The farmhouse loomed like a husk under the harvest moon—its windows blind, its siding gray with neglect. Hiroto lifted two fingers and cut left toward the barn. Dynamo covered his flank, while Bernadette moved like smoke, silent and decisive.

  They didn’t make it twenty yards before shadows detached from the treeline. Four men in black tactical gear, visors down, and rifles steady.

  Hiroto’s rifle barked, kicking sparks off a truck’s rusted chassis. Dynamo surged forward, mallet-hands striking… one man went down with a sound like a tree splitting in two. Bernadette was cleaner: two shots, two throats.

  The last one froze, weapon half-raised. Hiroto lunged, smashing the rifle from his grip, wrenching him into the dirt.

  The man spat blood and curses, struggling. Hiroto planted a knee in his chest, knife pressed cold against his cheek.

  “Where is she?” Hiroto demanded.

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  The soldier’s visor hid his eyes, but his voice shook. “I don’t—”

  Dynamo crouched low, her mallet-hand hovering just above his knee. She whispered, almost playfully: “I can take it off in one swing. Want to test me?”

  Bernadette leaned in from the other side, her face a mask of calm cruelty. “You won’t hold out long. Tell us where Malcolm keeps the girl. Now.”

  The man bucked, but Hiroto shoved the blade harder, a line of blood cutting across his skin.

  “Basement,” he blurted. “Under the south wing. He brought her in last night—keeps a generator running, says she’s… special.”

  Kaen’s voice buzzed in Hiroto’s ear, cold and precise. “Heartbeat stress pattern consistent with truth.”

  Hiroto’s grip tightened. “How many with her?”

  “Two guards,” the man stammered. “Maybe three.”

  Dynamo rose, eyes hard. “Good enough.”

  Bernadette pulled her sidearm, chambered a round, and without hesitation, silenced the man with a single shot. His body slumped, steam curling off the fresh wound.

  Dynamo’s jaw clenched. “That was unnecessary.”

  Bernadette slid the pistol back into its holster. “Loose ends get people killed.”

  Hiroto said nothing. He wiped the blade on the man’s jacket, eyes already fixed on the farmhouse.

  “South wing,” he muttered. “Let’s move.”

  The three of them cut through the night, shadows converging on the house where Aiko was held, every step heavy with urgency and the faint metallic stench of blood.