The pain was like a pulse, steady and loud.
Every breath tasted like blood and fire.
Matherson opened his eyes slowly, blinking into the low-lit ceiling above him. A single lightbulb hummed faintly. The walls were gray, unpainted concrete. The air smelled of antiseptic and old brick.
He tried to sit up—and immediately regretted it.
"Easy," a voice said.
He turned his head.
Mila stood across the room, rolling a holster into a duffel bag. Her movements were methodical. Exact. She didn't look at him as she spoke.
"You took a hell of a beating," she added. "You're lucky they were too proud to finish the job."
Matherson leaned back against the wall, wincing. "How long?"
"Three days." She zipped the bag shut. "You were out cold when we pulled you. Ghostbyte looped the feed, locked the elevators, and jammed their comms. We barely made it out."
He closed his eyes, letting the memories play out like fragments of broken film. The chain. The guards. The children.
The children…
He sat up straighter, ignoring the pain. "The kids in that lab…"
Mila finally turned to face him. Her eyes were tired, but unwavering.
"They're gone," she said. "The Network moved them after the breach. Kravitch covered it up like it never happened."
Matherson clenched his fists, the cuts on his knuckles reopening.
A file hit the edge of the bed.
He looked down. A dossier. Thin, crisp, and marked in red.
ERIC NYRO – Primary Architect of Edenfall Phase 2. Currently operating under VeraMind Solutions. Location: Brussels.
"He's the one," Mila said. "Designed the behavioral loop system you saw. Edenfall calls it 'restructuring.' He calls it 'curing trauma.'"
Matherson stared at the name for a long time.
Then he turned the page and found the photo.
A face too clean for the horrors it designed. White smile. Thin glasses. The smugness of a man who'd never paid a price.
Something in Matherson's chest clicked into place.
Steel.
Precision.
Resolve.
"I'm going after him," he said.
"I know," Mila replied. "That's why I'm going with you."
Two Nights Later – Brussels
The rain fell in sheets, soaking the cobblestone streets and scattering pedestrians into cafés and alleyways. From across the street, Matherson watched the clinic—if it could even be called that.
VeraMind's façade was slick and unassuming. No signs. No buzzers. Just glass doors and a motion sensor disguised as modern art. Two security guards paced inside the lobby. Their jackets didn't hide the holsters.
He adjusted the earpiece in his right ear. "Ghost, you copy?"
"Live and listening," came the voice. Calm. Cold. Focused. "Ten guards. Rotating watch. Security cycle gives you a twelve-second blind window through the service entry. Clock starts on my mark."
Matherson exhaled slowly.
He cracked his knuckles.
"Mark."
He moved.
Inside the clinic, the world was too white. White walls. White lights. The scent of disinfectant was suffocating.
Matherson moved like smoke through the hallways. Two guards dropped before they knew they were under attack—one to the baton, the other to a chokehold. Silent. Efficient.
He slipped past a diagnostics room.
Then stopped cold.
Behind the glass—children.
Six of them.
Each one strapped to a reclining chair, a soft mesh crown fitted over their heads. Monitors buzzed. Their eyes stared blankly at glowing screens flashing rapid symbols and words.
They were speaking. Barely audible. In unison.
"Eden keeps us safe. Eden keeps us safe. Eden keeps us safe…"
Matherson felt the world tilt.
He stepped forward, hand pressed to the glass. One girl, no older than his youngest sister had been, blinked slowly. Her lips moved in sync with the rest.
He had to force himself to turn away.
"I'm in," he whispered. "Heading for the lab."
Ghostbyte's voice was quiet. "Get the files. Burn the rest."
Dr. Nyro's private lab was at the end of a quiet hallway, guarded by a biometric panel.
But Nyro hadn't expected company.
He was sitting comfortably in his ergonomic chair, sipping green tea and reviewing brainwave readouts when the door hissed open.
Matherson stepped in.
Before Nyro could react, a needle jabbed into his neck.
Sedative. Fast-acting.
Nyro gasped, slumping into the chair.
"Wha… what is…"
Matherson said nothing. He dragged the man's arms into place, locking him into his own machine. The headset clicked into place. Matherson typed rapidly at the console.
He pulled up the memory files.
The conditioning loops.
The pain. The visuals. The programming.
Then he reversed the signal.
And pressed PLAY.
Nyro's eyes snapped open.
He began to scream.
Matherson stood over him, stone-faced.
"You like programming minds?" he said quietly. "Try reprogramming your own."
The screams grew louder as the machine fed every recorded horror Nyro had ever uploaded directly back into his own consciousness.
This is what you built.
Matherson turned, lit the hard drives with a blowtorch he found on the emergency wall rack, and walked out.
Outside, Mila sat in the driver's seat of a stolen Mercedes. The rain had started again. When Matherson slid into the passenger seat, soaked in sweat and fury, she didn't ask how it went.
She already knew.
"Where to next?" she asked.
Matherson stared ahead, eyes dark.
"Wherever they hide."
Ghostbyte's voice came softly through the speaker.
"There are nine names left."
And just like that, the hunt began again.