Xander barely slept.
The city never truly went dark, not even in the lower levels. Synthetic sky panels flickered on a timer, dimming just enough to fake a circadian rhythm—but his mind churned far too fast for rest.
Echo-marked.
He replayed James's words in his head, over and over, like static on a loop. If that spell—if any spell—could imprint just by observation… what else was buried in his blood?
And what exactly had he awakened?
By morning, he was already moving through the cluttered main corridor of D13. Crowds passed him like a blur—workers, mercs, data-runners, rogue techsmiths. All chasing ghosts or survival. Everyone here was running from something.
He pulled his hood lower and merged into the flow. He had a destination. And a question burning in his gut:
If something had changed in him… how far back did it go?
He needed to find someone who dealt with hidden code and psychic signatures—someone off-grid, someone dangerous.
That meant only one thing: Lyra Emma.
She ran a semi-illegal whisper market on the far edge of Sector F, specializing in encrypted soultrace scans and stolen Corp artifacts. People called her "Vein Reader." She could look into your aura and tell you things you didn't even know you were hiding.
But more than that—she trusted Xander. Always had, even before she knew his name.
He had met her by accident during a salvage run gone wrong. She had been cornered by black market scouts who thought her data-rig was worth more than her life. Xander had stepped in, took a blade to the side for it. Since then, she never doubted him.
Even if he doubted himself.
The deeper he got into Sector F, the colder the air became. Not temperature—presence. The kind of cold that crept under skin and whispered at the back of your spine. Light panels grew scarce. The tunnels narrowed, buzzing with proximity alarms and low-power sentries.
Finally, he ducked through a gate carved with makeshift glyphs. The door opened into a room lit entirely by floating threads of neon sigils—bright green and spectral violet. There, sitting cross-legged on a fusion crate, was Lyra.
She didn't look up.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"I know," Xander replied.
"Something's bleeding through you," she murmured, finally lifting her eyes to meet his. "It's not fresh. It's old. Rotten. Like something remembered you before you were born."
Xander exhaled shakily. "I need a reading."
Lyra tapped her fingers in a strange sequence, and the sigils in the air responded—rotating slowly, rearranging into a ring around her. She motioned for him to step forward.
"Sit. And don't lie to me, Croft. I'll see it anyway."
Xander obeyed.
She placed her hands close to his temples, never quite touching. Her eyes glowed faintly. "This won't hurt, but… you'll feel watched."
"I already do."
She smiled briefly. Then the scan began.
For a moment, nothing. Then, a rush—like wind and cold glass slicing through his thoughts. Memories bent sideways. Time folded. His childhood flashed by, but not as he remembered it. Hidden behind old thoughts were shadows. Fractures in time. Moments he'd ignored but were never truly gone.
Then it hit.
An image—raw, like static caught in amber.
A pale room. Black wires woven into walls. A voice chanting ancient code. And a symbol—burning behind his eyes.
Lyra gasped and recoiled.
"What was that?" he demanded.
She looked shaken. "Your signature's layered, Xander. Like someone forced an echo onto your soul and bound it so deep even you forgot. Whatever spell you used last night? It didn't awaken your power. It broke a seal."
Xander's mouth went dry. "So I'm—"
"You're not just a mimic," Lyra said, standing. "You're a carrier. A vault. You've been storing forbidden code without even knowing it."
He rose slowly. "Then why now?"
"Because someone wants the vault open."
Before either could speak again, a warning glyph flared above the doorway.
They weren't alone.
Lyra's expression turned grim. She moved toward a drawer, pulled out a pulse pistol, and tossed another to Xander. "You were followed."
His stomach dropped. "Corp?"
"No. Worse."
The door cracked open—and three figures stepped in, wearing dark, ragged armor laced with red circuitry. One bore a crimson insignia Xander had only seen once before—burned into a console in the Rust Crypt.
They were agents of Thorne.
The tallest spoke. "Echo-Carrier. The Overseer welcomes you."
Lyra raised her weapon. "Not today."
The air snapped with tension—and then, all at once, it broke.
The first blast shredded the crate beside Xander. He ducked, rolled, fired instinctively. His mind lit up. A spellcode he hadn't learned raced across his vision—a trap glyph, marked by memory.
He cast it.
The floor surged with violet light and exploded upward. One attacker slammed into the ceiling and fell limp.
Lyra shot the second point-blank, green smoke trailing from her pistol.
Only the last remained—grinning with something between madness and hunger. "You think you can run from fate, little Vault?"
Xander surged forward, pipe in one hand, glyph forming in the other. He didn't cast it. He became it.
One clean strike—silent, final.
The man collapsed.
Silence fell.
Lyra glanced at the bodies. "You're not just a vault," she said softly. "You're a weapon."
Xander's jaw clenched. "I need to find out why."
She nodded. "Then we start where the circuit broke. You need to go back underground—deeper than before. Sector Zero."
Xander blinked. "That place's a myth."
Lyra's voice was grave. "So were you."