The night had fully settled over the mansion. Outside, the wind dragged leaves and damp dust through the garden corridors; inside, the air held the smell of metal, blue dust, and the tension no one mentioned. There was no alarm or noise, but the three knew that something, somewhere in the darkness, had been watching them.

Sebastián was in the kitchen. The industrial lamps cast a white gleam over the steel counters. In front of him rested the jars containing the blue compound they had recovered from the institute. The particles floated inside the glass with movements of their own, as if something within them still breathed.

Narka watched from a corner of the counter, motionless, his golden eyes fixed on the dust.

—The dust sings —he said softly—, but it doesn't say who struck it first.

Sebastián slowly turned one of the jars. The sound inside was faint, a metallic friction. He didn't answer, only listened. He knew the material wasn't natural; it belonged to human hands, and those hands always left traces.

Virka, on the other side of the kitchen, was reviewing the recordings stored in the ring. In one of them, the institute's camera distorted for a few seconds, revealing a bright flash. She increased the contrast, observed the angle, and realized something that made her stop.

—It didn't come from the camera —she said—. It came from behind.

Sebastián looked up.

—Then they were watching us.

—Yes. The Smiths watch too.

Silence spread. Only the hum of electricity filled the air. The mountain outside seemed still, but each of them felt the weight of an invisible gaze.

A new sound cut through the calm. From the ventilation descended a silver drone the size of a hand. It floated precisely and landed on the table. From its body emerged two beams of light that formed the images of Selena and Helena.

Helena spoke first, with a firm tone:

—We received the data stream from your ring. How much of the dust survived?

Sebastián, without taking his eyes off the drone, replied:

—Enough to understand that it sings, but not with its own voice.

Selena tilted her head, thoughtful.

—And the echo behind the song?

—Foreign —he answered.

Helena nodded slowly.

—Then it's not simple traffic. It's control. If you saw them, they saw you too.

Selena added, her voice softer but sharp:

—If something breathes in the shadow, let it believe it breathes alone.

The hologram flickered for a few seconds before fading.

Helena concluded:

—Do not return to the campus for twenty-four hours. Check the ducts before the Smiths clean. Prepare the perimeter.

The drone disintegrated into silver dust that fell to the floor and disappeared between the metal grates.

The kitchen returned to silence. Narka lowered his gaze.

—They will not let a day pass without responding.

The security system interrupted the calm. A silent alarm showed movement at the northern edge of the property. Sebastián looked at the thermal radar screen: a solitary signal flickered near the outer wall.

—Virka.

She was already on the move.

The air outside was cold. The mountains were covered in mist, and the wet ground reflected the house's lights. She walked among the trees, following the direction marked on the radar. A few meters from the stone wall, she found what she was looking for: a shattered drone, embedded in the ground, still smoking. Its design was rough, heavy, with no visible energy. It was a creation of the Smiths.

Among the remains was a bent metal plate. On it, a phrase etched with acid:

"We saw you. Now watch us work."

Virka took the plate. The metal burned her hands for a few seconds. Narka, who had approached behind her, spoke without emotion:

—They have marked you. Not with hatred. With duty.

Sebastián arrived a few seconds later. He stood still, staring at the message.

—Then they already know where to look.

They returned to the kitchen without speaking. The reflection of the lamps on the steel seemed colder than before.

—Fortify the perimeter —said Sebastián—. Make everything look the same.

Virka clenched her jaw.

—Waiting gives them time.

He looked at her without raising his voice.

—The hunter who moves when called ceases to be a hunter.

The silence that followed was clearer than any argument.

Narka moved his shell and projected the drone's thermal map onto the wall.

—There are three more pulses —he said—. They're heading toward the institute.

Sebastián understood instantly.

—They're destroying the evidence.

Virka took a step forward, impatient.

—We can get there before they finish.

—No. If we go now, we'll follow their rhythm —he replied.

The sound of rain began to be heard through the windows. At first, it was soft. Then, it became a constant curtain that struck the rooftops and the stone ground.

Sebastián looked toward the main door. He opened it slowly. The cold wind entered the kitchen, carrying the scent of wet earth.

—There is no sound clearer than the one evidence makes when someone tries to erase it —he said quietly.

Virka approached, stopping beside him.

—Then we'll go at dawn.

He nodded.

—Yes. With enough light to see who's still breathing.

The door closed. The sound of the rain continued outside, heavy and steady, like a pulse marking the border between what stayed and what had to move. Inside, the mansion breathed a silence that was not rest, but containment. The air smelled of iron and electricity; the storm bounced against the windows and slid over the mountains, briefly illuminating the silhouettes of the trees. Sebastián remained beside the glass, unmoving, his hand resting on the window frame. In his palm, the red reflection of the dimensional ring gleamed. Behind him, the dimness was broken only by the faint glow of the monitors still on.

Virka stood before the side console, analyzing the fragments of data they had managed to recover from the destroyed drone. Her posture was precise, as if every movement obeyed an invisible choreography. Narka, on the table, remained still. He didn't need to speak; the faint hum of the air was enough for him to understand what was happening. In that collective silence, every minor sound —the rain, a distant thunder, the brush of the wind— seemed amplified until it became a warning.

Suddenly, a faint sound broke the tension. Valentina's footsteps descending the stairs echoed with the uneven rhythm of someone who still can't distinguish between dream and waking. Her white hair fell over her shoulders, and her eyes —one brown, one blue— reflected the intermittent light of the lightning that illuminated the hallway. She stopped when she saw them.

—Is something wrong? —she asked in a barely audible voice.

Virka turned her head without softening her expression.

—Just a storm —she replied.

The girl nodded, though in her gaze persisted a deeper awareness than mere fright. She stayed close, silent, watching how Sebastián's ring cast flickering lights across the floor.

Sebastián stepped away from the window and went to a built-in drawer in the wall. From it, he took out a small gray metallic capsule. It bore the emblem of Helena and Selena's corporation. Placing it on the hallway floor, he twisted the base, and the device emitted a brief, almost clinical beep. A beam of blue light traced the mansion's internal structure. Magnetic locks engaged, door frames reinforced, and passive drones deployed at strategic points on the ceiling. There was no magic or spiritual energy in it, only human engineering pushed to the limits of precision.

Narka slowly moved his head, sensing the subtle vibration of the structural shift.

—The house is awake —he murmured in a deep voice.

Sebastián watched the control panel light up.

—No one enters, no one leaves —he said—. The shelter is secured.

Virka confirmed the status on the console: all accesses locked, backup power active. It was a body of metal and circuitry that breathed in obedience.

From the threshold, Valentina watched them, hugging her own arms. When Virka told her to go back to sleep, the girl slowly shook her head.

—I don't want to stay alone.

Her voice was firm, without tears. Sebastián looked at her without saying a word; the reflection of the monitors drew red lines across his face. After a brief moment of hesitation, Virka crouched down and placed a black waterproof coat on her, adjusting the sleeves carefully.

—Then don't separate —she said, and that sentence sealed everyone's decision.

There were no objections. Narka, the silent witness, tilted his head slightly, as if approving in silence.

Sebastián opened the hidden compartment in the corridor wall. Inside rested two black suits, folded with military precision. They were the work of Helena and Selena: ultralight synthetic fibers, waterproof, designed for stealth and endurance. Sebastián took his—simple, fitted, without ornamentation. Virka reached for the other; as she put it on, the fabric adjusted to her body perfectly, outlining her athletic figure. The black fabric absorbed the light, and her form seemed carved from the darkness itself, like a living shadow. She needed no weapons. Her hands were enough.

Valentina watched them closely, not fully understanding, but with the instinct of someone who senses that something important is about to begin. Virka approached and placed a thermal inner layer beneath the coat, then a pair of sturdy boots.

—Cold, but not fear —she said.

Valentina nodded.

From his position, Narka murmured softly:

—There's movement outside. I can't see it. I can feel it. Three, maybe four presences. They're not trying to enter, just waiting.

Sebastián closed the compartment and replied:

—Then it's time.

The sound of the rain grew heavier, as if the sky were descending. Virka took Valentina's hand; the girl squeezed it without hesitation. Sebastián walked toward the main door, and Narka leapt onto his right shoulder, motionless, his golden eyes alert.

The mansion trembled for an instant, recognizing that the command to open had been given. The mechanism released the magnetic lock with a metallic sigh.

The door opened. Cold air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and iron. The rain fell violently, but the group did not hesitate. Sebastián took the first step, followed by Virka, who held Valentina. Behind them, the lights of the refuge lit up in white lines along the walls: the sealed house, alive, aware, waiting for their return.

—If the network is watching —said Sebastián as he crossed the threshold— let it see only the noise of the storm.

Water soaked the ground beneath their boots. They advanced through the murmur of the forest. The lightning reflected off their dark suits, tracing fleeting flashes that vanished before defining a shape. Narka turned his head toward the east.

—Presences confirmed —he murmured—. They move, but they do not follow.

Sebastián nodded without slowing his pace. Virka walked beside him, her gaze fixed ahead; Valentina, between them, kept her balance without fear, as if she understood that danger does not always scream.

The path descended into the thicket. The mansion remained behind, illuminated by one last electric flash. For a moment, it seemed like a solitary lighthouse in the middle of the mountain—watchful and apart. Then, the rain erased it.

The group continued their march. The forest received them with its damp breath, and the night opened its eyes once more.

The rain still fell softly over the mountains when Sebastián stopped. The air, heavy with moisture, seemed to hold every sound, as if the world itself were listening for his next decision. Behind him, Virka walked unhurriedly, holding Valentina's hand. On Sebastián's shoulder, Narka, in his reduced form, slowly turned his stony face toward the horizon. His voice was barely a whisper, but enough to fracture the balance of the night.

—Too much noise —he said—. If we keep to this plane, ears that don't exist will hear us.

Sebastián didn't ask. He knew what he meant: the traces of the Smiths could extend even through the air, fragments of signals that hunted heat and movement. He observed the trees, the wet ground, the lines of mist hanging still. Then he looked at Valentina, who barely held his gaze.

—We'll take another path —he told her—. One not everyone can see. Don't be afraid if you don't look for it.

She nodded without speaking. The trust she had in him was more instinct than reason; it didn't come from understanding but from recognizing something ancient in his presence. Virka only watched him silently, understanding that it was time to vanish from the visible map.

Sebastián placed one hand on Valentina's chest and the other on the soaked earth. The Qi he released was faint, contained, almost like breathing. The ground responded as though something within the world had suddenly awakened. The raindrops stopped falling; they hung in the air, held by a force that was neither wind nor magic, but a frequency bending matter without breaking it.

The surroundings began to dissolve. The mountain turned translucent, the forest seemed to rotate upon itself, and the sky, once black, took on a tone of dark silver. In that instant, the Veil opened.

Narka descended from Sebastián's shoulder, and his body expanded with impossible calm: his mineral plates unfolded, the cracks in his shell ignited with a deep red glow, and his height enveloped the scene as if the very landscape recognized him. There was no tremor, no noise—only the restrained sound of air reorganizing around him.

—Climb on, little one —he said, his voice seeming to rise from the depths of the earth—. This path is not walked.

Virka carefully lifted Valentina and placed her upon the shell. Sebastián climbed behind her, adjusting the child's coat before the wind of the other world could touch her.

Then they crossed.

The world became something else. The mountains, now made of black glass, breathed with a faint pulse. The sky was a formless fabric, crossed by threads of light that seemed to move to the rhythm of their breathing. The earth, alive, exhaled metallic-colored vapor.

Sebastián looked different beneath that sky. His body, wrapped in a spiral of crimson Qi, seemed to contain fire without giving off heat. Virka, beside him, had her skin covered in shifting gray reflections that moved like liquid mist; her eyes, red and shining, were the only steady lights in that shifting landscape.

Narka walked slowly. Each step generated a ripple that spread outward like circles in water. Around him, translucent shadows moved without direction: remnants of human thought, fragments of wandering memory.

Valentina watched everything without fear. Her breathing blended with the vibration of the air.

—Is this our world too? —she asked, her voice barely audible.

—It's the same —Sebastián replied—, only without the mask of things.

They walked for a long time. No one measured it; in the Veil, minutes do not exist. The ground stretched like a liquid mirror, and the horizon changed shape with every step. The figures at their sides dissolved, and the echo of their movement merged with the murmur of a river that wasn't there.

—Who are they? —Valentina asked, looking at a figure that resembled a woman made of smoke.

—Shadows of those who once dreamed —said Virka without turning her face.

—And why don't they wake up?

—Because no one remembers they exist.

The girl nodded. Her innocence allowed her to accept answers without needing to fully understand them.

The journey continued, and when the silence grew too large, Valentina spoke again:

—Papa Sebastián… did you ride Narka before too? And Mama Virka too?

Sebastián smiled faintly.

—Yes, but it was a long time ago. When we still didn't know who we were.

—And when we didn't know if we were going to live —added Virka, her tone unchanged.

Narka didn't turn his head; he only spoke with the calm of one who has seen too many centuries.

—All have ridden me once. But few remember the path.

The phrase lingered. The air repeated it like an echo inside an infinite cavern.

Valentina placed her hand on a crack in the shell, feeling the warmth of the living mineral beneath her fingers. She said nothing more.

The surroundings began to change. In the distance, metallic structures appeared suspended in the air: fragments of iron and vapor that resembled deformed towers and bridges, melting into the atmosphere. They were not real constructions, but spiritual traces of the Smiths—imprints of their passage through planes they did not understand.

Sebastián watched them without slowing their pace.

—Let them look —he said—. They won't know what they're seeing.

Narka quickened his pace. The world curved around his body; the lights of the Veil began to distort, as if dragged by an invisible river. Valentina held onto the edge of the shell. There was no fear in her gesture, only fascination.

And then, at the end of the path, the exit appeared: a vertical line of light opening in midair, breathing.

Sebastián placed his hand on Valentina's back.

—Close your eyes —he said.

The flow of Qi stopped.

The landscape unraveled slowly, as if melting away. The rain returned first—thick, cold drops striking the earth with a real sound. Then came the wind, the trees, the smell of mud.

Narka reduced his size without emitting light, as though his body folded back into the world itself. Virka helped Valentina down and adjusted her coat, wiping away a drop that had remained on her cheek with her fingers.

—Not everyone can see and return with their eyes open —she said.

Valentina looked at her, serious, but with a brief smile.

—I want to come back someday.

Sebastián nodded.

—You will, when you no longer need someone to carry you.

Narka let out a deep sound, a vibration that could almost be mistaken for laughter.

The path toward the institute continued under the rain. The storm seemed less hostile than before; every tree, every stone, carried a new weight.

In the distance, through the mist, the lights of the institute flickered faintly, as if waiting for them.

Behind them, the Veil closed without a sound, erasing all trace of its existence.

The physical world reclaimed them with its density and its weariness, and for the first time, everything seemed to have weight.

The rain fell without pause, drawing straight lines through the cold air. The sound was constant, heavy, like an ancient breath covering the mountains. Sebastián walked at the front, his black clothes clinging to his body, his boots sinking into the mud with measured rhythm. At his side, Virka moved in silence, her dark silhouette almost blending with the surroundings. Behind them, Valentina followed with effort; the fabric of her coat stuck to her legs, and her damp hair covered part of her face. Narka rested on her left shoulder, small, motionless, his golden eyes open in the dimness. He said nothing, but his mere presence maintained calm—a weight of stone that gave the girl security amid the noise.

The institute rose ahead, half hidden by fog, half illuminated by security lights. It was a massive gray block, with windowless walls and a single line of lampposts marking the main entrance. From afar, it looked asleep, but Sebastián knew that buildings never sleep—they only pretend.

—Along the side —said Narka from Valentina's shoulder, his voice low and rough, like stone grinding against stone.

Sebastián nodded without looking at him. They veered toward the side, where the wall met the slope of the terrain. There, half covered by overgrowth, was an old access: a maintenance tunnel sealed by a rusted grate. Virka crouched down, ran her fingers along the frame, and removed it in a single motion. The metal gave way without a sound.

—No one's entered through here in years —she murmured.

Sebastián looked into the dark interior. The air coming from that hole smelled of old dust and burnt cables.

—Then no one will expect us inside. —His voice was steady, without inflection.

He entered first, holding Valentina's hand. Virka followed in silence. Narka slid from the girl's shoulder to the ground to watch from behind. When all three had crossed, the creature's shell turned one last time: with a small push of his front leg, he set the grate back into place, fitting it until the sound of metal disappeared beneath the rain.

The tunnel was narrow and damp. The walls oozed water, and each step echoed. They walked without speaking, guided only by the faint light of the ring in Sebastián's hand. There was no electric current—just that dim glow, enough to tell direction. After a few meters, they found a metal hatch sealed by an old padlock. Sebastián studied it for a moment, then slipped a thin blade into the lock and twisted it with a sharp motion. The padlock snapped.

The corridor beyond was wider, though just as dark.

—You'll stay here —Sebastián said to Valentina, stopping in front of an abandoned classroom with sealed windows and the smell of mold.

—Alone? —she asked.

—With Narka —he corrected.

The creature climbed slowly back onto her shoulder.

—Nothing will enter without me sensing it —he assured, with a calm that demanded no faith, only obedience.

Valentina nodded. Her gaze drifted to the mosaics on the floor as Sebastián and Virka walked away.

The two advanced through the corridor. They wore the dark suits Helena and Selena had left months before—lightweight, fitted, designed to absorb light. The material moved with them without making a single sound. No glimmer, no rustle, only pure motion.

As they descended the inner stairs, the air changed. The smell of dust gave way to rust, and then to something sharper—a chemical sting. Blue stains appeared on the walls, remnants of the same compound they had seen in the mansion. Virka brushed one with her finger; it was fresh.

—Less than a day ago —said Sebastián.

—Then they're still here.

The door at the end of the hallway opened with a gentle push. Behind it, an empty laboratory. Metal tables, broken glass tubes, hanging wires. Everything seemed dismantled in haste. There were footprints on the floor, but none human.

Virka crouched by the wall. In a crack of the concrete, she found a fragment of metal with a tiny engraving. She pulled it out and handed it to Sebastián.

—Again —he murmured.

It was the same emblem: three intersecting lines within a circle—the seal of the Smiths.

—They don't destroy —said Virka—. They reproduce.

—They don't hide —he replied—. They prepare ground.

At that moment, a noise broke the stillness. Faint, repetitive. The screech of metal against metal at the far end of the corridor.

Sebastián turned his head, alert. Virka had already stepped back, her legs firm.

Far away, in the classroom where Valentina waited, Narka lifted his head.

—Something's moving —he said.

—Them? —the girl asked.

—No. Something searching for them. —His golden eyes narrowed, focused.—And it comes from below.

The sound grew. Uneven steps, chains, a dull strike. Sebastián moved forward without hesitation.

From the shadow, a figure emerged. At first it looked human—until the light exposed the mistake: plates of molten iron covered its skin; the seams were welded joints. Its eyes were twin rotating lenses that emitted a short hum as they focused.

It didn't speak. It only advanced.

Virka bent her knees and lowered her center of gravity. Her hands opened slowly. Sebastián didn't take a stance—he simply stepped forward, relaxed, with the serenity of one who already knows what must be done.

The creature lunged violently. Sebastián met it with a sharp, dry strike, no visible wind-up. His arm hit the torso with surgical precision; the sound was brief and final. The metallic body folded backward and collapsed without resistance.

Another figure emerged from the corner. Virka intercepted it. She caught the enemy's wrist, twisted the body, and slammed it against the wall. The crunch of metal sounded like bone breaking. Without pause, she shifted direction and blocked another attack with her forearm, displacing the air in a single, hard motion.

A third enemy appeared behind Sebastián. It barely moved half a step before receiving a knee to the abdomen. The impact folded it over; the sound was hollow.

The fight was silent—no screams, no wide gestures. Only controlled force and rhythm. Bodies collided, air compressed, walls returned low echoes. Virka breathed through her nose, steady; Sebastián made no sound at all.

One tried to rise. Virka seized it by the neck and hurled it onto a metal table. The blow made the entire room vibrate.

—Too soft —she said, her voice neutral.

—Too visible —Sebastián replied.

The corridor went still again. Neither moved for several seconds.

In the classroom, Valentina looked up.

—Narka… is it over?

The shell emitted a faint sound, almost like a sigh of stone.

—Not yet —he answered—. Something else is waking.

The ground trembled—first faintly, then steadily. In the corridors, the lights began flickering one by one. Sebastián lifted his gaze. A brief click.

The voice came from the rusted speakers in the ceiling, distorted, mechanical, almost human:

"Purge protocol activated."

And then, darkness.

The hallway remained silent, broken only by the drip of water from the cracked pipes. The smell of rust mingled with that of burnt dust. Sebastián stopped; the air vibrated differently, as if something enormous were breathing beyond the wall. Virka raised her head and closed her fist, instinctive, wordless. Narka spoke from the classroom, his voice dry:

—It is not flesh.

The sound came then—a heavy thud, then another. The corridor's foundations groaned as though something were pushing from within. The side wall split open, and the darkness gave way to something larger than the frame. First a hand, then a shoulder. Metallic plates—black steel with copper edges, articulated segments locking together with the creak of strained hinges. When the head emerged, the dead lights of the hallway reflected off a row of rotating lenses.

The Forger stepped forward. The ground vibrated. Its breathing was a low hum—mechanical, constant. It made no sound of voice; each movement echoed like a measured strike, emotionless and unbroken.

Sebastián did not wait for it to attack. He stepped forward, bent his knees, and twisted his body. The blow came straight from his torso, carrying the full, contained energy of motion. It struck the automaton's chest at the side. The sound was not of metal breaking, but of something that resisted too well. The body shifted half a meter and stabilized. Its head turned toward him; the lenses contracted.

Virka advanced, seizing the instant. She struck the same point, spinning on her axis. The impact left a visible dent. The monster staggered, straightened, and countered with a sweeping arm. She dodged by mere centimeters, feeling the dry wind of metal pass beside her face.

The next strike came faster. The arm descended from above, carrying all its weight. Sebastián intercepted it with his forearm, lowering his center of gravity. The contact sent a tremor through his body. The air compressed around them. The wall behind cracked. Without hesitation, he slid his hand along the mechanical elbow joint, searching for the leverage point, and pushed. The arm twisted with a metallic snap but did not fully yield.

The Forger countered with its shoulder. The impact drove Sebastián back three steps. Virka lunged to cover him, spinning her body and delivering an upward kick. The sound was dry; the metal vibrated. The enemy stepped back half a pace. The ground shook.

Neither spoke. The rhythm of battle was pure breathing. Sebastián adjusted his stance. Virka glanced sideways at him. They both knew they couldn't destroy the building or leave visible traces, but retreat wasn't an option.

The automaton leaned forward slightly, as if analyzing. Then it advanced. Each step sounded like hammers striking stone. Sebastián waited. When the creature raised its arm for the first blow, Virka moved—she slipped underneath, slid her body, and struck upward between the plates at its waist. The sound was different this time, more hollow. Sebastián used the opening and drove his fist into the same spot. The metallic structure buckled.

The monster grabbed him by the torso and lifted him off the ground. Sebastián gritted his teeth, every muscle tightening. Virka saw him rise a meter into the air and shouted. The machine hurled him against the wall. The impact was brutal. Plaster shattered; the air was forced from his lungs. He fell to one knee, spat blood, and drew in a sharp breath.

The creature turned toward Virka. She was already in motion. She ran along the wall's side, pushing off the surface with her feet like an animal. When the Forger raised its arm, she leapt, clung to its shoulder, and twisted her body. The sound was metal tearing. A blue spark crossed the neck joint. The machine tried to reach her, but Sebastián was already standing.

The Forger stepped forward. The ground shuddered. Its breath was a low, mechanical hum—constant, unbroken. It made no sound of speech; every motion landed with the precision of a controlled strike, devoid of emotion or pause.

Sebastián did not wait. He advanced, his back aching, air heavy in his chest, but his steps unwavering. He crossed the corridor, slipped past the falling arm, and struck the creature's abdomen. The sound was different this time—not resistance, but fracture. Metal split with a long groan. Virka took advantage of its imbalance, unleashing a spinning kick at the base of its neck. The entire body arched forward.

The automaton dropped to its knees but remained active. Its lenses spun rapidly, trying to recalibrate. Its hands clawed at the floor, metallic nails digging into the concrete. Sebastián stepped back half a pace. Virka moved closer, breathing fast, wet hair clinging to her face.

—It doesn't stop —she said.

—Then don't let it think.

The enemy rose again, but slower. Virka struck from the flank, Sebastián from the front. The corridor filled with sound. Each impact echoed; dust fell from the ceiling. The lights flickered. The machine tried to seize Virka with a clawed forearm, but she twisted and shattered the joint with a downward blow. Sebastián came in the same instant and drove his full weight into the center of its chest.

The structure gave way. The Forger staggered back, crashed into a column, and toppled it. It reeled, bent forward, and fell. Virka stepped back, her chest heaving. Sebastián approached, watching the motionless machine.

From its broken torso came a faint, intermittent noise. An inner panel glowed briefly, then faded. On the metal surface, barely visible, an inscription flickered to life: Series 03 – Phase Alpha Custodian.

Sebastián stood motionless for several seconds. Virka watched him from the side, blood on her lip, breathing hard.

—Is it over? —she asked.

—No. This was a rehearsal.

In the classroom, Valentina heard the distant echo of the final blow. Narka, perched on her shoulder, turned his golden eyes toward the ceiling.

—And that? —she whispered.

—That was only the first machine —Narka replied.—There are more.

Silence returned, carrying with it the metallic scent that lingered through the halls. Outside, the rain continued to fall on the roof of the institute—steady, indifferent.

The smell of burned metal did not fade with the Forger's fall; it clung to the seams of the building like cold sweat. Sebastián inhaled, tasting iron in his mouth, then looked down at the still-hot inscription: Series 03 – Phase Alpha Custodian. The plate flickered once, as if pained by the memory of defeat—and went dark.

Virka placed her hand on the wall and exhaled. Blood marked her lip; her breathing measured the moment with precision—work, not fury.

—It wasn't the last —she said, almost to herself.

Sebastián was silent for a second. He looked at the remains—the sparks fading, the dust falling—and counted with his eyes the things that could still be useful. Then he nodded.

—We're going to the basement —he ordered.

He didn't say it as a suggestion. It was a decision.

They left the laboratory with measured steps. In the corridor, darkness reclaimed its ground; only the dripping, the rain striking the roof, and the echo of their boots filled the space. Where the fight had left its traces, there were now small craters of dust and metal; all of it could disturb them, but none of it was irreversible. They had to move.

The service tunnel was where they had left it: the grate restored, fitted seamlessly. Sebastián ran his fingertips along it to confirm they had left no visible marks, then pushed the door leading down to the basement. The ring's light was dim—enough not to reveal more than necessary.

Valentina stayed in the doorway of the secured classroom; Narka, small upon her shoulder, fixed his golden eyes on the darkness below. He didn't attempt to follow. His legs, his size, his very purpose were another form of presence: a receiver of vibrations, a weight of stone that brought calm.

They entered two by two—Sebastián on the left, Virka on the right. Before separating, they exchanged a minimal, nearly invisible gesture—an agreement of twenty-five unspoken words that dictated timing and priority. Virka carried a ribbon, a piece of chalk; Sebastián, a metal case for samples. The same old method: chart in silence.

The basement smelled of dampness and old solvent, with an acidic note that reminded them of the mansion. Tables had become shelves, compressors slept in corners, and in one section of the room, covered with worn tarps, stood metal containers of various sizes. Virka approached first. Her hand inspected a lid, brushed it; it made a hollow sound. Carefully, she lifted it. Inside—dry residue, a crust of color her fingers recognized without need for analysis: the same trace they had seen before, the same mark.

—Here it is —she murmured—. Not ghosts. It doesn't evaporate on its own.

Sebastián took a small sample in a container from his case, sealing it clumsily but effectively. There were no laboratory machines—only improvisation, hands that had worked fast. He labeled it mentally: Container A — North sector; approximate time. Virka snapped a photo with an old phone wrapped in tape so its light wouldn't reveal a GPS signal. Everything was physical, tangible—and therefore dangerous.

They continued. The basement unfolded into rooms linked by broken corridors. On one wall, halfway through the second chamber, the ring's light caught something different: a small metal plate embedded in the concrete. Virka touched it and carefully pulled.

It came loose with a dry sound and yielded in her hand. There was an engraving—one line that, when she wiped it clean with her sleeve, revealed a number: a seal, similar but not identical to the one from Series 03. Sebastián brought the light closer and read in a low voice: codes, a reference to a workshop, and an acronym they didn't recognize. Almost without thinking, she photographed it and placed it in the case.

—If this matches what we found in the mansion, it's no coincidence —Virka said.

—Then it's a network —Sebastián replied.

A few meters away, they found piles of papers stacked together, some glued by moisture, others tied with rusted cords. Virka carefully pulled aside a folder wrapped in plastic. Inside were invoices—company names, shipment slips, stamps. One date triggered an alarm on her face; another, handwritten, pointed to an upcoming destination. She took quick photos, folded the page, and slipped it into a plastic sleeve.

The rhythm of the basement was that of the place's heart: an inner hum that fluctuated with the pumps and compressors. On a table near an old console, there was a logbook with stained pages. Virka sat on the edge of the table and flipped through it with her thumb. Dates, staff notes, names of technicians who had signed entries. One name appeared repeatedly—the same as the one listed on the supply line noted on the plate. It was the first firm thread they could pull.

While Virka recorded, Sebastián examined a shattered display case filled with metal molds and small pieces engraved with repeating patterns—dies, matrices. One of those pieces had the same texture as the fragment they had torn from the Forger. He picked it up with a gloved hand, examined it, then placed it into a cloth-lined box. They didn't need a lab machine—what they needed was trace, connection, chain.

Then the air changed. Narka, at the classroom doorway where Valentina waited, tensed his neck and placed his paw on the ground. It wasn't a dramatic motion; it was the smallest detail that announced a structural shift. Virka noticed. She lifted her eyes toward the main hall: the lamps flickered.

—Something's watching —Sebastián said, his voice low.

It wasn't a technical fault. It was an adjustment of the place itself: on the main console, a relay switched state, a light blinked. Someone—or something—was running an integrity check. Narka gave a low growl; his vibration passed through the floor until it reached them. Virka shut the folder and stored the essential pages in the case. They divided the evidence quickly: plate with serial, folder with supplier and date, compound sample, mold fragment. The essentials.

It wasn't a technical fault. It was the house's adjustment: on the main console, a relay switched state, a light blinked. Someone—or something—was checking for integrity. Narka growled low; the vibration ran through the ground to them. Virka closed the folder and stowed the vital sheets in the case. They made the quick division—serial plate, supplier folder and date, compound sample, mold piece. The essentials.

—Five minutes —Sebastián whispered. —If it sounds, you move through the north exit. I'll cover the south. —Virka nodded.

While packing, Virka passed by the old console and saw marks where someone had tried to dismantle equipment—cut cables, covered lenses. They hadn't wanted to leave records. Someone had been here before and cleaned up in a rush. It wasn't professional cleaning: details were missing, traces remained. That they had left them was both an advantage and a danger.

A dry sound came from the far end of the corridor: a metallic snap. It wasn't organic; it was something heavy moving within the structure. Sebastián placed his palm against the wall and felt the vibration. The steps came from the service gallery. It wasn't a guard—too rhythmic, too heavy. Narka sensed it just as clearly; his ears shifted.

—Gamma —Virka murmured, and it wasn't a question.

They said no more. The possibility of a demolition unit appearing forced them to turn retreat into maneuver—speed with control. Sebastián took the folder with the date and the plate into the case; Virka carried the sample and the mold piece. They slipped the papers into their pockets. Every move was already calculated: exit to the right, short corridor, cover under the old structure.

As they turned the corner, they noticed a body collapsed on the dusty floor—a technician, helmet cracked, breathing with difficulty. He wasn't dead. His eyes searched the ceiling while his hand trembled toward a console. Virka crouched quickly and grabbed his shoulder.

—Who put you here? —she asked, firm.

The man coughed, speaking in broken fragments. —No… not me. —His voice was a grimy thread.—Others… brought the iron. Testing… tests in the rooms… Not just sales… they test them.

Before they could get more, the technician lost consciousness. Sebastián checked his pulse—it was still there. They carefully removed his helmet, and Virka covered his mouth with a cloth so he wouldn't inhale the dust. There was no time for complex treatment. But there was information: the phrase "they test them" was direct confirmation that the facility didn't just manufacture—it performed trials.

—Write it down —Sebastián told Virka as they covered him.—Name, if you remember. We'll record whatever he says.

She nodded and, with a line of chalk, marked the place on the mental map they had begun to build.

The collapse that followed was a chain reaction: lights flickering to life, a rising hum, and the confirmation that they had disturbed something alive. They couldn't stop it—Beta had sensed the disruption and called out. Not with precision, but with enough direction. The tracking instrument had begun to work.

—Out, now —ordered Sebastián.

The retreat was choreographed. Virka held the case tight against her chest and moved noiselessly through the shadows toward the secondary hatch that led to the passage they knew; Sebastián covered the rear, marking each corner with his gaze as they passed. Narka rose and positioned himself between Valentina and the classroom exit; his small body cast a protective shadow over the girl. Valentina didn't cry. She watched, with that mix of curiosity and resignation that children develop when they begin to understand the world has layers.

Someone—or something—had placed two eyes on them from afar: a light that ignited on the façade of the neighboring building, a glint that moved like a lens. Narka growled. Sebastián clenched his jaw—it was confirmation that the network would not take long to coordinate a response.

They reached the grate where they had entered. Sebastián checked the street, the rain, the night. He lifted the grate and slid it back into place with a pressure that locked it in perfectly, as if it had never been opened. Leaving no physical trace was impossible—they had left footprints. But they could erase routes, blur timelines. They exited in line: Virka, Sebastián, Narka with Valentina. No one spoke until they crossed the brush.

Outside, with the rain striking their hoods and boots again, Virka opened the folder with a steady hand. The invoice bore a name—a supplier that, when she whispered it, tightened her jaw. It matched the seal from the fragment and an entry in the charred logbook: the address of a workshop on the outskirts, and an hour scheduled for a small delivery the next day.

—If this is true —Virka murmured—, the shipment leaves tomorrow.

—We can't wait —said Sebastián.—If they move the pieces, they'll bury the evidence. If we intercept it, we might trace the chain.

Narka rested his head against Valentina's shoulder. For the first time, the girl spoke clearly:

—Can we catch them, Papa? —she asked. She didn't use Papa as certainty—it was simply how she named Sebastián in her world.

Virka smiled with her eyes. Dried blood marked her lip, her coat torn. There was no softness in her expression, no sentimental compassion—only resolve.

—We'll try —she answered.—But first, we must learn more.

As they moved toward the mansion, beneath the rain that seemed to wash but not erase, Sebastián paused for a moment and looked up toward the institute's façade. A light flickered in a high window—a distant signal not meant for them. Someone, in some room, had begun to review the records. An eye that would not close until someone gave the order.

—They've activated the chained protocol —said Sebastián, and the phrase wasn't an alert, it was a statement.—We have less time than we thought.

Virka tucked the folder inside her coat, close to her chest—protected by her warmth and by the silent promise to return for more. Sebastián tightened his grip on the case holding the sample. Narka settled on his shoulder, small and solemn.

The path back to the mansion was a straight line of expectation; neither spoke the word both were thinking. At the edge of the road, a distant light blinked on and off again, as if someone had marked a map. Someone knew. Someone else was watching.

That night, while the rain drummed against the mansion's roof with a steady pulse, Virka wiped the blood from her lip and rested her forehead against the window. Valentina slept on the couch, with Narka curled beside her, and Sebastián counted the evidence, eyes fixed on the plate he had retrieved. The folder held names; the case, remnants; the mold piece, imprints.

They knew what was coming: not only other Custodians, but supply routes, workshops, and people working under orders far higher than they had imagined. They also knew that the folder carried a date that demanded immediate action.

The plan formed in silence, with the precision of gestures that no longer required words: contact whoever could open the technical gates, prepare interception routes for morning, set a trap if Beta went out on patrol. But there was something else—a coarse certainty that didn't fit into pages or photos: the network didn't just protect what it built; the network measured, corrected, rehearsed. They had been the test of an experiment. And that experiment still had more pieces to reveal.

Before turning off the lamp, Sebastián looked at the plate, holding it as one might a wound that had closed on the surface but still hurt beneath. The inscription remained cold, without glow:

Series 03 – Phase Alpha Custodian.

It wasn't just a label; it was a promise—that what they had torn apart with their own hands was not an isolated case. In the darkness, the rain went on. And somewhere—in a workshop, on a dock—someone was preparing crates for the next shipment.

____________________________

END OF CHAPTER 43

The path continues…

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