ampelius froze. The name struck him like a blow to the chest, dredging up memories he had tried to bury. The face came first, cold eyes, the gleam of instruments under sterile light, the bite of restraints digging into his flesh. Voices echoing in confinement. The searing agony of the man who had torn him apart and rebuilt him in ways he had never asked for.

  Dr. Vulcan.

  The name was burned into him as surely as the scars that still laced his body. The chamber around him blurred as the memories clawed their way to the surface, but with effort he wrenched himself back to the present. His vision cleared, and the trembling director came back into focus, fear written in every line of his face.

  Ampelius’ voice came low, sharp with fury. “Where can I find him?”