Lina ran.
Not to fight. She wasn't suicidal.
She ran because she knew what they were—and worse, because they knew her.
Her boots scraped across fractured concrete, loose gravel biting the edges of her stride.
The old rebel jacket flared behind her, half-zipped like always—too stubborn to fasten it, too proud to replace it.
She was seventeen, maybe eighteen. Not tall, but built with the kind of wiry strength that came from climbing old scaffold towers and hauling salvage across rooftops.
Short black hair clung damp against her forehead, cut uneven—like it had been chopped in haste, not style.
A scar cut through her left eyebrow, healed bad.
One glove was missing. Her fingers bled anyway.
The chain at her neck rattled with every breath.
She wasn't fast. But she didn't trip.
And she never looked back.
Three Seraphs had descended without warning.
No words. No mercy. Just that awful hum—the kind that didn't buzz in your ears, but settled in your teeth, in your bones.
They weren't orbs, or drones. They were humanoid—tall, seamless, alloyed like statues made of rules. From a distance, you might've mistaken them for angels: wingframes folding with geometric precision, gold light pulsing from vents hidden beneath their armor. They hovered inches above the ground—never walking, never rushed. Just... moving. Like something had already decided the outcome, and they were merely delivering it.
To most, their presence was a kind of liturgy.
Aurelion's judgment didn't shout. It arrived in silence, radiant and holy.
People didn't run from Seraphs.
They knelt.
Or they vanished.
The blades came for her.
Slow. Not wild.
One passed quite far from her shoulder—but hot enough to raise goosebumps, bright enough to burn a scar into her sight.
Another split the pavement behind her, carving a line clean through concrete.
Still, they missed.
She felt lucky.
Maybe these were older models—slower.
She'd seen the robes before—the immaculate lines, the silence that felt like watching, the way they held still like the moment before a hymn.
She twisted around a corner, feet slipping across cracked concrete, lungs raw with each breath. The chain at her neck rattled faintly with her stride—soft, irregular, almost lost in the chaos.
A shockblade hissed past, carving into a rusted railing just ahead—not close enough to hit, just close enough to remind her.
She dove behind a rusted coolant barrel, shoulder slamming hard into metal, blood blooming behind her teeth.
[ SYSTEM SCAN: LIVE FEED / SECTOR NINE ]
ENTITY: HUMAN (UNREGISTERED / ORGANIC)
THREAT LEVEL: CRITICAL
VIABILITY SCORE: NULL / ERROR 217
ACTION: SUBJECT FLAGGED FOR DEEP INTEGRATION EVALUATION
A burst of distorted audio cracked past her ear—somewhere behind her, one of the Seraphs voicing system chatter, sharp and mechanical.
She didn't catch it all. But she heard two words, clear as glass:
"Integration valuation in progress."
She'd heard it before.
Not in briefings—those talked about "ascension candidates" and "faith realignment."
But in the spaces between:
Halls between classes, corners no one watched too long.
Whispers about low scorers—how some were "offered" after the second audit.
"The world is broken," the Church said.
"But Aurelion walks beside those who fall behind."
If your metrics dropped too far, you were nominated.
Not arrested. Not warned. Just gone.
And the system called it mercy.
"A higher purpose."
"Chosen for the Inner Chorus."
"They found harmony beyond the grid."
Some said they were uploaded—
preserved, dispersed, dissolved.
No messages. No visits. No return.
Only silence, and a sealed envelope for the families.
Sometimes a coin.
Sometimes a small flame-etched medallion, wrapped in prayer silk and tucked into an envelope bearing the seal of Aurelion.
No return address.
No room for questions.
And people didn't ask.
Instead, they clung to the message:
She was called.
He must've been worthy.
The system doesn't take people without reason.
Aurelion sees the full pattern—we don't.
Rehearsed so many times, they passed for faith.
Swallowed like ritual.
Lina had heard them all—
From instructors, from neighbors, even from classmates barely older than her:
"Keep your head down."
"Don't be clever."
"Stay balanced. Obedience is protection."
And maybe it worked.
For a while.
But that didn't mean it ever felt true.
Once.
A boy—she never learned his name—dragged backward into a transport while his mother screamed, her voice cracking as the doors sealed.
The next day, the school held a moment of silence.
Aurelic light played on the walls.
They called it "Departure."
No one said his name again.
Not officially.
Not even in whispers.
So when Lina heard the word Integration,
her body reacted before her brain could argue.
The silence.
The sealed doors.
The way no one came back.
And now—
it was her turn.
She remembered what Kai told her.
Not in class. Not in public.
But late—between relay assignments, sitting on a half-collapsed rooftop with static hissing in the comms and a stolen protein bar between them.
"You ever wonder why we never get exit reports?" he'd said.
"No one graduates from integration. They just... leave clean slots on the grid."
She hadn't answered then.
Just stared at the horizon and told herself it was paranoia.
But Kai had always seen further than she did.
And when he said, quietly,
"They don't want you smart. They want you faithful."
She knew.
Deep down, she knew.
That was the night he told her about the resistance.
Not the slogans. Not the firespray graffiti or encrypted drop-sites.
Just people—watching the patterns, counting the disappearances, keeping names alive.
"You're not ready," Kai had said. Not harsh—just tired. "You still have options. A clean record. Decent marks. You could've stayed in school, kept your head down."
"For what?" Lina had asked. "So I can grow up just enough to get my score and to be categorized?"
He didn't answer.
"You think I don't see what happens behind the audit doors?" she went on. "I've seen the removals. The name wipes."
"And I'm trying to keep you off those lists."
"By doing nothing?"
Her voice didn't rise. But something in it cracked.
"Sitting still while people are gone—that's what kills me."
Kai looked away.
"Right." She said. "Because sitting on my hands while the world burns is so much safer."
And after that, they both knew it was already decided.
Even if he never said it out loud—
he already knew how much time she didn't have.
And she already knew silence was just another kind of permission.
Lina's heart slammed against her ribs as she skidded around another corner, boots nearly losing traction on the broken pavement. She didn't dare glance back. She could already feel their presence closing the distance, the faint hum of energy blades growing louder.
One hand fumbled at her collar, tapping twice on the comm node Kai had wired into her jacket, the old rebel frequency still embedded in muscle memory. "Kai, do you read?" she rasped, voice cracking.
She remembered what Kai had said that morning.
"Relax, Lina—it's routine. Just a simple grid check through Sector Nine."
He'd smiled, gentle but tired. "That area's been quiet for months. Take the long route, clear your head. You need a break."
They always said things like that—as if simple errands in safe zones were all she could handle.
But now—
No pulse. Just silence—dead air and empty sky.
If help was coming, it wouldn't be now. She was on her own.
Somewhere in the static, a low burst of distortion cracked—brief, glitchy, unnoticed. She didn't hear it.
A flicker of gold knifed through the corner of her vision slowly.
She dove and hit the ground hard, rolled, forced herself back up.
"Seriously?" she coughed, dragging herself behind a coolant drum. "Three shiny angels and none of you can land a shot?
She spat rust.
Maybe blood.
"Or is that not the game, huh? Just chase the rat 'til it bites itself?"
They were gaining. No footsteps. Just that cold hum.
She pushed forward, but they were already adjusting. One blink later, and one of them reappeared in front of her path, cutting off the alley entirely.
No way out.
She wasn't ready to die here. Not like this.
Her fingers found the sidearm—scratched, unstable, barely above scrap.
But it was still hers.
She didn't hesitate.
Turning, she raised it with both hands, bracing her stance the way she was taught—feet staggered, shoulders square—and emptied the entire clip in one fast pull, squeezing the trigger until it clicked dry.
Bolts of searing blue light lanced through the dark, slamming into the nearest Seraph's chest and shoulder. But the armor held. The machine barely flinched.
A flicker of steam rose where the impact scorched the outer plating, nothing more.
The pistol powered down with a soft whine, spent and useless.
Panic tightened around her lungs, but she moved anyway—threw the pistol aside, grabbed the nearest shard of concrete, and hurled it backward in one desperate arc with a half-choked yell.
It hit center mass.
Bounced off.
Did nothing.
It didn't flinch from the impact. But it recalibrated—hesitated, just long enough. Not from pain. Maybe from surprise?
And that was all she needed.
She ducked behind a scorched bench frame, slapped the comm at her collar hard enough to bruise her knuckles, breath short and furious.
"∆–092, in pursuit—three Seraphs. Someone get their ears on."
Her voice cracked, but her teeth didn't.
"I need backup. I need something. Kai—if you're out there, now would be a damn good time."
Nothing.
No echo. Only the sound of her own breathing.
She swore under her breath, then wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her bleeding hand.
"Figures," she muttered. "Of course it's me alone again."
The fight had been anything but quiet—enough noise to wake even the deepest sleepers. Their base wasn't far. A few miles at most.
So why hadn't they answered?
Was the base under attack too?
Even then, there should've been something.
Lina didn't want to think it—not yet. But part of her already was.
Then—a sound, faint but sharp, cracked through the stillness like a snapped thread—distant gunfire, ricocheting off unseen structures somewhere near the old comm line, in the direction of the base.
Panic went white-hot. Her body wanted to run, but there was nowhere left.
The nearest Seraph tilted its head—a gesture too fluid, too exact. Like a programmed mimicry of instinct.
Then it stepped forward.
She cursed under her breath, lungs burning, iron and dust in her mouth.
No illusions—she wasn't here to win. Just to delay.
Just to breathe long enough for help that might never come.
The Seraphs kept advancing.
She ran toward the base, clinging to the hope that someone might still be there. It was still out of sight, somewhere beyond the haze and broken skyline. The gunfire meant something was happening. A fight. Or maybe a trap.
And if there were people still breathing when she got there, she was going to help them..
Then the air split—not with the clinical hum of a Seraph's weapon, but with something raw. Human. A sharp, stuttering crack of gunfire echoed from beyond the ridge, skipping across broken rooftops and glass-strewn streets. It faltered at first, then steadied, then escalated—rapid, uneven, close.
Lina froze because she knew that sound.
It was the direction of the base.
Another burst followed, louder this time, carried on a wind that reeked of scorched metal and something sharper—plasma, maybe, or smoke. It twisted in her lungs.
A shadow flickered to her left—too close. The nearest Seraph was already moving, blade glowing gold as it angled down—slow, deliberate.
Panic surged, white-hot and paralyzing. Her body screamed to run, but her legs wouldn't move—frozen between instinct and the absence of options. Her chest locked tight. There was no cover. No exit. Just the cold certainty of an end she couldn't outrun.
And still—it didn't strike.
The Seraph stepped forward, smooth and measured, like time wasn't a factor. Its movements were precise, deliberate, almost... cautious.
Lina stared up at it, breath jagged, heart hammering.
The machine didn't speak. Didn't flinch. But its eyes glowed—sharp and narrow, burning red like a lens set to observe, not strike. Not yet. Like a predator in a cage it built itself, waiting for a signal she couldn't hear.
A faint ripple of light passed over her body—subtle, almost weightless. Her skin prickled.
[ SCAN: NEURAL STRESS INDEX — ACTIVE ]
[ CORTICAL RESPONSE: 87% — ELEVATED THRESHOLD ]
[ LIMBIC VOLATILITY: FLUCTUATING ]
[ SUBJECT RESPONSE: NON-COMPLIANT / UNSTABLE ]
[ RECOMMENDATION: OBSERVE — DO NOT ENGAGE ]
It was watching her too closely. Not just tracking. Studying.
Like it needed something from her before it moved.
The realization struck deeper than fear.
Her breath caught. That chill down her spine wasn't panic anymore—it was recognition.
They hadn't come to kill her.
Not immediately.
And that made it worse.
They weren't supposed to be here—not now, and certainly not in Sector Nine. This district had long fallen off the system's radar, left to crumble under its own weight while those in power watched from a distance, perfectly content to let the rot spread without getting their hands dirty. Security sweeps were rare, and when they did happen, they were shallow, symbolic at best—never with force, never with precision, and never with Seraph-class units.
But tonight, three of them had arrived. High-grade, combat-optimized, and silent as judgment, they dropped from the sky in flawless formation, and moved like they'd been assigned one task only.
Lina wasn't important. She was barely a name on a forgotten registry.
So why send three apex units for her?
This wasn't routine.
And it didn't feel like a kill order, either.
Not completely.
She was on her feet—barely. Every breath scraped her throat raw, her legs trembled beneath her, and her vision blurred at the edges. She couldn't tell if it was the sprint, the adrenaline crash, or the slow, gnawing terror of not knowing why they were after her—or what they wanted her alive for.
Then—a voice cracked through the comm node at her collar. Not static. Not silence. A rupture. Sudden and sharp, like glass breaking through a sealed room.
"Lina," the voice said—low, male, steady. Not Kai.
Not anyone she recognized.
The signal stuttered once, warped by a faint digital hiss—like something fighting its way through jamming fields.
"You need to listen," it continued. "Don't go back to the base."
The Seraph loomed above her now, blade raised—golden, precise, emotionless.
"No," she whispered. The word came out dry. Brittle.