"And this is exactly why I didn't want you to leave!" the young doctor shouted, nearly vibrating with frustration. Nurses hovered around Massiah, bandaging his left arm, where a blade had sliced clean through the wrist.
"I'm fine, doc," Massiah muttered from the bed, unfazed. "Nothing that hasn't happened before."
"You could've gotten infected. You could've lost your entire arm!" The doctor tugged off his glasses and began pacing around the room. "These patients are going to kill me."
Dahlia grit her teeth in the corner. She glanced at the nametag on his pocket—Dr. Franklin—then stepped forward. "Um... Doctor Franklin, I have something to tell you."
"You were with him, right?" Franklin pointed at Massiah without looking. "He listens to you guys. Tell him he's not INVINCIBLE, that if any of his limbs get infected, there's nothing we can—"
"That's what I wanted to say," Dahlia interrupted, holding out her hand.
Or what was left of it.
Two fingers were gone, cleanly severed. Only scabbing stumps remained where her ring and pinkie used to be. "I'm sorry."
Dr. Franklin froze. Then he was at her side in a heartbeat, gently taking her hand.
"No nerve endings... blood vessels are gone... did you bring the fingers? Are they in a sealed bag? On ice? Maybe we can—"
"We didn't bring them," Dahlia said softly.
Franklin turned around, walked to the far end of the room, and pressed both palms to his face. Then he started muttering. Loudly.
"Why are they all the same? Do they share one brain cell? Did they max out their pain tolerance when I wasn't looking? What do you mean you didn't bring your severed fingers—do you people think you're gonna resurrect after dying?! I swear, they're going to drive me off a cliff. I should just jump now, save myself the trouble—"
"Come this way, Dr. Franklin," one of the nurses said gently, taking him by the arm and leading him out. "It's okay. Everything's okay."
The door clicked shut behind them.
Dahlia turned to one of the nurses who remained—blue scrubs, warm eyes, a bandage tray in hand. "Is he going to be okay?"
"He'll be fine," the nurse replied with a weary chuckle, grabbing a fresh wad of cotton and a vial of alcohol. "It's just his first time dealing with this many injuries from people who act like health is optional."
"Is that... bad?"
"For those of us trying to keep you alive? It's hell. I almost fainted once when an exterminator left the hospital with a severed arm. Voluntarily."
"That's insane."
"Yeah. You people really ought to consider how we feel sometimes." She removed the strap around Dahlia's hand, then dipped the cotton in alcohol.
"Nurse?"
"Yes, sweetie?"
"...Will this hurt?"
She smiled.
"Not one bit."
She lied.
.......
Sabrina walked into the building just past two in the afternoon. On the way, she'd called some city workers, instructing them to begin sealing off the interrogation room and the adjacent relay chamber—both demolished by Knox's rampage.
She yawned, not out of fatigue, but from the sheer surge of energy running through her. A rare high. One she hadn't felt in a long time.
The halls were quiet as she moved through them, her heels echoing faintly against the metallic floors. Sunlight bled in through the glass-paneled corridor. Just outside, in the training yard, she caught sight of Theresa, Vladimir, Cillian, and the fifth grades—recruits that would one day become experienced exterminators, but for now.
It wasn't enough.
They were hemorrhaging second and third grades in this escalating war against the enhanced myutants. But what they needed were veterans, experienced exterminators with field-tested instincts. Not kids barely out of training.
But that's what they had.
Most of the recent recruits were underwhelming. A few promising talents, yes. But with their age and lack of real-world exposure, they were still years away from usefulness.
Sabrina turned the corner and stepped into her office, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft hiss.
She moved to her desk, dropped her handbag, and unloaded a stack of thick files she'd carried from home. Then she paused, just for a breath. A moment of silence before the mental chaos resumed.
The real problems weren't even local.
Beyond the Haven wars and the internal politics, the most pressing issue was what they didn't know. They had names: The masked man, the Crescent, whispers of augmentation and experiments. But no faces. No truths.
Names alone weren't intelligence. They were distractions without context.
She leaned back into the chair, arms folded, eyes shut.
How much time did they have?
She didn't know. No one did. That was the problem.
What was the scope of the threat in Winterglaides? If they were making human myutant's there, then how many had they made?
And once they were done—what then? What would be left of the Haven?
Was it important? Most likely not. But the location itself meant something.
Was it the temperature? The terrain? Or simply the lack of Exterminators in the area?
The last seemed unlikely, they hadn't shown a shred of fear. Not after Knox walked into their HQ and left with one of their own like it was nothing.
How much time did they even have left?
A week? A month? A year?
It was impossible to say. But one thing was clear:
The more time they wasted, the stronger their enemies became.
She needed to start reclaiming ground. Culling their forces, even if by inches. Reclaiming Ansel was critical. If they could recover him, and if he was taken again, it would confirm everything. His importance would be undeniable.
But for now, all she had were ifs and maybe's.
"I just got here and I'm already tired," Sabrina muttered to herself.
Then came the shuffle of feet behind her door. A knock.
"Enter."
Osiris stepped in, dressed in a loose black top and equally dark baggy cargos. A chain dangled from one of his knee pockets. In a world where the overcoat could mean the difference between life and death, he never seemed to wear one.
Sabrina looked at him. "Fancy clothes. What's the occasion? funeral chic?"
Osiris sat across from her. "What's the date for the expedition?"
"Still working on that."
"The longer we wait, the worse it'll be when we actually move."
"I know that." She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "But we need a proper team and a real plan. 'Fuck shit up' isn't a viable strategy anymore, not now that we know Knox and probably more of whatever they are exist."
"Who do you have?"
"Four squads. You're leading the first. Team one: You, Elendira, and Isolde."
Osiris tilted his head. "Ellie? After what happened? That bastard nearly killed her."
"I don't like it either," Sabrina admitted. "But she's one of the strongest we've got. No going around that."
Osiris leaned back, crossing his arms. "Then put Isolde on another team. I'm not going with her."
Sabrina narrowed her eyes. "Don't start this now. Just bear with it."
"No."
"You worked with Massiah to fight him, didn't you? What's the big deal?"
"And that's exactly why I lost," Osiris replied. "He used Massiah's blood to recharge himself. I had him—until then."
"Because of his mutation?"
"Most likely. Didn't seem like he could do it to me."
"In that case, shouldn't I also remove Elendira from your—"
"Ellie stays..." Osiris said, "Remove Juliana."
Sabrina sighed, turning back to the folder. "Second squad is Vladimir's. He's with Theresa and a substitute. Cillian can't fight anymore, now now he's lost an arm."
She flipped to another file. "Would've called up Cassandra, but since Isolde isn't joining you, she'll be filling the second squad instead."
"Who else?" Osiris asked.
"Squad three: Atalier, Dallas, and Parish. They're stable. Not the strongest, but they've always worked well together. Should support fine."
"And the last?"
"Squad Devereaux. Massiah and Dahlia up front. I'm thinking either Isidre or Cassandra to round them out."
"You sure about that?" Osiris raised a brow. "Massiah's fine, but his recruit? She'll get eaten alive."
"It's their teammate," Sabrina said. "I doubt they'd even listen if I told them to stay behind."
"That it?"
"That's everyone I could dig up. Two carriages, one per two group's. You and Atalier will each lead one."
"You're not adding Asmodeus?"
Sabrina leaned back, frowning. Asmodeus was the last of the first grades—strong, yes, but feral in every sense of the word. He didn't follow orders, didn't care about his teammates, and gave less than a damn about civilian safety. He was a weapon too unpredictable to aim.
"He's not the right call for this one," she said. "He can't work in a group. That much has been proven."
"I understand," Osiris said, standing. "I'll be enough anyway." He turned and began walking toward the door.
"You're still angry about what happened to Ellie?"
"Damn right I am." He paused at the threshold, hand on the doorknob, then glanced back. "When's the date?"
Sabrina exhaled through her nose. She had hoped he wouldn't ask that, not yet. She'd wanted time to evaluate the teams, assess their conditions. But like Osiris said, the longer they waited, the worse their odds became.
"Next week," she said.
Osiris nodded and stepped out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
All Sabrina could do now was wait, and pray that the team she'd assembled was enough. They needed a miracle this time. They needed the initiative.
And while the Winterglaides expedition might've finally been set in motion... one issue still loomed.
They had no map. No guide. No one who truly knew the haven.
No one... except Arsenal.
Sabrina grit her teeth and stood, hands clenching at her sides.
She didn't want to pull him back in. He had already given too much. But sending those teams in blind would be worse than reckless—it would be cruel.
This was leadership again. The kind she hated. The kind that demanded sacrifice, even when you knew the cost.
"At least I know why Ciaran was balding now."