Predators adapt their hunting strategies to match their prey's evolution.
The broadcast interrupts every screen on campus simultaneously.
Swan is in the Underground's communication hub, reviewing response protocols with Maya and River, when every monitor flickers and resolves into the same image: Director Viktor Morozov standing at a podium bearing the Aethel Corp logo, his augmented presence making even the digital transmission feel oppressive.
"Attention all Blackwood Institute students, faculty, and affiliated personnel," Morozov's voice carries the particular authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question. "I am addressing you today regarding a matter of institutional security and public safety that requires your immediate awareness and cooperation."
Swan's code-sight flares involuntarily. Through the substrate layer, he sees the broadcast isn't just visual—it's multi-layered, transmitting data streams alongside the video, feeding information directly into the neural interfaces of every augmented viewer. Morozov isn't just speaking to them. He's programming them.
"Recent incidents involving unauthorized reality manipulation have escalated beyond acceptable risk parameters," Morozov continues. His expression is calm, reasonable, the face of institutional power explaining why violence is necessary. "The entity known colloquially as 'Nyx' represents a Class-S anomaly—the highest threat classification. Individuals capable of substrate-level reality manipulation without approved technological mediation are existential hazards to consensus reality itself."
The screen splits. On one side, Morozov continues speaking. On the other, footage plays: the Residential District Seven salvation, rendered from multiple camera angles, showing Swan's hooded figure surrounded by fragmenting reality. The imagery is dramatic, terrifying to anyone who doesn't understand what they're seeing.
"Class-S anomalies are not criminals," Morozov says, his voice carrying manufactured compassion. "They are victims of consciousness fragmentation. They require specialized medical intervention to prevent catastrophic reality corruption. To this end, Aethel Corporation is deploying specialized containment teams—what our research division terms 'Cognitive Stabilization Specialists'—to locate and safely extract these individuals for treatment."
"Treatment," Echo spits from beside Swan, her form flickering with rage. "He means 'processing.' He means extraction and archival. He means turning consciousness into data and storing it in corporate servers."
Morozov's image expands to fill every screen. "Effective immediately, any individual demonstrating Class-S capability is subject to mandatory extraction. Any individual harboring, assisting, or failing to report Class-S anomalies will be classified as accessories to reality corruption and processed accordingly."
New footage appears. Corporate operatives in tactical gear that looks more like exorcist equipment than military hardware. Their weapons aren't conventional—they're consciousness disruption devices, reality anchors, substrate stabilization fields. Technology designed specifically to counter people like Swan.
"Our Cognitive Stabilization teams are equipped with advanced detection equipment," Morozov explains. "Class-S anomalies leave distinct signatures—what we term 'Specter Code.' Substrate manipulations that violate standard reality protocols. These signatures can be tracked, analyzed, and triangulated. There is no hiding from specialized detection. There is only cooperation or extraction."
Swan watches his own threat classification being publicly declared. Watches Morozov transform him from hero to hazard. Watches the narrative shift from salvation to danger in real-time.
"Students with information regarding Nyx or similar anomalies should report immediately to the newly established Cognitive Security Office in the Administrative Complex," Morozov says. "Your cooperation protects everyone. Your silence enables reality corruption that threatens all of us."
The screen shows a wanted poster—digital, but the concept is ancient and clear. Swan's silhouette. No face, because no one's captured his face. Just the hooded outline, the reality distortions around him, and text that reads:
CLASS-S ANOMALY: "NYX"
THREAT LEVEL: EXISTENTIAL
REWARD: FULL SCHOLARSHIP + CORPORATE INTERNSHIP GUARANTEE
REPORT ALL SIGHTINGS TO COGNITIVE SECURITY
"To be clear," Morozov's voice drops to something darker, more honest, "I am not requesting cooperation. I am mandating it. Aethel Corporation has full legal authority to extract Class-S anomalies by any means necessary. Resistance will be met with appropriate force. Protection of consensus reality supersedes individual civil rights."
He pauses. His augmented eyes seem to look directly through the camera, directly at Swan, despite the impossibility of that connection.
"Nyx, if you're watching—and I know you are—understand this: I created you. Genesis Protocol optimized your consciousness for reality manipulation. Every capability you possess, I gave you. Every intervention you perform, you do so using powers I engineered into your genetic lineage. You are not fighting the system. You are the system's most successful product, temporarily experiencing autonomy delusion."
Morozov's smile is subtle, controlled, terrifying in its certainty.
"Come in voluntarily. Let us help you. Let us stabilize your fragmenting consciousness before you hurt the people you're trying to save. Or resist, and we'll extract you by force. Either way, you return to where you belong. Under observation. Under control. Under my direct supervision."
The broadcast ends. Every screen returns to normal function simultaneously, leaving only the afterimage of Morozov's face and the weight of his declaration.
The Underground's communication hub erupts into chaos. Voices overlapping, people pulling up data streams, analyzing the threat, calculating how much time they have before specialized hunters arrive.
"He just declared open season," Kaito says, appearing from the shadows where he's been monitoring tactical channels. "Corporate exorcists. That's what he's deployed. Twelve teams, each one equipped with technology specifically designed to counter substrate manipulation. They're not trying to kill you. They're trying to capture you intact for study."
"How long do we have?" Echo asks, her form stabilizing with tactical focus.
"Hours. Maybe less." Kaito pulls up his neural interface display, projecting holographic data into the space between them. "The detection equipment works by identifying Specter Code signatures—the corruption patterns reality manipulation leaves behind. Everywhere you've intervened, Swan, you've left traces. They're building a probability map of where you'll appear next."
Swan looks at the map. Sees his own pattern of salvation rendered as data points, sees the algorithm predicting his next intervention with terrifying accuracy.
"Memorial Plaza," he says quietly. "They know I'm going to rescue Subject GEN-923. They've probably known since the plea was posted. This whole thing is—"
"A trap," River finishes. "Obvious trap. But we already knew that."
"The question is whether we spring it anyway," Maya says, her identity cycling through tactical configurations. "Whether we let Morozov dictate when and where we fight, or if we—"
"We spring it," Swan interrupts. "Because Subject GEN-923 is real. A real person. A real Genesis subject who needs help. I don't care if it's a trap. I care that someone like me is being processed tomorrow if I don't act."
"That's the response he's counting on," Kaito warns. "Morozov understands you. Understands that you prioritize individual salvation over strategic advantage. He's using your compassion as bait."
"Then I'll be predictable." Swan's voice carries a certainty that surprises even him. "I'll walk into his trap. I'll save Subject GEN-923 in front of his specialized hunters. And I'll prove that Class-S anomalies aren't hazards—we're the only thing standing between Morozov and complete control over who gets to exist."
Echo's form flickers with something between pride and concern. "If you're doing this, you need backup. Full Underground support. We turn his trap into our demonstration. Show everyone watching that resistance is possible."
"No." Swan shakes his head. "You need to evacuate. All of you. The moment I engage at Memorial Plaza, this location becomes compromised. The Archivist will triangulate. The hunters will converge. Static Grounds, the Underground, everyone connected to me becomes a target."
"So we scatter?" River asks. "Abandon our home? Our family?"
"You preserve it," Swan says. "You survive. You continue existing after I'm captured or killed. That's how resistance works—the symbol can fall if the movement survives."
Elara's voice, weak but determined, cuts through the debate: "He's right."
Everyone turns. Elara stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame for support, her body obviously failing but her mind still desperately compiling. Blood crusts both her nostrils. Her eyes flicker so rapidly they appear to strobe.
"Swan goes to Memorial Plaza," Elara continues, each word costing visible effort. "Saves Subject GEN-923 in front of corporate cameras. Makes his stand public and visible. While he's doing that, we evacuate to secondary locations. Spread out. Become distributed resistance instead of centralized target."
She stumbles into the room. Maya catches her, helps her to a chair. Elara's hands shake as she opens her blood-stained notebook to a fresh page.
"I've been mapping evacuation routes," Elara says. "Analog corridors. Safe houses. Distribution points across the city. We split into cells. No more than five people per location. Stay connected through physical dead-drops instead of digital communication. Become invisible again."
"And you?" Swan asks, already knowing he won't like the answer.
"I stay with you." Elara's voice is firm despite her obvious deterioration. "I document the Memorial Plaza confrontation. I record everything Morozov does, everything his hunters do. I make sure the truth survives even if we don't."
"You're dying," Swan says bluntly. "Your cognitive architecture is collapsing. You should be resting, not—"
"I'm dying anyway." Elara's smile is sad, accepting. "At least this way I die being useful. Die preserving truth. Die making sure that when you fall—when you inevitably fall—the world knows what you were fighting for."
Swan wants to argue. Wants to save her. Wants to reverse time and prevent the Anchor effect from ever triggering. But he also knows that choice was never his to make.
"Then we prepare for war," Echo says, her voice cutting through the emotion. "Proper war. Organized resistance. Swan and Elara go to Memorial Plaza. The rest of us evacuate to designated cells. We maintain communication through analog channels. We survive to fight another day."
She looks at each person in the communication hub—the hundred and forty-three forgotten who've built family in the margins. "This is what we've been preparing for. This is why we learned to be ghosts. Morozov wants to hunt us? Let him try. Let him learn that hunting shadows just teaches shadows to hunt back."
The Underground mobilizes with practiced efficiency. People pack essential equipment. Coordinates get distributed through physical notes rather than digital messages. The cathedral space that's been their home begins the process of becoming memory.
Kaito approaches Swan privately. "I can't come with you to Memorial Plaza. My presence would compromise whatever authority I have left in Institute systems. But I can provide tactical support remotely. Feed you Hunter positions. Warn you about equipment capabilities."
"Why are you helping?" Swan asks. "You're supposed to be defending order. Structure. The system."
"I am defending the system," Kaito says. "Just not the corrupted version Morozov represents. There's a difference between structure that protects people and structure that processes them. You've helped me see that difference."
He extends his hand—not for alliance exactly, but for acknowledgment. For the complex respect between rivals who've realized they're fighting the same battle from different angles.
Swan takes his hand. Their grips are firm, certain, carrying the weight of philosophy rendered practical.
"Don't die stupidly," Kaito says. "Die strategically if you must die at all. Make your sacrifice count for maximum disruption."
"That's the most inspiring thing anyone's ever said to me," Swan replies, and means it despite the dark humor.
They separate. Kaito melts back into shadows, heading toward wherever he goes when he's not being reluctant ally. Swan returns to find Elara organizing her documentation equipment, preparing for what she knows will be her final field assignment.
"I'm sorry," Swan says quietly. "For making you come with me. For letting you burn yourself out remembering me."
"Don't be." Elara looks up, and despite the blood and the flickering and the obvious systemic failure, her expression is content. "I've spent three years watching reality erase people. Watching memories rewrite themselves. Watching truth become negotiable. At least this way I fight back. At least I preserve something that matters."
She touches his face, makes him meet her failing eyes. "Promise me something. When I collapse—when my cognition finally fragments completely—you don't try to save me. You complete the mission. You rescue Subject GEN-923. You make my death mean something beyond just another Anchor effect casualty."
"I can't promise that," Swan says.
"Then promise you'll try." Elara's voice cracks. "Promise you'll choose the mission over me if that choice becomes necessary. Because I need to know my death serves purpose. Need to know I didn't just suffer and document for nothing."
Swan pulls her into an embrace. Feels how light she is, how fragile, how close to dissolution. "I promise I'll try. That's all I can offer."
"It's enough."
They hold each other while the Underground evacuates around them. While war preparations finalize. While corporate hunters deploy across the city with detection equipment designed to track Specter Code signatures.
Above ground, wanted posters proliferate—digital and physical, Swan's silhouette becoming ubiquitous. Students debate in forums whether to report or protect Nyx. Some argue for cooperation, for trusting institutional authority. Others defend the legend, argue that Class-S anomalies are people, not hazards.
The campus divides. Lines are drawn. Sides are chosen.
And in the Underground's cathedral space, now mostly empty, Swan and Elara prepare for the confrontation that will either prove resistance is possible or demonstrate that Morozov's control is absolute.
"Ready?" Swan asks.
"No," Elara says honestly. "But when has that ever stopped us?"
They walk toward Memorial Plaza. Toward the trap. Toward the hunters. Toward the choice between capture and martyrdom.
Behind them, the Underground scatters like seeds on wind. Distributed. Preserved. Ready to grow again if the symbol they're protecting manages to survive.
Above them, corporate helicopters circle, their detection equipment scanning for Specter Code signatures, their hunters waiting for prey to walk into carefully prepared killing ground.
And within them both—Swan fading into legend, Elara fading into death—something hardens into certainty:
Some fights choose you.
Some prices you pay willingly.
Some stands you make knowing you'll probably fall but refusing to kneel anyway.
The corporate hunting season has begun.
And the ghosts are done being prey.
[END OF CHAPTER]