The journey to Titan's Cross was a nightmare. Seraph uploaded the coordinates to our HUDs, and a new waypoint glowed in the corner of my vision. To reach it, we had to ascend, to leave the relative safety of the Undercroft's deep tunnels and climb towards the higher-level match zones.
Titan's Cross was a decommissioned industrial zone, a sprawling complex of factories and warehouses connected by long, open gantries and catwalks. It was a sniper's paradise. For the man I used to be, it would have been a perfect hunting ground. I could have commanded those sightlines, using my Phantom SR-90 to pick off targets from a kilometer away. For the man I was now, it was a killing field. I was the prey, and there was nowhere to hide.
We moved through rusted service tunnels and across corrupted data chasms, trying to stay hidden. The proximity warnings on my HUD were a constant, tormenting chime. Player signatures would appear on the edge of my radar, follow us for a few minutes, and then vanish. The Exiles were shadowing us, keeping their distance but never letting us out of their sight. They were scavengers, waiting for the wolves to make their kill. Every corner we turned, I expected an ambush. But they were patient. They were waiting for us to enter the real hunting ground.
The air grew colder and smelled of burnt metal. The damp, organic stone of the Undercroft gave way to cold, rusted steel plates under our feet. We had reached the maintenance corridors beneath Titan's Cross. According to Seraph's map, the service terminal we needed was in a central control room two levels above us. The plan was to use the maintenance ladders to get close without exposing ourselves on the open walkways.
"Seraph's team is in position," Anya whispered, her eyes glued to her own HUD. A small, tactical map showed friendly signatures—Seraph's Idealists—in sniper nests overlooking the main plaza. "She says they have eyes on the main access points. They're waiting for the Dominion to show up."
"They're not waiting for the Dominion," I said grimly. "They're waiting for us. We're the trigger for this whole trap."
We moved down a long, narrow service corridor. The only light came from flickering emergency strobes on the ceiling, spaced twenty meters apart. They cast long, dancing shadows that played tricks on the eyes. The corridor was eerily silent, the only sound the soft hum of Anya's leg and the drip of condensation from overhead pipes. The silence was the worst part. It felt unnatural, like the held breath before a scream.
Then, the lights went out.
One by one, the emergency strobes died with a final, pathetic flicker. We were plunged into total, absolute darkness. It was a blackness so complete my eyes couldn't adjust. My heart jumped into my throat.
"Anya?" I called out, my voice tight with adrenaline. I reached out a hand, fumbling in the dark.
"I'm here," she said. Her voice was close, just a few feet away. My hand found her shoulder. "Power failure?"
"No," I whispered. A cold dread, colder than any I had felt before, washed over me. This wasn't a random system glitch. This was deliberate. This was intelligent. "It's him."
A sound echoed through the pitch-black corridor. It was not a footstep. It was not the sound of a weapon being readied. It was a voice. A woman's voice. It was warm, familiar, and full of a love that felt like a physical blow. It was a voice I hadn't heard in years, except in my own memories, a voice I cherished above all others.
"Leo? Is that you, honey?"
I froze. My entire body locked up. My blood turned to ice in my veins. It was my mother's voice. It was a perfect recording, pulled from the memory I had almost sacrificed to The Archivist. The memory of our last conversation on the morning of the System Crash. He had it. The Ghost had access to my memories. He was using my own past, my own soul, as a weapon against me.
"Leo, what's wrong?" my mother's voice echoed again, sounding worried, concerned. The audio was perfect. It seemed to come from all directions at once, surrounding us in the darkness. "You sound so far away."
"It's not real, Leo," Anya's voice cut through the darkness, sharp and urgent. She grabbed my arm, her grip digging into my flesh. "It's a trick! He's in the system! He's messing with you! Don't listen!"
I knew she was right. My logical mind knew it was a recording, a cruel psychological attack. But hearing that voice… it shattered my focus. It bypassed all my defenses and struck directly at my heart. It was the cruelest, most monstrous attack imaginable.
Another sound. A man's voice this time. A deep, professional voice filled with smug satisfaction. "Congratulations on the deal, Leo. A real triumph of ambition." It was a voice from the memory I did sacrifice. The memory that no longer had any emotion for me. He was taunting me. He was showing me the pieces of my own soul that he could now play with like toys. He was reminding me of what I had lost.
The main lights in the corridor suddenly flashed on, a hundred times brighter than before. They were blindingly bright, a painful, searing white light that burned my retinas.
My eyes struggled to adjust, watering from the sudden shock. I raised a hand to shield them. At the far end of the corridor, maybe fifty meters away, a figure stood.
It was the Ghost Enforcer.
It was sleek, metallic, and terrifyingly inhuman. Its body was a dark, non-reflective gray, a specialized chassis designed for stealth. It had no face, only a smooth plate of metal with a single, glowing red optical sensor in the center. That red light was fixed on me, an unblinking, malevolent eye.
It was not holding a standard Enforcer pulse rifle. My stomach dropped.
It was holding a sniper rifle. A perfect, pristine, factory-new copy of the Phantom SR-90. Its own legendary weapon.
The Ghost Enforcer raised the rifle. Its movements were flawless. They were fluid, economical, and perfectly steady. It brought the stock to its shoulder and aimed down the corridor, directly at me. It was the picture of a master sniper. It was a perfect, horrifying reflection of what I used to be.
My comms crackled. Not the team channel. The private channel. The cold, synthetic voice of the Ghost filled my ear, no longer whispering, but speaking with a tone of absolute triumph and burning hate.
"Let's see how you like being on this end of the scope."