The intelligence came from Vasquez.
Not a file. Not a briefing. A single photograph, dropped on Aurelion's desk at dawn.
"This is the place," she had said. "We think. But we don't know who's who."
Aurelion studied the image. A row of buildings—warehouses, mostly, some converted into apartments. Faded brick. Rusted fire escapes. Clotheslines strung between windows. Children's toys in a dirt yard.
It looked like any other block on the outskirts of Central. The kind of place where refugees gathered, where families rebuilt, where the war was a distant rumble beyond the walls.
The perfect hiding place.
"I'm going alone," Ami said.
Aurelion looked up. "No."
"They know you. Your face is everywhere. They'll scatter the moment you step onto the block." She pulled on a plain coat, nothing that marked her as a hunter. "I can blend in."
"And if something goes wrong?"
"Then you come get me."
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Don't take risks."
"I'm going to find a cult. Risks are the only option."
The streets grew narrower as she approached the wall.
The buildings leaned together, blocking the sky. The air smelled of cooking oil and garbage and something else—incense, maybe. Faint. Old.
Children played in a dirt yard. A woman swept a stoop. An old man sat on a crate, whittling wood.
Normal.
Too normal.
Ami walked slowly, her hands in her pockets, her eyes scanning without staring. She passed the vegetable cart, the corner market, the café with smudged windows.
No one looked at her twice.
They think I belong, she thought. Or they don't care.
She circled the block three times.
The building Vasquez had circled was unremarkable—three stories, faded brick, a door that had been painted and repainted so many times the color was impossible to name. Fire escape. Basement windows, barred and dark.
No guards. No obvious surveillance.
They're not worried about being found, she realized. Because they know no one will believe it.
She slipped into the alley beside the building.
The trash was piled high. The walls were stained. At the far end, a steel door, painted to blend with the concrete, nearly invisible.
She pressed her ear against it.
Silence.
Not the silence of emptiness—the silence of held breath. Of waiting.
She tried the handle. Unlocked.
The stairs descended into darkness.
Ami drew her blade. The metal made no sound. She moved slowly, one step at a time, her back to the wall.
The air grew colder. The smell of incense grew stronger. And beneath it, something else—sweat. Fear. Blood.
The stairs ended at a door. Faint light leaked through the cracks.
She pushed it open.
The basement was larger than the building above.
A single room, stretching far back, its walls lined with symbols—the spiral, carved and painted and burned into every surface. Candles flickered on makeshift altars. Robes hung from hooks.
And the people were waiting.
The woman from the stoop. The old man with the wood. The teenager with the backpack. The children from the yard—still holding their ball, their faces blank, their eyes shining.
All of them. Dozens. Standing in rows, facing the door.
Facing her.
The door slammed shut behind her.
"You shouldn't have come here."
The old man's voice. But it wasn't just his. It was layered, overlapping, as if something else was speaking through him.
Ami raised her blade. "I'm not here to hurt you."
"You're here to stop us. That is the same thing."
The woman from the stoop stepped forward. Her eyes shone. Her smile was too wide.
"The King sees you," she said. "He has always seen you. The fire. The cabin. The hands that held you down. He was there."
Ami's blood went cold.
"He showed us," the woman continued. "He showed us your pain. Your shame. Your helplessness. He wants you to know—you are not alone. You are one of us."
"I am nothing like you."
"You will be."
The woman lunged.
Ami moved.
Not to kill—to disable. She swept the woman's legs, sent her crashing to the floor. The old man came next, his hands reaching for her throat. She caught his wrists, twisted, pinned him against the wall.
The children rushed her.
She couldn't hurt them. She wouldn't. She dodged, ducked, shoved them aside with her shoulders and hips, using her body as a shield instead of her blade.
"Stop!" she shouted. "I don't want to fight you!"
The teenager grabbed her arm. His grip was stronger than it should be. His eyes blazed.
"You don't have a choice."
He threw her.
She hit the floor, rolled, came up with her blade raised—
They were all around her. Dozens of them. The old, the young, the strong, the weak. Their eyes shone. Their mouths moved in silent chant.
And then—
They stopped.
All at once.
Their eyes went dark. Their bodies went limp. They collapsed where they stood, like puppets with cut strings. The woman. The old man. The children. Everyone.
The basement was silent.
Ami stood alone among the bodies.
Her chest heaved. Her hands shook. Her blade was clean.
"Aurelion," she whispered into her comm. "Something's wrong."
No answer.
She looked at the bodies. They were breathing. Still alive. But their eyes—the light was gone.
"Aurelion?"
Static.
The candles flickered once, twice, and went out.
Darkness.