The Aethelgard Mercantile Bank occupied a full city block in the heart of Port Vinter's financial district, a monument to permanence in a city that consumed itself every generation. Its facade was white marble quarried from the northern provinces, its columns carved with scenes of prosperous commerce: ships at harbor, farmers at harvest, merchants shaking hands. Above the bronze doors, the bank's motto was etched in gilt lettering: "What Is Entrusted, Endures."
Travers stood across the street at five minutes to midnight, watching the building through the steady drizzle. The lobby lights were on, as promised, but the security desk was empty. That was wrong. A bank like Aethelgard Mercantile didn't leave its front door unattended, even at midnight. Someone had arranged for the guards to be elsewhere.
He crossed the street and pushed through the bronze doors. The lobby was a cathedral of money: marble floors polished to a mirror shine, a coffered ceiling painted with allegorical figures representing Industry and Thrift, teller windows framed in brass. The air smelled of old paper and lemon wax. His footsteps echoed on the stone as he walked toward the center of the room, where a single figure sat on a marble bench beneath a massive chandelier.
She was younger than he expected—mid-twenties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair pulled back in a practical knot. She wore a bank employee's navy blazer, but her posture was all wrong for a teller: too watchful, too still. Her hands rested on a tablet computer, and her eyes tracked him with the calculated patience of someone who had learned to wait.
"You're Travers," she said. It was not a question.
"And you're the friend of Inmate 2."
"My name is Kasia Yuen. Marcus Yuen was my brother." She stood, tucking the tablet under her arm. "You have the data chip. The one from the construct."
Travers kept his distance. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I'm the one who sent the keycard to Elara Voss. I've been watching Prometheus for two years, ever since my brother went into Holbrook and never came out. I work here, in the bank's records department. The Aethelgard Circle does all its private banking through this institution. I have access to transactions they thought were invisible." She gestured toward a door marked "Employees Only." "We don't have much time. The night security detail was bribed to take a long break, but the Circle's private intelligence service monitors this building. They'll notice the anomaly eventually."
Travers followed her through the door and down a service corridor lined with filing cabinets. The contrast between the public lobby and the working guts of the bank was stark: here the walls were unpainted drywall, the floors linoleum, the lighting harsh and fluorescent. They passed a break room, a supply closet, and finally reached a small office with Kasia's name on the door.
Inside, she locked the door and turned to face him. "My brother was a small-time counterfeiter. He duplicated pharmaceuticals—heart medication, insulin, drugs for people who couldn't afford the real thing. He wasn't a hero, but he wasn't a monster. When he went to Holbrook, I started visiting him every month. Then, six months ago, the visits stopped. The prison told me he'd been transferred to a medical facility. A month later, they sent me his ashes and a condolence letter."
"The same pattern as Carter," Travers said.
"The same pattern as thirty-seven others." She placed her tablet on the desk and pulled up a spreadsheet. Names, dates, inmate identification numbers, medical transfer requests, cremation authorizations. "I've been compiling this for two years. Every inmate who disappeared from Holbrook, I tracked the paperwork. The waivers, the judicial approvals, the transport manifests. They all lead to the same place: the Chrysalis sub-level at Prometheus."
Travers sat down heavily in the office chair. "Why bring me in? Why not go to the authorities yourself?"
Kasia laughed, a hollow sound with no humor in it. "I did go to the authorities. The Bureau of Correctional Oversight opened a file and closed it three weeks later, citing insufficient evidence. The Port Vinter Police declined to investigate, citing jurisdictional issues. I contacted three different journalists, and all three stopped returning my calls after the first interview. The Circle has people everywhere. I needed an outsider. Someone with a reputation for not letting go."
"The Carter lawsuit gave me a way in. When I read about the Eighth Amendment claim, I realized Carter was trying to do the same thing I was—document the disappearances. But he was inside, and I was outside, and neither of us could connect. Then Carter died, and Voss started asking questions. I sent her the keycard because I knew she'd hire someone. She chose you."
Travers rubbed his temples. "Voss is one of them. Her stepfather was a founding investor in Prometheus. She hired me to recover the construct so the Circle could destroy it."
Kasia's expression flickered—not surprise, but confirmation. "I wondered about that. The Voss family has been laundering money for Prometheus through this bank for a decade. I couldn't tell if Elara was genuinely trying to help Carter or if she was just managing the situation. Either way, the keycard got you inside. What did you find?"
Travers told her everything: the Chrysalis lab, the gene-editing tanks, the constructs grown from prisoner stem cells, Adam-3's escape and sacrifice, the data chip and its contents. Kasia listened without interruption, her face growing paler with each detail.
"My brother," she said quietly when he finished. "They made a construct from my brother's cells. And it's still out there. Serving as a bodyguard for one of the Circle's clients."
"It doesn't know what it is. According to Adam, Construct Two is stronger and more obedient. They learned from their mistakes with Adam-3. Made the second one less independent."
Kasia stood and walked to the window, which looked out onto an air shaft and a brick wall. "Then we need to find it. If it's still functional, if it has Marcus's cells, maybe it has his memories too. Like Adam had Carter's."
"Adam was dying when I left it. The programmed apoptosis—"
"I know what apoptosis is. I've been researching this for two years." She turned back to face him. "But Construct Two was made earlier. The procedure might have been different. If it's still alive, if it can be reached, it might be able to testify. To be evidence."
Travers considered this. The idea was dangerous and probably futile. But it was also the first new lead he'd had since escaping the opera house. "Do you know where Construct Two is? Which client commissioned it?"
Kasia returned to her tablet and pulled up another file. "The banking records show a significant payment from the Mercer Agricultural Trust to Prometheus, approximately three months before Marcus's death. The Mercer family is one of the seven Circle dynasties. They control most of the northern farmland and a network of private security contractors. The payment was designated for 'personal protection services.' If I had to guess, Construct Two is guarding someone in the Mercer family. Probably the patriarch, Alden Mercer. He's ninety-two years old and notoriously paranoid."
"Where does he live?"
"The Mercer estate is outside the city, in the Harland Valley. It's a fortress—private security, drone patrols, the works. Getting in won't be easy."
Travers stood and examined the spreadsheet on her tablet. The names blurred together, thirty-seven lives reduced to dates and file numbers. "What about the other constructs? Adam said there were seventeen tanks in the lab. Where are the rest?"
"Some failed. Some were terminated when they developed... anomalies. But at least six were successfully delivered to clients. All Circle members or their close associates. The constructs are scattered across the Federated States, living in private residences, serving as bodyguards and companions. None of them know what they are. None of them know they were made from prisoners."
"And the prisoners? The donors who are still alive?"
Kasia's jaw tightened. "That's the other reason I asked you here tonight. Prometheus is accelerating the program. They've filed applications to expand the donor pool to three more prisons—Blackwood, Iron Ridge, and Redwater. Combined inmate population of over twelve thousand. Judge Stern has already pre-approved the waivers through a legal loophole in the Federal Biomedical Research Act. If they get approval, the harvest will increase tenfold within the next year."
Travers felt the weight of those numbers settle over him. Twelve thousand lives, categorized as "biological products," their cells harvested to extend the lives of the wealthy. It was not just exploitation anymore. It was institutionalized consumption, a system designed to convert the marginalized into raw material for the powerful.
"We need to take this public," he said. "The data chip, your records, everything we have. We need to find a platform that the Circle can't shut down."
"There is someone," Kasia said slowly. "A senator named Isara Chen. She chairs the Subcommittee on Biomedical Ethics. She's been investigating Prometheus for over a year, but she hasn't been able to get hard evidence. The Circle has been stonewalling her subpoenas, claiming trade secrets. If we can get the data to her, she might be able to hold public hearings before the Circle can bury the story."
"That's a big if."
"It's the only chance we have." Kasia began transferring files from her tablet to a portable drive. "I have bank records showing payments from every Circle family to Prometheus. I have internal memos discussing the 'donor optimization protocol.' I have a deposition from a former Prometheus technician who fled to the Southern Province after witnessing what happened to Inmate One. His name is Elias Cross. He's been in hiding for eight months, but he agreed to testify if we could guarantee his safety."
Travers took the drive and pocketed it alongside Adam's data chip. "Where do we find Cross?"
"There's a safe house in the Weaver's District. A boarding house called the Loom. He's registered under a false name—Samuel Price. I can take you there in the morning."
A soft chime interrupted them. Kasia glanced at her tablet and her face went pale. "The security system just came back online. Someone must have noticed the guards were missing. We have maybe three minutes before they search the building."
She grabbed a coat from the back of her chair and led Travers out of the office through a rear stairwell. They emerged into an alley lined with dumpsters and recycling bins, the rain still falling in thin silver threads. Behind them, lights began clicking on in the bank's upper windows.
"They'll review the security footage," Kasia said, her voice tight. "They'll see us together. My cover is blown."
"Then you're coming with me. We'll go to this boarding house now, tonight. If Cross is willing to talk, we'll get his testimony and take everything to Senator Chen before dawn."
They moved through the alleys of the financial district, staying away from the main streets where surveillance cameras clustered like mechanical insects. The Weaver's District was a thirty-minute walk through the oldest part of the city, a maze of narrow lanes and leaning buildings that had once housed the textile workers who gave the district its name. Now it was a neighborhood of immigrants and laborers, boarding houses and basement bars, places where questions were not asked and identities were fluid.
The Loom was a narrow building wedged between a shuttered bakery and a pawnshop. Its sign was faded, its windows dark, but a light burned in the basement. Kasia knocked in a specific rhythm—three short, two long, one short—and after a long pause, the door opened.
Elias Cross was a thin man in his mid-thirties, with the hollow cheeks and darting eyes of someone who had not slept well in a very long time. He wore a stained lab coat over civilian clothes, as if he could not quite let go of his former identity. His apartment was sparse: a cot, a hot plate, stacks of notebooks filled with cramped handwriting.
"You're the detective," Cross said, looking at Travers. "Voss's hire. I followed your progress through the company's internal security bulletins. You got further than anyone expected."
"Because I had help from someone inside." Travers nodded toward Kasia. "We need your testimony. Everything you saw in the Chrysalis lab. The procedures, the donors, the constructs. Senator Chen is ready to hold hearings, but she needs witnesses."
Cross sat down on the cot and rubbed his face with both hands. "I've been hiding for eight months. They killed two other technicians who tried to leave. They made it look like accidents—a car crash, a gas leak. I only survived because I had a friend in security who warned me before the termination order came through."
"What changed your mind?" Kasia asked. "About staying silent?"
Cross looked up at her, and his eyes were haunted. "The constructs. I worked on Construct Three—the one designated Adam. It was... different. It learned. It asked questions. One night, during a maintenance check, it asked me if it had a mother. I didn't know how to answer. I told it that its genetic material came from a donor. It said, 'Then I want to meet the donor. I want to thank him.'" Cross's voice cracked. "That was when I realized what we were doing. We were making people and calling them products."
Travers exchanged a glance with Kasia. "Adam-3 is dead. It sacrificed itself tonight to cover my escape. But it gave us everything we need to bring Prometheus down. If you testify, you can honor its memory. And the memory of the prisoners who died to create it."
Cross was silent for a long moment. Then he stood and pulled a notebook from the pile. "I kept detailed records. Every donor, every procedure, every client. I have the names of all thirty-seven. I have the payment records. I have the internal communications where Stern and the Circle discuss the 'disposability' of the donor pool. It's all here."
He handed the notebook to Travers. "Take it. Take it to Chen. And tell her that if she can guarantee my protection, I will testify publicly. I want the world to know what we did. It's the only way I can live with myself."
Travers accepted the notebook. It was heavier than it looked, filled with Cross's meticulous handwriting, diagrams of the genetic procedures, photographs of equipment, dates and times and names. It was, he realized, a confession as much as an indictment.
"Pack your things," he said. "We're leaving now. All three of us. We'll go to Chen's office directly."
But as they turned toward the door, a new sound cut through the silence of the boarding house: the distinctive whine of a security drone, low and close. Then another. And another.
They were surrounded.
A voice, amplified by a megaphone, echoed through the narrow street outside: "Attention, occupants. This is the Port Vinter Private Security Authority, operating under contract to Prometheus Cryonics. You are in possession of stolen corporate property. Surrender immediately, or we will use force."
Kasia looked at Travers, her face pale but resolute. "The roof. There's a fire escape."
"Go," Travers said. "Take Cross and go. I'll buy you time."
"Travers—"
"That's an order." He pulled the stun gun from his coat. "Get the notebook and the drives to Chen. Don't stop, don't look back. I'll catch up."
Kasia grabbed Cross's arm and pulled him toward the back of the building. Travers positioned himself behind the front door and waited. Through the window, he could see the drones hovering in the rain, their searchlights cutting through the darkness like surgical lasers. Beyond them, a black van idled at the curb, its doors opening.
Officer Michael Gordy stepped out, his face bandaged from the steam burns, his eyes burning with rage. He held a military-grade rifle and was flanked by six other security contractors in full tactical gear.
"Travers!" Gordy shouted. "I know you're in there. I owe you for what happened in the tunnels. Come out and I might let the others live."
Travers did not respond. He watched Gordy's approach through the window, calculating distances and timing. The contractors fanned out in a semicircle, covering the front and sides of the building. The drones hovered overhead, their cameras recording everything.
"Last chance," Gordy called. "We have the building surrounded. There's nowhere to run."
Travers heard the creak of the fire escape behind him—Kasia and Cross climbing toward the roof. He needed to give them at least five minutes. Five minutes to reach the neighboring building, five minutes to disappear into the warren of the Weaver's District.
He reached into his pocket and touched the data chip. The truth was on there, and the truth would get out, even if he didn't survive the night.
"Alright," he shouted through the door. "I'm coming out. Don't shoot."
He raised his hands and stepped through the doorway into the rain. The searchlights pinned him immediately, turning the falling water into a curtain of white fire.
Gordy walked toward him, the rifle held loosely but ready. "Where's the construct? The one from the opera house?"
"Dead. You made sure of that."
"And the data? The files it stole?"
"In a safe place. If I don't walk out of here, copies go to every news outlet in the Federated States."
Gordy smiled, a thin expression that did not reach his eyes. "You're bluffing. But it doesn't matter. We have orders to bring you in. The Circle wants to have a conversation with you. They want to know who else you've talked to."
One of the contractors moved toward the boarding house door, but Gordy held up a hand. "Not yet. Let the detective here tell us where his friends went."
"They're long gone by now," Travers said.
"Then we'll find them. Port Vinter isn't that big, and the Circle's resources are unlimited. Kasia Yuen has been on our watchlist for months. We know about her brother. We know about the records she's been compiling. Did you really think a records clerk could infiltrate the Aethelgard Mercantile without us noticing?"
Travers felt his blood run cold. "If you knew about her, why let her continue?"
"Because she was useful. She collected information we could monitor. She led us to Elias Cross, who has been a loose end for far too long. And tonight, she led us to you." Gordy stepped closer, the rifle barrel now level with Travers's chest. "You've been playing a game you don't understand, Travers. The Circle has been controlling this city for a century. A disgraced detective and a bank clerk were never going to bring them down."
Behind Gordy, one of the drones dipped lower, its camera zooming in on the scene. The searchlight threw long shadows across the wet street. In the distance, Travers could hear the sounds of the city—traffic, music, the endless hum of a metropolis that did not care about the small dramas playing out in its alleys.
"Any last words?" Gordy asked.
Travers looked past him, at the drone, at the contractors, at the black van waiting to carry him to whatever fate the Circle had prepared. Then he looked up at the rooftops, where two figures were just visible against the rain-streaked sky, climbing toward freedom.
"Yeah," he said. "Look up."
Gordy's instinct betrayed him. He glanced upward, and in that moment, Travers lunged—not at Gordy, but at the drone. He swung his coat upward, catching the machine in a tangle of wet fabric and dragging it down. The drone crashed into the street, its camera shattering, and the other drones suddenly lost their formation, their AI algorithms thrown into confusion.
Travers rolled behind a parked car as gunfire erupted. Bullets chewed into the metal and glass, but the vehicle provided enough cover for him to scramble into the adjacent alley. He ran, not toward the roof but deeper into the Weaver's District, into the labyrinth of back streets and basement passages that he had learned during his years on the force.
Behind him, Gordy screamed orders, and boots pounded on wet pavement. The remaining drones circled overhead, their spotlights sweeping the alleys. But Travers knew this neighborhood better than the contractors did. He ducked through a basement entrance, crawled through a connecting tunnel, and emerged three blocks away in the courtyard of an abandoned textile mill.
He paused, gasping, and checked his pockets. The data chip was still there. Cross's notebook was still there. The drives Kasia had given him were intact.
But Kasia and Cross were on the roof, exposed, and Gordy had already told him the most devastating truth of all: the Circle had known about Kasia from the beginning. They had let her operate because she was useful. And now that usefulness had run its course.
Travers leaned against the wet brick wall and stared up at the sky, where the drone lights still circled like hungry birds. He had escaped, but the net was closing. The Circle's intelligence network was vaster than he had imagined. They had played him, used him, and now they were ready to dispose of him.
But they had made one mistake. They had told him the truth about Kasia. And that meant they were confident enough to reveal their hand—which meant they were nervous. Something about the situation scared them. Something about Senator Chen's investigation, or the data on the chip, or the prospect of Elias Cross testifying.
Travers pushed himself off the wall and started walking again, toward the only destination that might still be safe: the offices of Senator Isara Chen, in the Federal District, where the laws of the Federated States still applied.
Or so he hoped.
The rain continued to fall, washing the streets of Port Vinter clean. But the truth, once it had begun to leak, was not so easily washed away. And somewhere in the darkness behind him, the ghost of Adam-3 walked beside him still, its silver eyes reflecting the city lights, its dying voice whispering the words that had started it all: "Find Unit 3."
He had found it. Now he had to make sure the world knew what it meant.
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