My body reacts before my mind does, hand raised to strike, ready for whatever human might be waiting in the dark.
Then a light cuts through the black. Harsh, white, familiar.
"Anna!" It's Bill's voice.
My body eases, but only slightly. Relief comes as a tremor, not comfort. Behind him, three figures appear in staggered formation: Julian, Mara, Kae. The rest of my team. The familiar way they move through space — silent, precise, disciplined.
Bill lowers his weapon as he reaches me. "You just can't resist going off grid, can you?" His tone lands somewhere between command and humor, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away.
"Floor gave out," I say. "Didn't plan the tour."
Julian sweeps his scanner across the hall. "We lost you for twenty minutes. Your comms flatlined."
"I know." My voice is softer than I mean it to be. "This place killed the signal."
Mara steps forward, her lamp flashing across the condensation on the walls. "You sure you're alright?"
"Fine," I lie and I think they all know it.
Kae doesn't speak. He never does much. But he's the one watching the shadows while the others look at me, and somehow that makes me feel seen in a way words don't.
Bill jerks his chin toward the far end of the corridor. "Tell us what you found."
For a moment, none of us move.
It should be simple to report, explain, lead the way. That's what a Hunter student does. But standing here, in the dark with their lights slicing through the air, something feels off. I can feel the distance between us.
According to books, there's a rhythm to teamwork — the kind that comes from trust. When it works, it's effortless. You don't have to think about it. You know where everyone is, what they'll do next, how far You can move before someone catches you.
Bill used to say in the Hunter Academy a good team works like a single body — five people, one purpose. What he didn't say is that when one part starts to fail, the rest keeps moving anyway. We don't stop. We don't question it. We just keep going and hope the damage doesn't spread.
That's the cruel thing about teamwork, it demands faith, not proof.We move because we have to. Because stopping means someone falls behind. Because in the Hunter Academy, hesitation gets people killed.
I nod toward the deeper corridor. "This way."
Bill signals formation, and the team falls in behind me without a word. Perfect timing. Perfect control. The kind of coordination that looks like strength from the outside and maybe it is. Or maybe it's just habit.
My team trust me enough to follow, even when I can't tell if I trust myself.
Trust is easy in training. We follow the same orders, the same rules. We breathe together, fight together, survive together. It's predictable. But in the field, when things start to fall apart, that kind of trust begins to rot. I start seeing the cracks in everyone. And once I see those cracks, I can't pretend they're not there.
That's how trust dies, quietly, one small break at a time.
Now, walking beside them in the dark, I feel the space between us like an open wound. They're here: I can hear their steps, their breathing, the quiet click of gear.
But none of it reaches me.
Because somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like I belonged to anyone or that anyone ever truly belonged to me.
And I don't know if that makes me careful or just broken.
We move together, deeper into the corridor. The air thickens with every step: colder, heavier, pressed down by the weight of time. It smells like wet dust and metal left to rust in the dark. The sound of our boots echoes against the walls, five steady rhythms trying to sound like one.
I lead them to the room I found earlier. Inside, the control room looks smaller with the team in it.
Julian approaches the nearest console, brushing his sleeve across the screen. It flickers awake, faint text crawling into view.
"Archive node," he says. "Still has a power source."
Bill steps closer. "Show me."
I don't move. My eyes are already fixed on the upper corner of the display — the same words that greeted me before.
PROJECT REFRACTION // HUNTER ACADEMY INTERNAL.
Julian frowns. "This system's not listed on any Academy network."
"It's not supposed to be," I murmur.
They all look at me then even Kae, his gaze sharp behind his sunglass.
I step closer, my hand brushing across the cold metal of the console. "These aren't training records. They're transfer logs. Human shipments. Marked under Unit Classification."
Bill's brow tightens. "Shipments?"
"Hunter cadets." The words taste like ash. "Taken before graduation. Sent to industrial sectors. Some approved by..."
I stop myself before the name leaves my tongue.
Bill's voice is quiet. "By who?"
I hesitate. My pulse stutters once, loud in my ears. The hum in the walls fills the silence like static trying to cover truth.
"By command," I say at last. "Top-level clearance. Someone high enough to bury it."
Julian's jaw tenses. Mara looks away, her flashlight trembling just slightly. Kae says nothing, but his grip tightens on his rifle.
For a moment, no one breathes.
Bill turns back to the console, scanning the data that crawls across the screen. His face stays calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that feels practiced.
"Copy everything," he says finally. "We'll bring it back to Hunter Academy."
Julian hesitates. "Bill… if this is real?"
"It's real enough to need proof," Bill cuts him off. "Do it."
They move. Mara sets up a data link. Julian plugs in his scanner. Kae guards the hall. The rhythm returns — efficient, automatic, the sound of people pretending they're not afraid.
I stay where I am, watching Bill.
He doesn't look at me, not once. Not even when the files flicker past with signatures attached: names I know, dates that shouldn't exist.
That's when I realize he's not reading to learn. He's reading to confirm.
A chill crawls up my spine.
The console hums louder. Lines of code blur across the screen, one after another, until they stop — frozen on a single phrase.
ACCESS FLAG: OVERRIDE DETECTED.
Julian frowns. "That's not me…"
For a moment, there's nothing but breathing, five different rhythms, no longer in sync.
Then the terminal flares again. Not blue this time, but red.
A single message burns across the display, flickering in and out like a pulse: YOU FORGOT.
The red light pulses. The light from it washes across Bill's face. And for the first time, I see something crack.
"Bill?" I say quietly.
No answer. He just stands there, the glow painting his face in fractured color. The message doesn't change. It stares back at us, steady and cruel.
Julian moves closer to the console. "System's locked up. The data link's dead."
Mara's light trembles in her hand. "Then who triggered it?"
No one speaks. The hum in the walls drops low, a vibration underfoot, like something heavy turning over in its sleep.
Bill reaches for the main feed. "We're done here," he says.
Julian doesn't move. "Bill, there's still..."
"I said we're done." The command lands sharp. Too sharp.
"Bill..." I start.
He turns, and it's the silence in his eyes that makes me stop. They're too calm. Too practiced. Like he's seen this before.
I step closer. "You knew this was here."
His jaw tightens. "Watch your tone, Anna."
"That message wasn't random."
Bill doesn't answer.
"Who's TL01?" I press very loudly.
Bill hesitation says everything.
Before he can speak, the console flares again, red to white. A line of text flashes across before the system can choke it out.
AUTHENTICATION CONFIRMED.
Julian stares at the screen. "What's going on here?"