CHAPTER 258: CLASH OF SUBJECTS

Fifteen minutes earlier.

The lower levels of the facility groaned beneath the weight of chaos. Sirens pulsed in waves through the dim corridors, not with urgency—but with exhaustion, like the systems themselves had grown tired of screaming. The flicker of red emergency lighting gave the place a blood-washed glow.

Subject 3830 moved through it like a blade.

She was barefoot. Silent. And hunting.

She passed the open doors of abandoned labs, overturned desks, smashed monitors. The guards had already swept through these wings. She could hear their boots echoing through adjacent halls, barking orders as they searched for the others. But she wasn’t interested in them.

She wanted one man.

She turned a corner, and the hairs on her arms rose. Her breath slowed. Her skills were fluctuating at a stronger rate—a sense that a job title was at play. It was his.

And it told her he was close.

She entered a cafeteria through a side access door.

It was empty. For now.

Tables were bolted down in uneven rows, though many had been overturned or melted at the legs. A cache of broken trays was scattered across the floor like discarded scales. The far wall bore impact marks and deep cuts, like something had tried to claw its way out—or in.

Here’s the revised version with 3829 entering the room instead of already standing there:

She took a step forward, and her eyes swept the ruined space—until the door at the far end hissed open.

Subject 3829 stepped through.

Tall. Broad. His silhouette filled the frame like a wall closing in. The door sealed behind him with a final-sounding click.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate.

He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t resting.

He was hunting for escapees.

And now—he’d found her.

The moment their eyes locked, the tension exploded.

"Subject 3830 is spotted in the lower floor cafeteria."

She charged.

No signal. No words. Just motion—clean and immediate.

Her first strike was a feint, high and to the left. His prosthetic arm twitched to intercept. She dipped low, sweeping his leg with a kick that would’ve shattered human bone. He didn’t fall. He simply adjusted. As if gravity meant less to him than it did to the rest of the world.

She didn’t stop.

A flurry of punches followed, each angling for a different weak point. Jaw. Throat. Kidney. Eye. Nothing landed clean. He parried some, absorbed the rest. His body was a fortress of impact-absorbing armor and flesh too stubborn to break.

Still, she kept the pressure.

Because pressure made him think.

And with everything that had happened to him, all the prosthetics made his thinking slow.

One of her strikes caught his temple. Not enough to crack anything, but enough to ring his skull. Enough to knock the air from his lungs.

The skills and job title she possessed flickered back to life for a moment.

A glitch.

Just a moment.

But she noticed.

She pivoted immediately, diving behind a nearby pillar as he retaliated with a hammer-blow that cratered the floor. Concrete cracked. Dust flared.

By now, there was no way he was still controlling the entire facility with his job title. At most, half the facility and even that fluctuated whenever an attack was getting close to hitting him.

Though 3830 didn’t care. In fact, helping Reynard or anyone else was none of her concern. She simply wanted to take 3829 down.

She spun out, landed on the table edge, and launched herself at him. Her elbow connected with his jaw. It felt like slamming into metal, but his head snapped sideways with the impact.

She followed through, wrapping her legs around his neck and twisting. He stumbled. One foot slid back, skidding across the floor. She rolled free before he could grab her, landing in a crouch. Breathing hard. Blood in her mouth. She wasn’t sure whose.

He looked up.

Expressionless.

She darted in again.

This time, his arm caught her mid-sprint. It slammed into her ribs like a steel beam. She coughed, a sharp bark of pain, and tumbled backwards.

She didn’t stop.

Every time she got up, he seemed to hesitate—just slightly. His grip would slip. His hand would tremble. Like something in him was trying to remember a time before the conditioning. She didn’t trust it. But she used it.

3830 threw a tray at his face. He swatted it aside, but the moment it took gave her an opening to plant a foot into his solar plexus and twist into a spin. Her heel slammed into the side of his knee.

He went down on one leg.

She leapt.

Tackled him to the floor.

They wrestled—grappling, twisting. She drove punches into his neck and shoulder joints, looking for mechanical faults. He responded by throwing her across the room.

She crashed into an overturned table.

Pain sang in her spine. She bit down on it.

He was standing again.

She pulled herself up.

The two stared across the battlefield.

The room looked like a warzone now. Bullet holes in the walls. Scorch marks. Spilled blood—not from gunfire, but from fists. Metal glinted in the low light. Smoke hung in the air.

They charged again.

She ducked under his swing. Jabbed into his ribs. Felt something give. He reached for her throat.

She broke free.

More punches. More dodges. Every move a dance on the edge of survival.

But then—

His hand caught hers.

Mid-swing. Mid-breath.

3830’s fist froze an inch from his face—so close she could see the reflection of her own snarl in the polished surface of his prosthetic jaw.

His grip tightened.

Not violently. Not in panic. But with deliberate pressure, like a machine gauging resistance, measuring her down to the molecular level.

Her other hand rose, ready to strike again—

But then he spoke.

For the first time.

"Why are you holding back?"

His voice was low. Final. Like steel bolts sliding into place behind a vault door. There was no anger in it. No amusement either. Just weight. Like he was stating a fact the world had somehow missed.

"Are you underestimating me..." he continued, tilting his head slightly, "...or do you simply want to die?"

Every hair on her arms stood up.

Not because of the words—but because of the truth in them.

He knew. He felt it.

She bared her teeth, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Not in fear. In fury. Fury at herself. At the voice in her spine that had pulled her punches. That told her she could draw this out. That she still had time.

But there was no time.

Not anymore.

And with that—

The fight changed.