It started with a tremor.
Lana felt it through the soles of her shoes—subtle, like a subway train passing far below. The gala's glass walls shivered in their frames. Someone nearby laughed nervously, thinking it was the champagne. But Lana's body knew better. Her blood moved differently. It pulled toward something old.
Then the first scream pierced the champagne-glazed air.
A man near the back—one of Lysander's investors—dropped his glass. His hands spasmed, joints popping. His skin blanched and rippled. Bones cracked beneath his suit. His pupils dilated until his eyes were full black.
A woman shrieked.
Then a second man fell. And a third.
"Shit," Jason whispered beside her, voice gone tight. "Specter dropped it. She actually dropped it."
"Dropped what?" Lana asked, even though she knew.
Jason didn't answer. He pulled a silver pen from his pocket, flicked the cap—revealing a thumbprint sensor—and pressed it to his palm.
Across the gala, vents snapped open. Thin fog hissed down from the ceiling—sharp and sweet, tinged with something synthetic. The Red Protocol had begun.
Too late.
One of Kieran's personal guards—Evren—let out a guttural growl. His mouth twisted sideways. His jacket tore at the seams. He dropped to all fours as fur surged over his spine, eyes glowing neon gold.
Guests screamed. The symphony cut off mid-measure.
And then the center floor cracked open.
Lysander stepped back with a smoothness that didn't match the chaos. His expression didn't change. Not fear. Not surprise.
Kieran was gone.
Lana spun—searching. Scanning.
She found him on the catwalk above, watching everything unfold.
And then he moved.
He didn't leap.
He dropped.
Thirty feet. Straight down. Into the swarm.
The impact cracked the marble.
Kieran rose.
Not like a man. Not anymore.
His face was still his—but stretched. Elongated. A bone crest had formed down the bridge of his nose, and from his shoulders rose curling ridges of hardened cartilage like the beginnings of antlers. His hands were claws. His chest had torn his shirt clean off, every inch sculpted in muscle and armor-like fur.
When he looked at Lana, his eyes glowed like melted metal.
He didn't speak.
He roared.
And then he launched himself into the crowd.
Kieran didn't hold back.
The first enforcer he reached was half-shifted, attacking a civilian. Kieran's claws tore through his chest in a single stroke. Blood sprayed across the wall like ink. The civilian screamed, fell—and was gone from Kieran's mind.
He turned.
Another hybrid lunged from behind the bar. Kieran ducked low, grabbed the attacker's waist, and flipped him mid-air, spine first into the glass sculpture centerpiece. The crash rang like bells.
Suits scattered. Someone fired a sidearm—three shots. One hit Kieran in the shoulder.
He turned. Slowly. The bullet clinked against the ground, flattened.
He walked through the fog.
The shooter ran.
Above, Lana pushed through the smoke.
Jason was at her side, typing furiously on a portable terminal wired into his watch.
"They're trying to seal the footage," he muttered. "But Specter hardwired an external feed. Broadcast to fifteen secure nodes, including someone at Interpol. She's not playing games."
"Can you kill it?"
"I can reroute it. But she'll know. And she'll come for me."
"I'll deal with her," Lana said.
Jason looked up. "You sure you're still just human?"
Then the lights exploded.
From the wreckage of the chandelier, Specter dropped.
She landed on the stage where the podium had stood. Her coat was gone. Her arms were bare—scars like chemical burns trailed down to her knuckles. Her eyes gleamed red in the chaos.
"Your queen bows to no one," she said.
The crowd froze. What was left of it.
She looked straight at Kieran.
"You let her die," she said. "And you let the rest of us rot."
Kieran charged.
She met him halfway.
Their collision shattered sound.
Kieran struck first—left hook, clawed, wide. Specter ducked, spun, raked her nails across his ribs. Sparks flew. He grabbed her wrist—she broke his grip with a sharp twist and jammed her elbow into his throat.
He staggered.
She grinned.
He came again, faster.
This time they traded three strikes each—elbow, knee, claw, palm. Each hit thudded like war drums. They moved too fast for human eyes.
Lana watched, heart in her throat. Not from fear—but awe.
They were beautiful.
And terrible.
Kieran's beast snarled. "You think chaos makes you strong?"
Specter whispered, "It makes me real."
She headbutted him.
He bit her shoulder.
They crashed into the back wall, shattering part of the stage.
And then Lana stepped between them.
Her hand went up.
She didn't speak. Didn't shout.
But both of them stopped.
Specter's head turned slowly.
"Look who's blooming," she said.
Lana's eyes burned gold. Not fully. Not the same. But there was no denying the light.
"I'm not here to bloom," Lana said.
"I'm here to burn."
She stepped forward.
Specter's smile didn't falter.
"Then you'd better start with the files they kept below Lab Nine."
And then she vanished.
Not into smoke. Not into vents.
She blinked out of existence.
Like a glitch.
The room spun. Sirens began to echo from the lower floors. Neural suppressants released through vents—a cold chemical that bit the back of the throat.
Several hybrids collapsed. One screamed until his voice cracked. Another tried to shift back and snapped his own spine.
Kraven appeared, hair loose, lab coat torn, dragging a stun rifle behind her.
She looked at Kieran. At Lana.
"Protocol held," she said. "Just barely. And you—you're all going to answer for this."
Kieran didn't respond.
He knelt beside Lana.
His body had begun to return to human form. Scars stitched closed in seconds.
He took her hand.
"You shouldn't have stepped in," he said.
She squeezed his fingers.
"Neither should you."
Backstage, the board room burned.
Not literally—but in metaphor. Members screamed at each other. Lysander was gone. Jason had vanished. The footage had been contained—but not erased. Someone would talk.
Kieran stared at the black screen where Specter had appeared.
"She's after the LC-07 file," he said. "The real one. Not the blank we gave you."
Lana nodded.
"I figured."
Kraven slapped a data pad on the table.
"She's already broken into two sublevels and corrupted five biometric locks. If she gets to the Red Room, it's over."
Kieran looked at Lana.
"You want to be queen?" he asked.
She met his eyes.
"Then come rule with me. Now."
In the underground access tunnel to Lab Nine, the walls dripped condensation. Emergency lights flickered red and green. Alarms still buzzed from deep inside the wiring.
Jason was waiting.
He held a torch in one hand and a blood-soaked wrist wrap in the other.
"You're bleeding," Lana said.
He shook his head. "Not mine."
She stared.
Jason sighed.
"I'm not like you," he said. "But I'm not nothing either. Evelyn planted me here. In case things went nuclear."
Lana's lips parted. "You were her last move?"
Jason smiled, tired.
"I was her last bet."
He reached behind the wall and flipped a hidden switch. A door opened—black and humming.
"I can get you into the Red Room," he said. "But once we cross that line—there's no more pretending. Noctis won't protect you. Kieran won't be able to stop what's coming."
Lana stepped forward.
"Then let's see what they were so afraid I'd find."
They walked into the dark.
Inside the Red Room, the air buzzed like a living thing.
Vaults lined the walls, each glowing faintly. Cylinders pulsed with blue light. Cryo units, filled with fetal forms in various stages of mutation. Genetic charts floated mid-air on suspended screens.
Lana's breath caught.
Each one was labeled: LC-01 through LC-06.
Then she saw the last.
LC-07: PROTOTYPE OMEGA
Inside, a fetus that didn't look like any of them. Not human. Not wolf. Something else. Scaled. Crowned with bone. Asleep. Waiting.
Jason whispered, "That's not a sister."
Lana's pulse thundered.
"No," she said.
"That's the heir."