The moment John hit the button, a dull thunk echoed through the floor beneath them.
Alarms lit up in the distance—red pulses flashing deep within the prison like blood through arteries. Across the holographic map, Wards 1 through 3 began to blink with angry crimson light.
Then the sirens wailed.
A shrill, mechanical scream ripped through the air, a warning to every guard in Jöten: something was loose.
Luce was already moving, coat fluttering as she bolted for the elevator. Bobo followed immediately, heavy boots pounding the steel floor.
Mikey hesitated.
His eyes drifted away from the screen, away from the alarms. For a moment, the chaos became distant—muted. His mind pulled inward.
A memory.
The rooftop. Boots thudding. Flashlights and shouting. Nadia's voice screaming his name as the soldiers tore her away.
Nadia…
She might be here. Somewhere behind these walls.
Alive.
He turned back to John, the operator, who sat stiff with fear, his hands still hovering above the console.
"Uh—John?" Mikey asked, stepping closer.
The man flinched.
"Y-Yeah?"
"Can you check one more name for me? Real quick."
John's fingers readied themselves.
"Name?"
Mikey hesitated, the weight of it thick in his chest.
"Nadia."
John nodded and typed it in.
"Last name?"
Mikey's heart sank.
"I… I don't know."
A second later, five profiles appeared on the screen. Five faces. Five strangers.
Mikey leaned in, staring hard, hope flaring and fading all at once.
Dammit…
None of them are her.
"No," he muttered, voice low. "She's not there…"
From the elevator, Bobo's voice rang out, sharp and urgent.
"Kid! We gotta bounce!"
Mikey took one last look at the screen, then turned to John.
"It's fine," he said, more to himself than anyone. He let out a breath, a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Coming, Bobo!"
He ran.
As he reached the elevator, Bobo pointed a metal finger back toward the stunned operator.
"Aye, John," he said darkly. "Why don't you lock yourself in that closet over there, yeah?"
John, eyes wide, nodded like his life depended on it—and maybe it did. He practically dove toward the supply closet, slamming the door shut behind him.
The elevator doors slid closed.
As the hum of descent began, Luce glanced sideways at Mikey.
"What were you having him look up?" she asked casually, though her eyes were sharp.
Mikey gave a small shrug, his voice guarded.
"Oh—nothin'. Just… someone I thought might be here."
Luce tilted her head.
"And were they?"
Mikey paused. Then shook his head.
"No."
Luce gave a small, quiet nod. She didn't press.
The elevator continued downward, the sound of sirens still echoing faintly through the steel.
Below them, the prison was in a riot.
The front doors of the control tower burst open with a metallic crash, and the trio spilled into hell.
Wards 1 through 3 had become warzones.
Prisoners swarmed the yard—some screaming, some bleeding, all of them fighting like hell. Gunfire cracked in every direction. Bullets zipped through the air, smashing into concrete, metal, and flesh. Screams tore across the battlefield—some from Council soldiers, others from the freshly liberated inmates, many now armed with stolen rifles.
A column of fire rose from a shattered guard post nearby.
Mikey froze for a second, breath catching in his throat. His eyes were wide, heart hammering against his ribs.
This wasn't a prison anymore. It was a battlefield.
A hand clamped around his arm.
"Ward 5! Come on!" Bobo barked, yanking him forward.
They sprinted into the chaos.
Dead bodies littered the walkways—soldiers, inmates, and unidentifiable remains. Mikey sidestepped a dying man, barely missing the spray of arterial blood that followed. A bullet pinged off a railing inches from his shoulder. Another zipped past his ear.
They pushed through Ward 3, then crossed the barrier into Ward 2. The alarms screamed louder here. Smoke choked the air. A soldier tackled a prisoner across their path, driving a knife into his throat.
"This way!" Luce shouted, weaving between gunfights and ducking under cover as Council soldiers rushed past them—none questioning their disguises in the chaos.
A second later, Luce turned a corner and was immediately getting tackled.
"Shit!" Mikey yelled, reaching for her.
Before he could do anything, a hulking figure crashed into them.
The prisoner—musclebound, scarred, eyes wild—straddled Luce and raised a fist to strike.
Then he was gone, yanked backward and flung like a ragdoll into a metal crate with a sickening clang. The entire container dented under the impact.
But in the same motion, the prisoner had snatched Bobo's sidearm.
He rolled to his feet and raised the weapon, aiming it square at Bobo's head.
The two locked eyes.
"…Willie?" Bobo said, stunned.
The prisoner blinked. Recognition dawned.
"Bo? The fuck you doing here?"
Bobo ripped off his helmet. "Me and Luce—we're here for Amelia and Ryosuke. Special containment, Ward 5. You know where it is?"
Willie lowered the gun instantly.
"Shit, man… should've known it was you guys up to this bullshit."
He turned to Luce, offering a quick nod.
"Sorry, Luciana."
Luce winced as she pushed off the floor.
"All good, Willie. You just bruise like a freight train."
Willie snorted, then turned serious again.
"Alright, listen. Soon as you enter Ward 5, look for the cube crates—huge white things with blue edges. They line the walls of the containment floor. Can't miss 'em."
"Got it," Bobo said, stepping forward and gripping his shoulder. "Thanks, brother."
"No problem," Willie replied.
Then his eyes flicked to Mikey.
"He with you?"
Bobo gave Mikey a quick nod.
"New pick-up."
Willie raised an eyebrow, then smirked.
"Still collecting strays, huh?"
He patted Mikey on the shoulder.
"You stick with them, you'll be alright."
Willie held up the sidearm he'd swiped.
"I'm keepin' this, by the way."
Bobo chuckled. "You're welcome to it. Never liked those little popguns anyway."
Willie cocked it and checked the mag with practiced hands.
"I'mma join the fun. Been locked up too long to miss a party like this." He flashed a grin, then turned toward the battlefield and broke into a sprint—militaristic, focused, lethal.
"Godspeed, brother!" Bobo called after him, helmet already snapping back on.
Willie didn't turn around.
He just raised the pistol and vanished into the smoke.
The trio pushed forward into Ward 4.
Unlike the chaos behind them, this place was eerily quiet. Sterile. Cold. No alarms, no screams, no blood on the walls. The air here buzzed with artificial calm, humming with the drone of fluorescent lights and distant machinery. There were no riots in Wards 4 through 6—the doors here hadn't been unlocked back at the control room.
Council soldiers moved briskly past them, their boots clapping against the polished floor, too focused on the reports of uprisings to question the trio's presence.
They reached the far end of the ward where the entrance to Ward 5 loomed behind a thick bulkhead door.
A squad of soldiers blocked their path.
"Where are you three heading?" one asked sharply, his rifle slung but ready. "Riots are in the other direction. All available forces are ordered to assist."
Luce didn't hesitate. "We were dispatched to check on the special containment prisoners in Ward 5, sir."
The soldier narrowed his eyes. But the distant echo of explosions and gunfire tugged his attention away. He didn't have time to vet them.
"Fine. Be quick. It's hell out there." He motioned for his unit to move, and they jogged off down the corridor, disappearing into the war behind them.
The moment the bulkhead cycled open with a hiss and clank, Bobo, Luce, and Mikey stepped into Ward 5—and were swallowed by its silence.
It was massive.
The ceiling arched at least fifty feet overhead, wrapped in interlocking glass and metal. White-blue lights glowed behind fogged plastic panels, casting everything in a sterile, bluish hue. Prison cells lined both sides of the plaza, each one a capsule of misery—transparent walls of reinforced polyglass framed with laser-barred doors. Most of them were dark, sealed tight.
But what drew their eyes immediately… were the cubes.
Five of them.
Set into the far wall, side by side with a three foot gap between them. Each was large enough to hold a small vehicle, smooth white plating trimmed in angular blue accents. There were no doors—just seamless exteriors and small biometric scanners embedded into one side of each.
"They look like cryo-pods…" Mikey muttered.
Bobo stepped closer and eyed the glowing panels. Four scanners glowed green.
One was red. Indicating it was occupied.
"Willie, you saint," Bobo whispered.
The red-lit cube pulsed faintly, the sensor blinking like a heartbeat. The three of them moved in fast, boots echoing in the massive chamber.
"This must be Ryosuke…" Luce murmured.
Mikey was panting, still catching his breath from the mad sprint across the prison.
"How… how do we get him out?"
Bobo stepped forward, already rolling his shoulders.
"I got it."
As he moved toward the red-lit cube, Luce's eyes caught a small crate half-buried next to one of the containers. She raised her pistol and fired. The lock exploded with a sharp crack, and she flipped the lid open.
Mikey leaned in.
"What's in there?"
Luce scoffed, shaking her head.
"They really didn't want him getting out, huh?"
Inside the crate, gleaming under the white-blue lights, were a heavy metal arm and a matching prosthetic leg. Cold. Intricate. Battle-worn.
Mikey's eyes widened. "Holy shit…"
"They took his arm and leg," Luce muttered, her voice low with disbelief.
Bobo just smirked, unfazed.
"Like that would be enough to stop him."
He turned to the cube and raised his metal arm.
With a mechanical whine, he cocked it back and slammed it into the palm scanner. The device sparked and shattered, the cube's smooth front panel letting out a hiss as internal mechanisms engaged.
Bobo gripped the handle from the inside and heaved.
The door peeled open with a gust of freezing mist. The air inside rolled out in waves—cold, biting, sterile. Like opening a refrigerator.
A soft, mechanical hum emanated from within. Mikey stepped forward, eyes narrowing.
Inside, suspended in mid air by an array of thick black cables that came from the ceiling and wearing magnetic harnesses, was a man.
He was shirtless, his body scarred and lean, pale from cold storage. His right arm and right leg were gone, the stumps wrapped in cybernetic coupling ports. His remaining limbs were bound tight in a high-security straitjacket, designed for impenetrable constriction.
His long black hair hung in tangled ropes, matted with frost, one streak near the front bleached silver-white. His skin was a faint ash tone under the frozen light. A jagged scar cut down the right side of his mouth, giving his face a permanent half-snarl.
His head lifted as he hung in the air.
Through the curtain of hair, reddish-brown eyes locked on them. He exhaled, the cold air steaming from his lips like smoke from a dragon's nostrils.
He spoke slowly, his voice rough with accent and ice.
"…Finally, Bobby."
Bobo stepped closer, staring at the man like an old ghost had just breathed again. He couldn't contain a chuckle of relief.
The man looked at him with tired but burning eyes.
This was Ryosuke Saito.