The Director's neural dampener had killed Kasper's enhancements one by one during "processing." Each death felt like ice spreading through his skull, leaving hollow spaces where Sarah's frequency used to sing. Twelve empty ports now – surgical scars still weeping from where they'd stripped his Lazarus-grade hardware. Tech that had made him elite, made him special, made him Sarah's perfect weapon. Every socket a reminder of what enhancement evolution had cost them all.

Sweat ran into the raw ports as he pressed against the maintenance tunnel wall, each drop stinging like acid against exposed nerve endings. The baroque metalwork caught dim light, Art Deco angels watching his blood drip through rusted grating. His ribs ground together like broken ceramic – a parting gift from The Director's guards during his desperate escape. The smell of yerba mate and engine grease wafted from an abandoned maintenance station, Costa del Sol's morning ritual mixing with industrial decay.

Three broken ribs, maybe four. Left arm hanging useless from where they'd shattered his collarbone trying to stop him. The memory of Circuit's final scream still echoed in his skull, mixing with Ghost's last transmission. He'd failed them all. But their deaths had bought him the chaos needed to break free, to disappear into the city's guts before The Director could complete his "evolution protocols."

Steam burst from an ancient pipe, carrying the stench of copper and rotting dreams. The tunnel walls sweated in the heat, original colonial tilework peeking through decades of grime. His academy combat instructor would've berated him for the sloppy positioning, but the concussion made every movement a gamble. Still, he had these tunnels mapped—infrastructure blueprints memorized before the operation. Back when he thought this would be a clean insertion. Before everything went wrong.

The whine of enhanced joints echoed off carved colonial pillars. Lieutenant Santos's uneven gait—the distinctive drag-click of a Mark III leg enhancement. Kasper forced his breathing to steady, ignoring the wet rattle in his chest. Santos was running an older hybrid system, the kind they'd studied in academy tech courses. Prone to overheating. Vulnerable to temperature fluctuations.

"Movement in Section D!" A harsh voice—Rodriguez, one of the new cartel recruits. "Target's enhancement ports are empty, jefe. Rejection scars fresh like raw meat."

"First time seeing a pure human, novato?" Santos's laugh echoed off the walls. "Watch and learn how we process the obsolete."

Kasper touched the knife at his belt, remembering close combat drills from before the chrome. Six rounds left in his backup pistol, but the concussion made his depth perception worthless. Sarah's combat lessons echoed: "Get in close. Make it personal." One last gift before she'd aimed her gun at his heart.

His father's voice cut through the pain fog: "Neural links are shortcuts, kid. Real engineering has a pulse." The same words he'd repeated during those endless garage sessions, hands black with grease, teaching Kasper what real machines felt like. What it meant to trust steel and hydraulics over silicon and synapse.

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The maintenance alcove ahead promised salvation. First aid station. Even ransacked, there might be—there. Bandages. Tape. Two precious painkillers. He swallowed them dry, tasting copper and regret.

Then he saw it. Behind the medical locker.

Mark VII exoskeleton. Pure hydraulics and steel. No neural links, no enhancement ports. The startup sequence was his father's—a hundred muscle-memory repetitions in the garage. Complex enough to defeat looters, simple enough to execute with trembling fingers.

"You hear that wheezing, novato?" Santos's voice bounced off corroded Art Deco fixtures. "Enhancement rejection this severe—he's dying on his feet, mi amigo. Like a rat in the walls of our beautiful city."

"Should we call for backup, jefe?" Rodriguez's voice cracked. "My enhancement scan shows his vitals are... strange. Like he's barely—"

"Barely human? That's the point, pequeño cobarde. The future has no room for throwbacks."

Kasper's hands moved through the sequence. The frame hissed open—hydraulics whining like his father's old garage lift. Each pneumatic hiss a counterpoint to the sterile silence of enhancement tech. The exoskeleton's support took pressure off his broken ribs, metal cool against feverish skin. Organic meets mechanical, the way his father always preached.

Six bullets. One knife. A broken body running on borrowed time and stolen tech. But he had the tunnels mapped. Had their patrol pattern. Had the arrogance of enhanced soldiers who'd forgotten what pure desperation felt like.

Steam pipes overhead. Temperature control. Enhancement cooling systems. All the pieces clicking together like his father's mechanical puzzles. Through the haze, a static-laced announcement echoed: "Attention citizens: Curfew remains in effect by order of Internal Security. Report all unregistered tech activity..."

The first guard rounded the corner, ports glowing blue-white in the dim light. Kasper triggered the exoskeleton's arc-welder. The flash caught their night vision full force. In the chaos, he cranked the steam valve. Temperature spiking. Hybrid systems starting to redline. Just like the simulations, only this time the screams were real.

"That museum piece won't save you, pendejo." Santos's voice cut through the steam. "Technology evolves. You're already extinct."

"Jefe, my cooling system's failing—something's wrong with the—"

Kasper's knife found the gap under the first guard's armor—the vulnerable spot where enhancement ports met spine. Quick. Clean. The way they'd trained him before tech made everyone sloppy. Before Sarah had taught him to trust machines more than muscle.

For the first time since they'd carved him open, he felt his lips curl into something like a smile. The enhancements hadn't made him weak—they'd made him forget how to kill with precision. His father's exoskeleton groaned as he moved deeper into the steam, joints singing an old, mechanical war cry. Pure human violence wrapped in honest steel.

Time to show them what happened when you stripped a man down to raw nerves and survival instinct. Time to show Costa del Sol's monsters what real revolution felt like.

Through a broken window above, prayer chants mixed with morning smog. Circuit's last transmission still burned in his neural feed: "The data... what they did to those kids... has to reach Rivera..." He'd get it to the president. For Circuit. For Ghost. For Ramirez. For every enhanced child The Director had twisted into weapons.

But first, he had to remember how to be human again.