While Leo was busy having a deeply personal and probably fatal conversation with a thunderstorm, Team Gamma was a pair of ghosts moving through the flooded, empty streets at the back of the tower.

The alley was a canyon of wet, black brick and howling wind, the roar of the storm a perfect cover for their silent, stealthy approach.

"Okay, so the plan is still 'sneak in through the basement'," Miles's voice crackled in Clara's ear, a low, sarcastic murmur against the howl of the wind.

"I just want to be sure."

"Because I'm starting to feel a theme developing here."

"Alleys. Basements. Ventilation shafts."

"Our entire revolution is taking place in the parts of buildings that no one ever wants to clean."

"It's very glamorous."

Clara didn't smile.

Her face was a mask of cold, professional focus, her eyes scanning every shadow, every doorway.

"The diversion is working," she said, her voice a quiet, steady anchor in the chaos.

"Kael's team has drawn every primary and secondary security unit to the ground floor."

"The sub-levels are a ghost town."

"The path is clear."

He could see it himself, through the eyes of his clone.

The tower was a hornet's nest, and Kael had just kicked it with a steel-toed boot.

The red dots representing the security forces were a frantic, swarming mass, all converging on the lobby.

The lower levels were dark.

Empty.

Quiet.

"It's too quiet," he thought, a familiar, cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach.

"I hate it when it's quiet."

"Quiet is where the bad things live."

"Usually, they're wearing expensive suits and have really good lawyers."

They reached the maintenance hub, a brutalist, windowless block of reinforced concrete that looked more like a bunker than an office building.

The door was a slab of thick, unforgiving steel, with a single, glowing electronic lock panel.

"Leo, we're in position," Clara whispered into her comms.

"You're up."

"On it," Leo's voice replied from a thousand feet above them, a little breathless, a little shaky, and a lot terrified.

"Just give me a second to… you know… re-evaluate the entire concept of gravity and my relationship with it."

"Okay, I'm good."

"Sending the first bypass code now."

The lock panel in front of them flickered, a cascade of glowing green code scrolling across its small screen.

There was a soft, satisfying click as the magnetic lock disengaged.

"We're in," Miles whispered, his hand on the heavy, cold steel of the door.

He was about to push it open, to take the first, irreversible step into the lion's den.

He was about to be a hero.

And then, the universe, which had a very sick and very twisted sense of humor, decided to remind him who was really in charge.

A new sound echoed from inside the maintenance hub.

A sound that was not on any of their schematics.

A sound that was not a part of their perfect, brilliant, and deeply flawed plan.

It was a low, heavy, and deeply final-sounding thud.

Miles froze, his hand hovering an inch from the door.

He looked at Clara, his eyes wide with a sudden, dawning horror that had nothing to do with killer robots or lightning storms.

Another thud.

And another.

A series of them, like the slow, deliberate closing of a series of giant, steel teeth.

The electronic lock on the door, which had been glowing a soft, welcoming green, suddenly flashed a bright, angry, and deeply insulting red.

The words "ACCESS DENIED" appeared on the screen, a final, digital middle finger.

And then, a voice crackled to life over a hidden, external speaker.

A voice that was not a part of their team.

A voice that was not a part of their plan.

A voice that was smug.

A voice that was hateful.

A voice that was filled with the triumphant, petty, and deeply satisfying glee of a spoiled little boy who had just gotten his revenge.

It was the voice of Julian Cross.

"Looking for this, Vane?" Julian's voice taunted, the sound distorted and tinny, but the pure, unadulterated malice coming through with perfect clarity.

"I knew you were too much of a coward for a direct approach."

"I knew you'd try to sneak in through the basement, like the little sewer rat you are."

Miles just stared at the red, glowing lock, a cold, quiet, and deeply murderous rage beginning to build in his chest.

He had been so focused on the king.

He had completely forgotten about the spoiled, vengeful, and surprisingly clever little prince.

High in his father's command center, Julian stood before a bank of security monitors, a cruel, triumphant smile on his face.

He had disobeyed a direct order.

He had taken a squad of his father's elite masters and had come down to the sub-levels, convinced that Vane's real attack would be a subtle one.

He had been right.

And the feeling of being right, of finally, finally outsmarting his rival, was a heady, intoxicating poison.

He pressed the button on his comms unit, his voice a sneer of pure, victorious hatred.

"The basement," he declared, his voice echoing through the rainy, deserted alley. "Is officially closed."

A final, deafening, and deeply final-sounding CLANG echoed from inside the maintenance hub as the last, one-hundred-ton blast door slammed into place.

Julian paused, savoring the moment, the sweet, perfect taste of his victory.

"Have fun outside," he finished, his voice a low, dismissive purr.

The speaker clicked off.

Silence.

The plan was in ruins.

They were cut off.

Their perfect, synchronized, three-pronged attack had just had one of its prongs unceremoniously, and very completely, snapped off.

And they were trapped outside in the storm, exposed, vulnerable, and completely, utterly useless.

Miles stared at the dead, red lock, at the symbol of his own spectacular failure.

He had been played.

By Julian.

The thought was so infuriating, so deeply, profoundly humiliating, that a low, dangerous growl escaped his lips.

"Okay," he thought, his internal monologue no longer sarcastic, no longer amused, but a low, cold, and deeply dangerous whisper.

"That's it."

"The prince just signed his own death warrant."

He looked at the solid, unmoving, and deeply insulting steel door.

He pulled back his fist.

He was about to introduce Julian Cross to a new, and very loud, entry protocol.

But then, Clara's hand was on his arm, her grip firm, her touch a sudden, shocking point of calm in the middle of his rising storm.

"No, Miles," she said, her voice a quiet, steady command. "Not like this."

"This is what he wants."

"He wants you to be the monster."

"Don't give him the satisfaction."

He looked at her, at the rain plastering her hair to her face, at the fierce, unwavering strength in her eyes.

She was right.

Of course, she was right.

He let his hand fall to his side, the rage receding, replaced by a cold, clear, and deeply focused calm.

The back door was closed.

Fine.

He looked up at the monstrous, black, and impossibly high tower, at the storm that was raging at its peak, at the tiny, fragile spire where his friend was about to either save them all or be turned into a piece of smoking charcoal.

He looked at the sheer, vertical, and completely unscalable wall of glass and steel.

He looked at Clara, and a slow, cold, and deeply insane idea began to form in his mind.

"Okay," he said, his voice a low, quiet whisper that was almost lost in the howl of the wind.

"He closed the basement."

He took a deep breath.

"Let's try the front door."

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