Ironwatch hold ran as it always did. Reports were filed. Patrols rotated. Coffee brewed in the mess.

  No one noticed the door to Milo’s quarters opening.

  Milo and Jack stepped out of the room, laughing and trading jokes as if nothing was wrong. To the rest of the base, they looked unchanged. But neither of them was who they had been.

  As they moved through Ironwatch Hold, they sought out soldiers who were alone, hidden from the cameras, and one by one turned them into servants of the Hollowed Saint, Shrikecoil. The corruption spread like a silent plague, unnoticed at first, until it had threaded its way into every corner of the base. Converted soldiers carried on with their duties, but beneath the surface, their minds searched for a single target: Angelo. Few even knew his name, and fewer still had access to his file.

  A number of the surveillance team were taken as well, but their mission was different: sever communications with the outside world. But with so many people working at once, a sudden blackout would trip alarms. Too risky.

  The real obstacle was Corporal Lys Veera. Quiet, reserved, almost shy—but unshakable under pressure. Everyone in the unit knew that even if systems went down, she’d bring them back up in minutes. If communications were to fall for good, she had to be dealt with. Turn her, or eliminate her.

  They tried to isolate her, but Veera wouldn’t take the bait. She kept to herself, shut down idle chatter, and used the private restroom in her quarters. Nothing about her routine could be exploited.

  So the order shifted.

  The hive mind stirred, Milo’s command echoing in every follower’s head:

  “Hold off on communications. First, I need to reclaim what was taken from me in the lab.”

  Then his voice hardened:

  “When I give the signal—start killing. Cut the lines. Set the base on fire with panic. I’ll use it as cover to reclaim my broken part, and while the chaos spreads, I’ll claim the R&D.”

  Moments later, the order rang out.

  Every follower turned their weapon on their comrades and opened fire.

  The halls erupted in screams and gunfire. Soldiers were gunned down at their desks, in the mess hall, in their bunks. One soldier faltered, staring at the face behind the rifle pointed at him. He’d trained beside him for years. The hesitation cost him everything. Blood painted walls and floors. The air thickened with gunpowder and iron. Sirens wailed, alarms blared, but nothing could contain the madness.

  The General’s voice crackled through the speakers, barking orders—then cut off mid-sentence. Not because he had stopped, but because all communications, both internal and external, had been destroyed. The followers hadn’t simply cut the lines—they set the entire communications room ablaze.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The R&D wing wasn’t built for combat. Equipment was stacked in cramped corners, chemicals labeled with warnings lined the shelves, and half-dismantled drones were spread across workbenches. Milo walked through calmly, as if the chaos outside wasn’t even real. Scientists screamed when soldiers protecting them fell. Some tried to flee, only to be dragged back and pressed against the wall by their own turned colleagues.

  Blood streaked across white coats, stained paperwork, seeped into the cracks of the tiles. A shot broke a vial, green smoke spilling into the air. Another bullet shattered glassware, liquid hissing as it mixed, fire blooming suddenly across a desk. Sprinklers roared to life, and when water hit certain chemicals, they detonated, belching toxic fumes that rolled low along the floor. People coughed, gagged, and collapsed, while Milo moved like a man strolling through a storm.

  Milo stood in the haze, coughing out a laugh.

  “I may have gone a bit too far… but no matter. Once I reclaim the shard, I’ll shed this human shell. My original body awaits.”

  He ordered a newly turned scientist to lead him to the vault. Inside, fragments of Angels and the shard itself were sealed away. The sight froze Milo in place, then split into a grin that twisted into a chilling laugh.

  “I just hit the fucking jackpot.”

  Every follower in the base laughed with him, their voices echoing like broken mirrors.

  Milo dropped his gun, tore off his armor and shirt, and seized the shard. Holding it with both hands, he plunged it into his chest, straight through his heart.

  The shard sank deep. Blood gushed, his breath rasped, each cough spraying crimson from his mouth and nose. His body trembled, then collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud. Followers gathered silently at his legs, staring as he bled out, waiting.

  Sirens screamed through every corridor of the base. An explosion shook the walls. Gunfire erupted outside Mordane’s quarters as soldiers scrambled to fall back—only to realize there was nowhere left to retreat. They weren’t defending the base anymore. They were being hunted.

  Mordane had seen ambushes, even betrayals—but never this. The moment the comms died, he grabbed his weapon and left his quarters. In the halls, soldiers shot at one another with no hesitation, no warning. Some he’d known for years turned their rifles on their comrades like strangers.

  “What the fuck is happening here?” he muttered, gunning down a turned man who came at him with a combat knife. “Were they enemy sleepers from the beginning? Or is this something worse?”

  He pushed through the chaos, rallying a group of survivors. Among them was Captain Tavon Blythe, blood splattered across his uniform but steady with his rifle.

  “General,” Blythe said, catching his breath, “something is very wrong.”

  “I can see that,” Mordane replied grimly. “Could be enemy plants from the start.”

  Blythe shook his head, jaw set. “No, sir. I personally vetted every man in this base. No history, no dirt. They were clean.”

  “Then what?” Mordane snapped. “Rebellion? For what cause?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Blythe admitted.

  Mordane cursed. Gunfire echoed down the halls, smoke stung his nose, screams carried faintly under the alarms. “Damn it. We can’t even tell who’s friend or foe anymore. We’ll have to wait for them to shoot first… or we’ll be slaughtering our own men.”