Sleep wouldn't come.

  Elias lay in the darkness of their makeshift shelter—a hollow carved into Floor 8's organic walls, barely large enough for two people and a ghost—and stared at nothing. His body was exhausted, every muscle aching from the fight, from the flight, from the constant tension of moving through enemy territory. But his mind refused to quiet.

  The fight played on repeat behind his eyes.

  The lead Capillary raising his blade. The moment of decision, that split-second choice between negotiation and violence. The way the spear had moved in his hands, finding the wrist, opening the artery with surgical precision. The spray of blood, hot and red, painting the tunnel wall.

  He'd killed before. In Afghanistan, when insurgents had ambushed his medical convoy. In Syria, when the hospital had been overrun and he'd had to choose between dying with his patients or fighting his way out. Violence wasn't new to him.

  But this had been different.

  In those other fights, he'd been reacting. Responding to immediate threats, operating on instinct and adrenaline, doing what survival demanded in the moment. The Capillaries had given him time to think. Time to choose. Time to decide, with cold calculation, that killing three men was preferable to paying their toll.

  He'd made that choice.

  And he'd been right to make it—the Siphoners would have taken everything, would have taken Mira, would have taken him and left Lira to dissolve in the darkness without her anchor. There had been no good option, only gradations of terrible.

  But the rightness of the decision didn't make the memory easier.

  He kept seeing the last Capillary's face. The one who'd surrendered, who'd dropped his weapons, who'd said please with blood streaming down his chest. The one Elias had killed anyway, because leaving witnesses was stupid, because the man would have told others, because mercy in the Tower was a luxury he couldn't afford.

  Please. I was just following orders.

  How many soldiers had said that, throughout history? How many people had participated in atrocities because someone above them had demanded it? The Capillary hadn't been innocent—he'd been part of a system that preyed on vulnerable Climbers, that kept people as livestock, that treated human beings as resources to be harvested. He'd made his choices.

  But so had Elias.

  And the distance between them felt smaller than it should have.

  "You're thinking too loud."

  Mira's voice came from the darkness, quiet but alert. She hadn't been sleeping either—Elias could see her through Blood-Sight, her circulatory system pulsing with the elevated rhythm of someone fully awake.

  "Sorry."

  "Don't apologize. Just... stop." She shifted, sitting up against the wall. "You're going to drive yourself insane replaying it. Trust me. I know."

  "You've done this before." It wasn't a question. He'd seen the way she'd watched him during the fight—not with horror, but with recognition. With the calm assessment of someone who understood exactly what she was seeing.

  "Twice. Three times, depending on how you count." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "The first time was an accident. A Climber attacked me on Floor 4, and I defended myself. He fell wrong, hit his head. Dead before I could even process what happened."

  "And the others?"

  "Not accidents." She was quiet for a moment. "After the Siphoners took Kara, I spent two weeks hunting for information. Found a Capillary who knew something. He didn't want to talk at first."

  The implication hung in the air between them.

  "Did you get what you needed?"

  "Some of it. Enough to know that Kara was still alive, being held somewhere between Floors 12 and 14. Not enough to find her." Mira's voice hardened. "The second one was a lookout. Saw me coming and tried to run. I couldn't let him warn the others."

  Elias absorbed this, adding it to his understanding of who Mira was. A survivor. A hunter. Someone who'd already crossed the lines he was just beginning to approach.

  "Does it get easier?"

  "No." The word was immediate, unequivocal. "You just get better at carrying it. The weight doesn't change, but your shoulders get stronger." She paused. "That's not comfort, I know. But it's the truth. And in here, truth is more useful than comfort."

  "My daughter is a ghost," Elias said quietly. "The truth stopped being useful a long time ago."

  Mira didn't respond to that. But when Elias finally closed his eyes, attempting something like rest, he thought he heard her whisper something under her breath.

  It sounded like I know what that's like.

  They moved at first light—or what passed for first light in the endless darkness of the Deep Tunnels. Floor 9 was worse than Floor 8, the passages narrower and more treacherous, the organic walls slick with secretions that burned when touched.

  And there were nests.

  Elias saw the first one through Blood-Sight—a cluster of small signatures grouped together in a side chamber, motionless but clearly alive. He signaled for Mira to stop, pressing himself against the wall, watching the signatures pulse with slow, sleeping rhythms.

  "Bile Lurkers," he breathed. "A dozen at least. Maybe more."

  "Juveniles?" Mira's whisper was barely audible.

  "Can't tell. The blood volume is smaller than the one I fought, but that could be size or it could be age." He studied the nest, mapping its boundaries through the organic material. "They're in a chamber off the main passage. If we're quiet, we might be able to slip past."

  "And if they wake up?"

  "Then we run and hope they're slower than us."

  They crept forward, every step measured, every breath controlled. The passage curved around the nest chamber, bringing them within ten feet of the sleeping creatures. Through Blood-Sight, Elias could see individual Lurkers now—smaller than the one he'd killed, but still dangerous. Their circulatory systems pulsed in near-perfect synchronization, a colony heartbeat that spoke of some kind of hive connection.

  Lira drifted beside him, dimmed to near-invisibility, her silence perfect. She understood, somehow, that this was life or death—that the creatures beyond the wall would tear them apart if given the chance.

  Five feet. Three. The passage curved away from the nest, the signatures fading in his vision as distance increased.

  They were going to make it.

  A Lurker stirred.

  Elias froze, watching through Blood-Sight as one of the creatures shifted in its sleep. Its heartbeat accelerated—dreaming, maybe, or responding to some stimulus he couldn't perceive. For one terrible moment, he was certain it would wake, certain it would alert the others, certain the next few seconds would be filled with chitinous limbs and snapping mandibles.

  The Lurker settled.

  They kept moving.

  The rest of Floor 9 passed in a blur of tension and careful navigation. Twice more they encountered Lurker signatures—individuals rather than nests, but dangerous enough on their own. Each time, Elias guided them around, using Blood-Sight to map routes through the darkness that avoided conflict entirely.

  It wasn't heroic. It wasn't impressive. But it was survival, and that was enough.

  They found Kael on the transition stairs between Floor 9 and Floor 10.

  He was young—maybe twenty, with dark hair matted by blood and a face that might have been handsome before pain had twisted it into a mask of suffering. He sat slumped against the wall, one hand pressed to his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers in a slow but steady flow.

  Through Blood-Sight, the wound was obvious: a penetrating injury to the abdomen, deep enough to threaten internal organs, fresh enough that the bleeding hadn't stopped. Without treatment, he'd be dead within hours.

  "Please." The young man's voice was weak, thready with blood loss. "Please help me. I can't—I can't feel my legs."

  Elias was moving before he made a conscious decision, his medical training overriding the paranoia that the Tower had instilled. He knelt beside the wounded Climber, gently moving his hand away from the injury, assessing the damage with practiced efficiency.

  "What happened?"

  "Creature. In the tunnels." Kael's words came in gasps. "Came out of nowhere. I tried to fight, but—" He broke off, coughing, blood flecking his lips. "My team. We got separated. I don't know if they—"

  "Don't try to talk." Elias was already pulling supplies from his pack—the medical kit, carefully rationed but adequate for this. "Mira, I need light."

  She produced the fuel capsule, igniting it to provide illumination for the procedure. In its blue glow, the wound looked even worse—a jagged tear across the lower abdomen, intestines visible through the damage, contamination already beginning.

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  "This is going to hurt," Elias said. "A lot. I don't have proper anesthesia, and the procedure I need to do isn't gentle. Do you understand?"

  "Just save me." Kael's eyes were wild with fear. "Please. I don't want to die here."

  Elias worked.

  The procedure was brutal by any civilian standard—emergency surgery without sterilization, without proper tools, without any of the safeguards that modern medicine took for granted. He cleaned the wound as best he could, repositioned the exposed intestines, closed the abdominal wall with sutures that were adequate but far from ideal.

  Kael screamed.

  He screamed until his voice gave out, then whimpered, then fell silent as shock overwhelmed his system. His circulatory indicators fluctuated wildly in Elias's Blood-Sight—heart rate spiking, blood pressure dropping, the precursors to complete system failure.

  "Stay with me," Elias ordered. "You don't get to die. Not after I spent good supplies keeping you alive."

  The words were harsh, but they had the intended effect. Kael's eyes focused, some spark of determination kindling in their depths. He clung to consciousness through sheer will, riding out the pain as Elias finished the closure and applied pressure bandages to control the remaining bleeding.

  "Done." Elias sat back, exhaustion pulling at his limbs. "You're not going to be running any races, but you'll live. Assuming the wound doesn't get infected."

  "Thank you." Kael's voice was barely a whisper. "I don't—I can't—"

  "You can thank me by surviving. That's all the payment I want."

  Mira watched from a few feet away, her expression unreadable. Lira hovered near the ceiling, observing the procedure with the fascination of a child who didn't fully understand what she was seeing but knew it was important.

  "My name's Kael," the young man said after a long moment. "Kael Vorn. I was climbing with a group—five of us, from the same settlement. We made it to Floor 8 together, but then..." He swallowed. "The Siphoners found us. Red cloaks, demanding tribute. We tried to run."

  "What happened to the others?"

  "I don't know. We scattered when they attacked. I went one way, they went another. I kept running until I couldn't run anymore, and then that thing found me." His eyes went distant, haunted. "I tried to fight. I really did. But I'm not—I'm not like you. I'm not a warrior."

  "Neither am I," Elias said. "I'm a doctor."

  "You could've fooled me." Kael looked at the bloody dressings on his stomach. "The way you just did that... you've done this before. A lot."

  "Combat medicine. Different context, same skills." Elias began packing his supplies. "Can you walk?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. With help."

  "Then we'll help. There's a rest station on Floor 10—not far now. We get you there, you can recover properly. Maybe find your friends."

  "Why?" The question came out suspicious, wary. "Why are you helping me? You don't know me. I could be anyone."

  "You could be." Elias met the young man's eyes. "But you're not a Siphoner—wrong age, wrong bearing, wrong wounds. And you're not a threat, not in the state you're in. So either you're exactly what you appear to be—a scared kid who got in over his head—or you're the most convincing actor I've ever met."

  "I'm not acting."

  "Then we have no problem."

  They got Kael to his feet, supporting him between them as they climbed the final stairs to Floor 10. The young man was heavier than he looked, his body dead weight in places where pain had overridden muscle control, but they managed.

  The transition membrane opened onto something unexpected.

  Light. Actual, visible light, streaming down from bioluminescent formations that covered the ceiling in patterns that almost resembled windows. A cavern, smaller than the station on Floor 5 but still substantial, filled with tents and structures and the movement of people going about their lives.

  Rest Station Beta.

  WELCOME TO REST STATION BETA

  FLOOR 10 — NEUTRAL TERRITORY

  VIOLENCE PROHIBITED (SYSTEM ENFORCED)

  SERVICES AVAILABLE: Trading, Transfusion, Circuit Installation

  NOTE: Station marks boundary of Siphoner primary territory. Exercise caution when departing.

  "We made it," Mira breathed. "I wasn't sure we would."

  "Never doubted it for a second," Elias lied.

  They found a medic station near the center of the settlement—a tent staffed by Climbers who'd chosen healing over fighting, trading their services for blood and supplies. Elias transferred Kael into their care, explaining the surgery he'd performed, leaving instructions for follow-up treatment.

  "You did good work," the lead medic said, examining the sutures. "Better than most. You trained?"

  "Trauma surgeon. Before."

  "Useful skill." The medic looked at him with new respect. "If you ever want to stop climbing, we could use someone like you here."

  "I can't stop." Elias glanced at Lira, hovering near the tent's entrance. "I have reasons to keep going."

  The Altar on Floor 10 was different from the one on Floor 5—larger, more complex, its surface covered in patterns that might have been writing or might have been something else entirely. It pulsed with a deeper rhythm, a heartbeat that resonated in Elias's chest.

  He approached it with purpose, reviewing his options, calculating what he could afford.

  TRANSFUSION ALTAR — READY

  AVAILABLE BLOOD: 6.2 L

  AVAILABLE OPTIONS:

  — FOUNDLING STABILIZATION

  — STAT ENHANCEMENT

  — CIRCUIT INSTALLATION

  — RESERVE DEPOSIT

  — VITALITY RESTORATION

  Lira's integrity was down to 96.4%—lower than it should be, lower than he was comfortable with. But the math was unforgiving: he couldn't stabilize her and install a new circuit and maintain enough reserves to survive the floors ahead.

  "What are you going to do?" Mira asked.

  "Restore vitality first. I'm at 71%—too low to fight effectively if we encounter more Siphoners." He studied the options. "Then a new circuit. Cardiac Overclock. Old Tom mentioned it—enhances physical performance in short bursts, useful for combat or escape."

  "And Lira?"

  He looked at his daughter, at the ghost hovering beside him with trust in her too-blue eyes. "She's stable enough for now. Another floor or two before I need to transfuse again."

  "Are you sure?"

  No. He wasn't sure. But he was making the best decision he could with the information he had, and that was all anyone could do.

  "Vitality restoration," he said to the Altar. "Then Circuit installation—Cardiac Overclock."

  VITALITY RESTORATION

  COST: 0.4 L

  CURRENT VITALITY: 71/100

  PROJECTED VITALITY: 100/100

  CONFIRM?

  "Confirm."

  Energy flooded through him, repairing damage he hadn't known he carried, restoring function to systems that had been operating at reduced capacity. His wounds closed, his fatigue receded, his body returned to optimal condition.

  Vitality: 100/100

  CIRCUIT INSTALLATION

  AVAILABLE: CARDIAC OVERCLOCK

  CAPABILITY: Temporary enhancement of cardiovascular function; increased speed, strength, endurance

  DURATION: 60 seconds per activation

  COOLDOWN: 10 minutes

  COST: 4.0 L

  CONFIRM?

  Four liters. Most of what he had. But the capability was worth it—the ability to move faster, hit harder, push beyond human limits when survival demanded it.

  "Confirm."

  The Altar pulsed.

  This time, the installation was more intense—not just threading through his nervous system, but restructuring his heart itself, modifying the cardiac muscle to generate more force, pump more efficiently, sustain outputs that would have killed a normal human. He felt his chest tighten, release, tighten again as the changes took hold.

  When it was over, his heart beat differently. Stronger. More powerful. Ready.

  CIRCUIT INSTALLED: CARDIAC OVERCLOCK

  CAPABILITY: Temporary cardiovascular enhancement

  ACTIVATION: Mental command

  DURATION: 60 seconds

  COOLDOWN: 10 minutes

  WARNING: Extended use may cause cardiac strain. Monitor vitality during activation.

  Blood Remaining: 1.8 L

  Circuits: 2 (Blood-Sight, Cardiac Overclock)

  "How do you feel?" Mira asked.

  "Different." Elias placed his hand over his chest, feeling the new rhythm. "Stronger. Like there's a engine inside me that wasn't there before."

  "That's because there is." She didn't sound impressed—she sounded concerned. "Old Tom warned you about this. About what the circuits do to you."

  "I know."

  "And you did it anyway."

  "I did it because it will help me keep Lira alive." He met her eyes. "That's all that matters."

  Mira opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. Whatever she wanted to say, she kept to herself.

  They found lodging near the station's edge—a tent they rented with a portion of their remaining supplies, private enough for rest but public enough to seem unthreatening. Kael had been moved to the medic station's recovery area; they'd visit him in the morning, check on his progress, decide what to do next.

  Sleep came easier this time. Maybe it was the vitality restoration, or maybe it was simply exhaustion finally overwhelming resistance. Either way, Elias drifted off with Lira hovering beside him, her presence a comfort even in her diminished state.

  He dreamed of blood.

  Of rivers of it, flowing through corridors that twisted and turned like veins through flesh. Of creatures rising from the crimson flood, reaching for him with hands that weren't quite human. Of Lira dissolving into the current, her voice calling for him as she faded away.

  He woke to silence.

  The tent was empty.

  Mira was gone—probably attending to morning necessities, nothing unusual there. But Kael was gone too, his bedroll abandoned, his supplies missing from the corner where they'd been stored.

  Elias checked the medic station. Kael had left during the night, the medics said. Discharged himself against advice, said something about finding his friends. They'd tried to stop him, but he'd been insistent.

  He returned to the tent to find Mira waiting, her expression dark.

  "Kael's gone," he said.

  "I know. I checked the station perimeter." She crossed her arms. "He left through the eastern exit. Toward the Scab Fields."

  "Maybe he really is looking for his friends."

  "Maybe." Mira's voice was flat. "Or maybe he was never really separated from them at all. Did you notice how convenient his wounds were? Bad enough to need treatment, not bad enough to be fatal. And he just happened to be exactly where we'd find him, on the exact route we were taking."

  The implications hit Elias like a physical blow.

  "You think he was planted."

  "I think he asked a lot of questions for someone who'd just been saved from death. Our names. Where we came from. Where we were going. How many circuits you had." She met his eyes. "I think he was gathering intelligence, and I think whoever sent him now knows exactly who we are and where we're headed."

  "The Siphoners."

  "Who else?"

  Elias processed this, fitting it into the pattern of events since they'd entered Vineyard territory. The herding. The patrol. The convenient wounded stranger who'd needed exactly the kind of help Elias was equipped to provide.

  They'd been played.

  "If you're right, they know we're coming."

  "They've known since Floor 8," Mira said grimly. "We killed three of their people. You think they'd let that go unanswered?"

  "So we change our route. Find another way up."

  "There is no other way." Mira gestured toward the eastern exit. "The Scab Fields are the only path to Floor 11. The Siphoners know this. They've built their entire operation around controlling the chokepoints. Whatever's waiting for us out there, we have to go through it."

  Elias looked at the eastern exit, at the membrane that would take them from relative safety into known enemy territory. Beyond it lay the Scab Fields, the heart of Siphoner control, the place where Mira's sister was being held.

  The place where, almost certainly, a trap had been prepared.

  "Then we go through it," he said. "But we go prepared. And we don't trust anyone else we meet until we're clear."

  Mira nodded. There was nothing else to say.

  They gathered their supplies, checked their weapons, and approached the eastern membrane. Lira hovered beside Elias, her form flickering with the usual instability, her eyes fixed on the exit with something that might have been anticipation or might have been fear.

  "Daddy?" she said quietly. "What are the Scab Fields?"

  "I don't know exactly. But I think we're about to find out."

  He pushed through the membrane, and the rest station disappeared behind them.

  The Scab Fields stretched before them—an expanse of crusted, hardened tissue that looked like nothing else they'd encountered. The ground was rough, uneven, covered in formations that resembled dried blood frozen mid-flow. The air smelled of copper and decay.

  And in the distance, barely visible through the organic haze, structures rose from the landscape. Buildings. Walls. The unmistakable signs of organized habitation.

  Siphoner territory.

  FLOOR 11: THE SCAB FIELDS

  AMBIENT THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME (HUMAN)

  TERRITORIAL CONTROL: THE VINEYARD (SIPHONER COLLECTIVE)

  NOTE: You are entering hostile territory. Extraction services unavailable.

  Elias looked at the notification, at the warning he couldn't ignore, at the path ahead that led straight into the heart of enemy control.

  Then he started walking.

  Behind him, Mira followed. Beside him, Lira drifted.

  And somewhere in the Scab Fields, the Siphoners waited.