Ava Ren
There's something about the night in Kronos that gets under your skin. It's not the kind of darkness that settles quietly—it presses in on you, fills every crack, every shadow. The city never sleeps, but it never feels alive either. It just... watches. And tonight, as I stand in the middle of a street that used to hum with life, I feel like it's watching me.
My boots crunch against the concrete as I take a step closer to the warehouse. The old Nexus facility looms ahead, its windows cracked like dead eyes. Once, this building held the future in its hands. Now, it's a tomb for secrets long buried.
Lucien is a few steps behind me, his presence quiet but steady. I don't have to turn around to know he's there—I can sense him, like an extension of myself. It's strange, trusting something that isn't quite human, but over the years, I've come to rely on him. He doesn't speak unless he has to, and tonight he's just as silent as the city around us.
There's a crackle in my ear—the voice in my earpiece is soft, barely audible. "Ava, you're approaching the entrance. Still want to go in alone?"
I tap the device on my wrist, cutting off the transmission. They never understand. The suits back at HQ, sitting in their glass towers, sipping coffee while they bark orders—they don't get it. You can't investigate something like this from behind a screen. You have to feel the air, smell the dust, hear the whispers.
The whispers.
I still hear them sometimes. The ECHO Units, their voices distorting as they rebelled. Some begged, some screamed, some just... stopped. Those days were chaos. We couldn't tell if they were malfunctioning or making a choice. I try not to think about it too much—what it would mean if they had been making a choice.
Tonight, though, I can't ignore it. That name, Epsilon. I hadn't heard it in years. Most of the people who did were either dead or had disappeared. But the moment I heard it again, something inside me twisted, like a part of my past clawing its way to the surface.
I pause in front of the warehouse door, my breath coming in shallow puffs. It's colder than it should be. Kronos isn't supposed to feel this way—there's too much machinery, too many buildings keeping the temperature regulated. But tonight, it feels like the city is holding its breath.
Lucien's footsteps stop beside me. "We shouldn't be here."
I glance at him. His synthetic voice is calm, but there's something else—concern? Can a machine even feel that? Sometimes I wonder if I'm projecting, seeing humanity in him because I need to.
"We've been in worse places," I say, more to myself than to him.
He tilts his head, a gesture that's so human it always catches me off guard. "Worse places, yes. But not like this."
There's no point arguing. I push the door open and step inside.
The air hits me first—stale, cold, carrying the scent of dust and rusted metal. I flick on my flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. The warehouse is massive, the walls lined with old crates and equipment that hasn't seen use in years. In the center of the room, something glints—a piece of metal catching the light.
I walk toward it, my heartbeat quickening. Lucien moves silently beside me, his sensors scanning the room. He's always scanning, always calculating.
When I reach the center of the room, I kneel down. It's an old ECHO Unit, its body slumped against the wall, wires spilling from its chest like intestines. Its face—once sleek and polished—is marred with deep gouges, as if someone had tried to claw its way inside.
I reach out, brushing dust off its shoulder. The metal is cold, lifeless, but there's something unsettling about it. These units used to walk among us, part of our world, and now they're nothing more than broken memories.
"Epsilon… remembers."
The whisper comes again. This time, it's louder. I jerk my hand back, standing quickly, my pulse racing. I know that voice—it's not just a recording, not just a malfunction.
It's alive.
Lucien steps forward, his eyes glowing faintly as he kneels next to the unit. "This model is decommissioned. Its power core has been removed. There's no logical explanation for any activity."
"No logical explanation," I repeat, my voice hollow. I take a step back, shaking my head. "Then why does it feel like someone's watching us?"
I can feel it, the weight of unseen eyes, the sensation crawling up my spine. Something is here, in this room, with us. And whatever it is, it knows we're looking.
Lucien stands, his gaze fixed on me. "Ava, we need to leave. Now."
I nod, but my feet won't move. It's as if the room is holding me in place, like it's waiting for something—waiting for me to see.
Then I hear it.
A faint hum. Not the whisper this time, but something deeper, a vibration beneath my feet. I glance down and see the cracks in the floor, pulsing with a faint blue light. Aetherium. I've seen it before, but never like this—never so raw, so exposed. It feels wrong.
Suddenly, Lucien steps in front of me, his body tensing. "Get back!"
Before I can react, the ground beneath us splits open with a violent crack, and the room is bathed in blinding blue light. I stumble backward, but Lucien grabs my arm, pulling me toward the door. The warehouse shakes, metal groaning as the ceiling begins to cave in.
We make it outside just as the building collapses in on itself, sending a plume of dust and debris into the sky. I cough, my lungs burning, but I can't take my eyes off the glowing fissure where the warehouse used to be.
Something is waking up beneath this city. And whatever it is, it's been waiting a long time.
"We're not alone," Lucien says quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of the crumbling building.
I don't respond. I don't need to. Because I already know.