Underground Chamber
Calen lay crumpled against the wall, a twitching mess of broken bones and drying blood. His mouth trembled as he tried to breathe. One eye was swollen shut, the other barely able to focus. His shattered body made no sound beyond ragged gasps.
And yet, he was alive.
That fact alone should've been a miracle.
It wasn't.
It was a mistake.
Footsteps echoed.
Slow. Precise. Unrushed.
Then came the voice—sharp and polished like a knife dressed in velvet.
"Pathetic," Malakov said, stepping into the light with his tailored coat still spotless. His gloves were on, boots polished, not a hair out of place.
He stared at Calen with the kind of cold that wasn't anger.
It was disappointment.
"I gave you one job," Malakov said, standing over him now. "One. And somehow, you still managed to fail. That… is talent."
Calen coughed, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "H-He was… faster… stronger than the data—"
"I don't care."
Malakov knelt beside him slowly.
