The alarms howled louder now.
Not the usual sirens — these were deeper. Primal. Designed to shake the bones of anyone who heard them. Emergency code Zero-Thirteen. A signal not used in over a decade.
Berou had only heard it once before. The day they tried to destroy him.
He moved fast, down the south corridor toward the central junction. The floor vibrated beneath him. A dull hum turned into a mechanical growl.
They weren't locking him in.
They were unleashing something.
"Containment breach in Vault Σ-III."
"Asset 99 activated. Engage all override protocols."
"Do not engage directly. Repeat — do not engage directly."
Berou stopped as the steel walls around him hissed and peeled apart, revealing a circular containment room. Inside: red lights, twitching cables, fluid dripping from the ceiling. The smell of blood and ozone hit him like a memory.
And in the center, curled like a fetus inside a cracked shell of alloy and flesh…
Something moved.
Slowly.
Twitching.
Then it looked up.
It wasn't human.
Not anymore.
It stood on two legs, but the limbs were segmented like an insect's, armored with blackened plates of bone. Its wings — six of them — shimmered between broken feathers and living shadow. Its eyes burned orange-red with feral intelligence.
A voice crackled from unseen speakers above.
"Project Hollow Apostate. Final prototype. Engineered to outmatch Subject B-47 — Berou."
The thing let out a breath.
A wheeze. A rasp. Then a choked giggle.
Like it had just remembered how to laugh.
Then it spoke — but not with words.
With Berou's voice.
"You left us behind, brother."
Berou staggered back.
No. Not from fear.
Recognition.
They hadn't just cloned him.
They had carved something from his discarded DNA. A failed iteration. A mockery. A weapon cast in his shadow — fed rage without memory, hatred without choice.
A mirror that screamed.
It lunged.
Berou blocked, but the force drove him through a wall. The Hollow Apostate slammed after him, claws slashing through concrete like paper. Its voice kept shifting — using fragments of Berou's memories, twisted and mocking.
"Why didn't you stay with us?"
Berou roared, armor locking into place. The Apostate's form flared with red-hot plates. But this new one — it matched him. Blow for blow. Blade for blade.
They clashed again.
Berou struck low. It dodged. It bit. He countered with both swords, slicing across its side. It shrieked — and laughed through the pain.
The Hollow Apostate didn't care about injury. It only knew obsession.
"You think pain makes you strong. You think purpose is earned. We were born broken. We were made to hate."
Berou's breath faltered. His knees dipped. The Hollow slammed him against a data-core pillar, cracking his rib.
"You're not special," it whispered.
Berou looked up — blood running from his mouth.
"I'm not special," he growled.
Then his wings exploded outward in a burst of black light.
"I'm just the one who got out."
He drove his sword through the Hollow's wing, twisting, pinning it mid-air.
Then, with his other blade, he carved upward from its gut to its neck in one brutal slash.
The Hollow Apostate convulsed — spasming violently — and let out a final, broken sound:
A child's cry.
Short. Empty.
Then it collapsed.
Breathing.
Still alive — but defeated.
Berou stood over it, chest heaving. His armor retracted slowly. Wounds stung. Bones throbbed. He wasn't invincible.
But he was awake.
"Asset 99 neutralized."
"Subject B-47 still operational. Tracking re-engaged."
The speakers crackled off.
Berou looked down at the thing beneath him.
Then whispered, "You were never me."
And turned away — limping deeper into the Abyss, where the real war waited.