Chapter 21 - Damian #2
Fuck, was this guy prepared. Anton didn’t flee blindly, no, he’s been putting on an act and leading us deeper, drawing us into the belly of the complex.
Towards what? Are there any more grim surprises that should make things even worse?
We push forward, turning into a lower corridor where the lights have mostly died. Only the emergency strips glow dim red, painting the hall like the inside of an artery.
“That hum,” Harper murmurs. “It’s stronger here.”
She’s right. The air buzzes with static, as if every molecule is vibrating just out of sync with itself. It’s the smell that alarms me most—burned insulation, a faint acrid bite.
This damn smell… where have I smelled that before?
Aha. During controlled demolitions and failures. During overloads.
It snaps into place so fast I go lightheaded.
The servers.
The mainframe should be on standalone cooling. The power load should be regulated. The hum shouldn’t feel like a creature straining against chains.
Unless someone rewired it on purpose. Unless the servers are the chains.
It’s a kill-switch, terror numbs my body as I realize. A detonator.
Anton didn’t just come down here to hide, he came to wipe the slate clean. Every file, every archived confession, every surveillance capture that could clear Harper’s name or damn the people who used her.
He’s going to erase the truth, and us, as collateral damage.
“Damian?” Harper’s voice is softer than before, frayed. “What is it?”
“We need to keep moving.”
With my knuckles white around hers, I guide her faster down the corridor. The floor vibrates in uneven pulses, the way a foundation does when too much power runs through its veins.
We round a final bend, and the tunnel widens abruptly into the main chamber.
The arching concrete ribs, cables coiled like black serpents over the ceiling make it look like a cathedral gutted by industry.
And in the center, behind a fractured pane of reinforced glass, the master server hums with the intensity of a caged star.
Every unit glows feverishly, pulsing in a dangerous rhythm.
Harper’s hand falling limp in mine makes me follow her line of sight.
He emerges from the shadows like a warning unspooling—clothes dust-stained, one sleeve soaked in blood that doesn’t look fresh. Anton stands on the far side of the chamber. His eyes shine too brightly, the way a man’s do when he’s convinced he’s already dying.
In his hand, a pistol hangs loosely, like it belongs to someone else.
“Well,” he says, voice cracking with what might be exhaustion or hysteria. “The heirs arrive.”
Harper tenses beside me. Without even thinking about it, my feet place me a bit before her, shielding her frame.
I know Anton. He always fires at the heart first.
“You’re wired into the server,” I say quietly. Not accusing. Confirming. “You rigged it.”
Anton smiles, the expression too wide, splitting his face into something hungry.
“Of course I did. Truth dies in fire, Damian. You of all people should know that.”
He says my name with the weight of history, like he thinks it can bruise me.
“You’re burning the wrong lies,” I answer. “And you’re willing to take everyone else with you.”
He lifts the gun, aiming it at Harper.
She freezes.
“You—” Anton’s voice fractures. “You were supposed to be the sacrifice. The lesson. The price for their greed.”
Harper inhales sharply, but she doesn’t step back. She stands there, gaze steady, chin high. Brave in that quiet, devastating way she has, like a wound learning how to scar.
Anton’s hand trembles.
“You were supposed to die,” he whispers. “And instead you lived.”
In the split second he takes to tighten his aim, I tackle him.
We collide hard. My shoulder slams into his ribs, his gun discharging into the ceiling with a deafening crack. He snarls, twisting with surprising strength. The impact rattles the server glass, dust raining from above.
His elbow cracks against my jaw as we grapple—brutal, close-quarters, teeth-gritted survival. My fist connects with his side. His breath stinks of metal and adrenaline.
Harper shouts my name, but I can’t look away, not when Anton’s hand shoots for the control panel on the wall.
Not when I realize what button he’s reaching for.
“Harper—!” I shout.
But he’s faster.
Anton slams his palm onto the fail-safe.
A mechanical, furious high-pitched whine shrieks through the chamber. The servers flare hot white, every light strip exploding into sparks.
And Harper—
Harper flits through the air like lightning itself.
She dives beneath the glass housing, sliding into the maintenance crawlspace, fingers flying to yank the primary power feed. Sparks bite her hands, but she doesn’t stop. Her jaw stays clenched, eyes burning with some fierce, reckless certainty.
The chamber convulses in a thunderous shudder.
And then—
The whine cuts out mid-scream. The lights gutter, flicker, stabilize at half power.
Anton stares, disbelieving. “No… no, you don’t get to—”
The ceiling groans. A slab of concrete shears loose. It crashes down, dust exploding outward. Anton turns too late, the debris slamming into him, pinning him. His gun skitters across the floor.
Harper scrambles out from under the console, coughing through the smoke, her fingers bleeding, but her eyes sharp, alive.
Anton wheezes, blood bubbling on his lips.
I approach slowly, because dying men have teeth.
His wild, fevered eyes lift to mine, terrified and triumphant all at once.
“She’s still above you,” he whispers.
The words curl and flit down my spine, all slimy. Harper stiffens behind me as Anton coughs again, a wet, rattling sound.
“Inessa,” he croaks. “You think she’s gone. But she’s been… above you all along.”
His eyes slide out of focus.
The chamber shakes violently as the secondary systems start failing, smoke rising like the ghost of everything he tried to reclaim.
“Damian!” Harper reaches for me as another tremor hits.
I grab her arm and pull her toward the side exit, partially warped, but still functional. Behind us, the empire Anton tried to salvage collapses in on itself as the servers spark, concrete fractures widen, smoke thickens.
Harper stumbles but keeps hold of my hand like it’s the only solid thing left.
We burst into the adjoining tunnel, coughing, half blind, illuminated only by the flickering red emergency strips. Her fingers are an iron grip around mine.
A vow made in the dark.
We’ve survived betrayal, exile, explosions, and the ghosts of every mistake that could’ve broken us. Only Inessa, the woman who’s been puppeteering strings above us both, remains.
Beside me, Harper squeezes my hand once, fierce as an oath.
“Let’s finish this,” she whispers.