Boot steps echoed from everywhere and nowhere. Kasper pressed himself into shadow, his pulse thundering like the conveyors despite the stabbing pain in his ribs. Blood trickled past the makeshift bandages, each drop marking time like a countdown. The maintenance tunnels blurred together—baroque stonework and industrial decay melting into fever-hazed nightmares of carved angels with copper-stained eyes.

They were getting closer. The enhanced operators' cooling systems betrayed them—tiny mechanical whispers bouncing off ancient tile. Four, maybe five sets of footsteps. Professional. Methodical. Sweeping every corner with military precision.

"Check the maintenance shafts," Santos's voice carried through the darkness. "He's pulling his brother's tricks again!"

Kasper's hands shook as he pressed fresh gauze against torn stitches. The stolen medical supplies were running low—three patches left, maybe enough surgical tape for one more serious wound. The exoskeleton's knee screamed with each micro-adjustment, hydraulics fighting to compensate for damaged servos.

Something glinted through the industrial haze—a coal conveyor's control panel, still drawing power. Ancient machinery disappeared into darkness above and below, marking intersections with other processing lines. His father's words echoed in his memory: "Coal fouls sensors worse than EMPs, boy. Nature's best defense against their silicon gods."

The footsteps grew closer. Filter masks hissed with each breath—they'd learned from his steam trick. Adapted. But adaptation meant expectation. Meant patterns he could use.

His fingers found the emergency dump valve. Pain shot through his shoulder as he turned it, broken bones grinding together. The system shuddered to life with a sound like ancient things waking.

"Movement in Section D!" The shout was too close. "Target's—"

Kasper triggered the release.

Coal thundered through suddenly-active conveyors. The noise was overwhelming, but more importantly, the dust would blind their enhancement sensors. Create ghost signatures. Buy him precious seconds to think.

He limped through the chaos, each step a gamble between speed and silence. His vision swam as he fought to stay conscious. Another junction. Another blind choice. The exoskeleton's servos whined protest as he forced it forward.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Spread out!" Santos's voice warped through coal-choked air. Static swallowed his words as coal dust fouled their comms.

Through blurred vision, Kasper spotted salvation—maintenance robots, abandoned and dead. Worthless except for one thing: their diagnostic transponders. Torn stitches wept as he pried open panels—two transponders, three, a ghost army's worth.

"Multiple signatures!" Operator 6's voice cracked with static paranoia, his ocular implant flickering erratically. "Sir, he's showing up in three sections!"

"Impossible." Santos's snarl carried poorly-hidden frustration. "Find the real—"

Movement above. Enhanced operators repelling down maintenance shafts, their gear nearly silent. They were adapting faster now, learning his tricks. Time was running out.

The elevator appeared like a mirage through coal-filled air—brass doors half-hidden by decades of grime. The metal felt like his father's wedding band against his palm, cold and indelible. Kasper's heart slammed against broken ribs as he processed the choice. The panel bore no floor numbers, just industrial symbols he didn't recognize. Up meant security checkpoints. Automated defenses. Civilian zones they could lock down. Down meant maintenance. Old systems. Places where their enhancement sensors might fail completely.

"Target's signature just vanished!" Static-laden voices from above. "Section F is dark!"

Cool air whispered up from below, carrying the sharp bite of chemical preservatives. His trembling fingers found the most worn button—its patterns telling stories of decades of analog repairs. Where enhanced security rarely ventured.

The Director's voice cut through hidden speakers: "That sector was deemed obsolete—update your trackers! Containment teams, be advised—you'll be running blind down there."

Through fading vision, Kasper caught movement at both ends of the corridor. Operator 3's enhanced eyes darted nervously—first time seeing the old sectors. The rest of the team converged, their filter masks casting strange shadows through settling coal dust. No choice now. Up meant certain capture. Down meant unknown depths where their technological advantages meant nothing.

The elevator's analog gears gnashed like teeth as brass doors slowly opened. Kasper caught the sound of boots on metal—teams moving fast, closing the gap. Blood marked his path across art deco tiles as he dragged himself inside. A perfect trail leading right to him.

His fingers found the button. The only real choice. Better to face unknown darkness than the certainty of Processing.

Through the narrowing gap between closing doors, he caught final glimpses: enhanced operators rounding the corner, Santos shouting orders, carved angels watching with copper-stained eyes. Then darkness swallowed everything, and the elevator began to descend.

One floor.

Two floors.

Three.

Each level taking him deeper into Costa del Sol's industrial heart. Into places where even The Director seemed hesitant to follow.

Kasper pressed his back against cool brass, trying to slow his breathing, to think past pain and blood loss. They'd follow, of course. But down here, in the dark, everyone was equally blind. Everyone was equally human.

The Director feared these depths not for their darkness, but their indifference to gods and tech alike.

Somewhere in the dark, machinery older than The Director growled to life.