Chapter 5: The Betrayal

POV: Neoma

The moment Silas's eyes flickered to the door for the third time, my blood stopped.

It didn't freeze—it stagnated. Heavy. Cold. A sudden dead weight in my veins.

I kept my hand on the Tier 1 shard on the counter. The Barzil core pulsed against my palm—rhythmic, warm, alive. A heartbeat that wasn't mine. The shop—a hovel built inside the ribcage of a crashed transport ship—smelled of ozone and unwashed bodies. But beneath that, a new scent. Sour. Sharp.

Sweat.

Usually, Silas greeted me with a toothless grin and a lowball offer. He wasn't just a fence; he was the one who had taught me how to tell real Barzil from slag when I was fifteen. He had let me sleep in his storeroom during the Great Freeze. He had slipped me extra credits when the haul was bad.

In the Dregs, trust was a weakness. I had given mine to him. It twisted in my gut now—a knot of iron pulling tight.

Today, he was shaking. And he hadn't touched the shard.

"It's a good piece, girl," Silas stammered. He wiped his hands on his greasy apron. The fabric hissed against his skin. "Real good. Just... give me a minute to get the credits from the back."

"You don't keep credits in the back," I said. My voice was low. Rough. My throat felt constricted. "You keep them in the floor safe under your boots."

Silas froze. Muscles locked. The shame in his eyes hit me harder than the fear.

The silence stretched. Thick. Choking.

Outside, the wind howled through the Scrap Fields. But underneath the gale, I heard something else.

Vibration.

Not the chaotic shuffle of scavengers. This was rhythmic. Heavy.

*Thud. Thud. Thud.*

Military boots. Dozens of them. The impact traveled up through the floorboards, settling in my knees.

"You sold me," I whispered. The betrayal tasted like copper. Like biting your own tongue. "After everything?"

"I had to!" Silas squealed. He backed away, hands trembling violently. "They offered amnesty! A ticket to the Citadel! They know about the subway, Neoma. They know what you did to the Highblood!"

"You're not getting a ticket, Silas," I said. Heat flooded my face—rage. But underneath, a sick, hollow dropping sensation. Pity. "You're just tying up loose ends."

I didn't wait to hear his excuses.

I snatched the shard. Muscles coiled. I vaulted over the counter just as the world disintegrated.

The front blast doors didn't open. They vanished.

The air compressed. A wall of pressure slammed into my back—no sound, just force—throwing me toward the rear hatch. My ears popped. Then the roar caught up. A deafening, mechanical shriek of metal tearing.

"Secure the perimeter!" a voice boomed. Amplified by a vocoder. Deep. Scratching against my eardrums. "Target is inside!"

I didn't look back. I shoulder-checked the rear emergency hatch. It was rusted shut, welded by time. Panic spiked—cold and sharp in my chest. I slammed the heel of my boot into the locking mechanism.

The metal groaned. Gave way.

I tumbled out into the alleyway. The humid, toxic air of the Dregs hit me like a physical blow. Thick. Wet. Tasting of sulfur.

"She's in the north alley! Flank her!"

I scrambled up a stack of shipping crates. My fingers dug into the corroded metal, rust biting into my skin. I knew the Warrens better than anyone. I was a rat in a maze I had built. They could have their armor and their guns; I had gravity.

I hit the roof of a lean-to and sprinted.

I leaped across a six-foot gap to a crumbling fire escape. My boots skidded on the wet iron. I scrambled for purchase, muscles straining, hauled myself up, and swung onto the roof of an old factory block.

I ran.

I ran until my lungs tasted like blood. Each breath was a ragged tear in my chest. Black spots bloomed in my vision—pulsing in time with the frantic hammer of my heart. I took the "Ghost Route"—a path of narrow ledges and unstable rooftops that no heavy Uruk could navigate.

I turned left at the water tower, intending to drop down into the labyrinth of the Market Zone.

A squad of soldiers was waiting there. Weapons raised. Barzil bayonets glowing with heat.

I skidded to a halt. My heart slammed against my ribs—painful, erratic.

*How?*

They couldn't have known I'd take this roof.

I spun around. Doubled back toward the ventilation shafts.

Three soldiers emerged from the shadows. Blocking the path.

They weren't chasing me.

The realization hit like a bucket of ice water. Numbing. Paralyzing.

They were *herding* me.

Every turn I took, every "secret" path I chose, they were there. Pushing me toward the only open route. I wasn't outsmarting them. I was running exactly where they wanted me to go.

Desperation clawed at my throat. I couldn't swallow.

I spotted a narrow maintenance chasm between two buildings—a dead end, but one with a sewage grate I might be able to pry open.

I dove into the shadows of the chasm, sliding to a stop in the muck.

"End of the line, Ms. Solstice."

The voice was soft. Cultured. Smooth. It didn't belong in the Dregs. It sounded like clean sheets and filtered air.

I looked up.

Leaning against the far wall, looking as if he were waiting for a bus rather than hunting a fugitive, was a man in a pristine black suit. He was slender. Pale. Hair the color of moonlight on ice. He checked a silver pocket watch.

*Click.*

The sound was sharp. Mechanical. Final.

"Three minutes and forty-two seconds," he said. His glacial blue eyes slid over me. Clinical. Detached. Like I was a specimen in a jar. "I calculated four minutes. You're faster than the simulation predicted."

Wolfy Vance. The Tactician.

"You..." I panted. Backing away. My legs trembled. "You herded me."

"I merely closed the incorrect doors," he corrected politely. "Human psychology dictates that when panicked, a subject will choose the path of least resistance 87% of the time. I simply ensured that path led to me."

"I'm not going with you."

"That is an irrational statement. Your exit vectors are sealed. You have no weapons. And your heart rate is currently..." He tilted his head. "...one hundred and eighty beats per minute. You are on the verge of syncope."

He took a step forward. He moved like liquid. Silent. Fluid. Wrong.

"Stay back!" I screamed.

The Void inside me woke up.

It sensed the threat. It didn't ask permission. The cold vacuum expanded in my chest—hungry, violent, alive. It wanted to eat. I didn't care about the consequences anymore.

I raised my hand.

Black veins erupted up my arm. Spiderwebbing under the skin. Burning cold. They crackled with dark lightning.

"I said stay back!"

I thrust my hand forward. Aiming a blast of kinetic force straight at his chest.

Wolfy didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.

Because he didn't have to.

A massive shadow detached itself from the darkness behind me.

A hand—gauntleted in black iron—clamped around my wrist.

It crushed the bones together.

The pain was white-hot. Instant. The blast misfired, dissipating harmlessly into the air with a pathetic pop.

"Enough."

The voice was a growl of grinding stone. Low. Subsonic. It vibrated in my teeth.

I was spun around. Slammed back against the hard plating of a chest armor.

It smelled of forge smoke. Winter. Violence.

I looked up into the furious, molten gold eyes of the Commander.

Barzil Ashfang held my wrist in an iron grip. His face inches from mine. The heat radiating off him made my skin prickle.

"Don't make me break you before I bind you," he warned.