The red light on the lock panel wasn't just a warning.

It was an insult.

It was a glowing, digital monument to Julian Cross's petty, triumphant spite.

Miles stared at it, the cold rain plastering his hair to his forehead, the howl of the storm a distant second to the furious, roaring silence in his own head.

"Okay," his internal monologue whispered, the voice no longer sarcastic, no longer amused, but a low, cold, and deeply dangerous thing.

"So, that happened."

"The prince locked the basement."

"He even left a little voice message, just to make sure we knew how clever he was."

"That's nice."

He pulled back his fist, the faint, familiar blue light of a [Pulse Break] beginning to gather around his knuckles.

He was about to introduce Julian Cross, and the very concept of a reinforced steel door, to a new and very loud entry protocol.

He was about to solve this problem the way he solved most of his problems.

By punching it until it stopped being a problem.

And then, a hand was on his arm.

Clara's.

Her grip was 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 that cut through the roar of the wind.

He looked at her, at the rain tracing paths down her face, at the fierce, unwavering strength in her eyes.

"This is what he wants," she said, her voice dropping, becoming more intense.

"He wants you to be a blunt instrument."

"Don't give him the satisfaction."

He looked at his fist, at the barely contained kinetic energy swirling around it.

He looked at the stupid, red, insulting door.

He looked back at her.

She was right.

Of course, she was right.

It was deeply, profoundly, and consistently infuriating how often she was right.

He let his hand fall to his side, the blue light of the [Pulse Break] fizzling out into nothing.

The rage receded, not vanishing, but being locked away in a cold, quiet cage, saved for later.

It was replaced by the cold, clear, and deeply focused calm of the ghost.

The back door was closed.

Fine.

He looked up.

He tilted his head back, letting the cold, hard drops of rain hit his face.

His gaze traced a path up the side of the Cross Corp tower, a sheer, vertical, and completely unscalable wall of black glass and steel that disappeared into the heart of the storm.

He saw the tiny, fragile spire at the very top, where his friend was currently engaged in what was either an act of supreme bravery or a very elaborate and very final act of suicide.

He looked at the sheer, impossible wall.

And a new plan, a terrible, insane, and deeply beautiful plan, 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 turned to look at Clara, a slow, cold, and deeply insane smile touching his lips.

"He closed the basement."

He took a deep breath, the cold, wet air a welcome shock to his system.

"Let's try a window."

"On the eightieth floor."

Clara just stared at him, her analytical mind trying to process the sheer, unadulterated madness of what he was suggesting.

"Miles," she said, her voice the calm, reasonable tone of someone trying to talk a friend out of juggling chainsaws. "That is a thousand feet of sheer glass."

"In a hurricane."

"We don't have climbing gear."

"The probability of… that working," she finished, her voice laced with a profound, and deeply logical, skepticism, "is statistically negligible."

"Probably," he agreed, his smile not faltering in the slightest.

He walked over to the base of the tower and placed his hand flat against the cold, wet glass.

He closed his eyes, focusing.

He didn't reach for a blade.

He didn't reach for a shield.

He reached for the core of his power, the raw, kinetic energy that lived in his bones.

But he didn't unleash it.

He tamed it.

He held it.

He gave it a new, and very strange, purpose.

"So, if a big [Pulse Break] is a punch," he thought, his mind a quiet, focused laboratory of impossible physics, "what's a very small, very continuous one?"

He let a tiny, controlled stream of kinetic energy flow into his palm.

[LOW-POWER KINETIC OUTPUT: 1%. SUSTAINED.]

His hand began to vibrate.

A low, humming, almost invisible vibration that was less of a shake and more of a state of being.

He pressed his hand against the glass.

And it stuck.

It wasn't a magnetic attraction.

It wasn't an adhesive.

The micro-kinetic vibrations were creating a localized friction field, a temporary, molecular-level bond between his skin and the glass.

He was sticking to the wall.

He opened his eyes and looked back at Clara, his smile widening into a full-blown, reckless, and deeply triumphant grin.

"Who needs climbing gear," he said, "when you've got physics?"

He took his other hand and did the same, then his feet.

He was a human spider, clinging to the side of a skyscraper in the middle of a storm.

"Okay, so this is officially the craziest thing I have ever done," his internal monologue observed, a voice of pure, unadulterated, and deeply satisfied awe.

"And that is a very, very high bar."

Clara just stared, her brilliant, logical mind completely, and utterly, short-circuited.

"Get on," he said, his voice a simple, unquestionable command.

She hesitated for only a second.

She looked at the impossible boy clinging to the side of the impossible wall.

She looked at the dark, empty, and very safe-looking alley.

And she made her choice.

She walked over, her face a mask of pale, resolute terror.

She climbed onto his back, her arms wrapping around his neck, her legs around his waist.

Her body was a small, warm, and very real weight against his.

An anchor.

Even here.

"Hold on tight," he said, his voice a little strained from the extra weight.

"No problem there," she whispered into his ear, her voice a tight, terrified thing. "I plan on holding on until I am either safely on solid ground or my fingers fall off."

"Whichever comes first."

He smiled.

And then, he started to climb.

It was a slow, terrifying, and deeply unnatural process.

Hand over hand.

Foot over foot.

A silent, vertical ascent up the face of a glass monster.

The wind was a physical, living thing, trying to rip them from the building, trying to throw them into the screaming void below.

The rain was a cold, blinding sheet of water that made the already slick glass feel like a sheet of ice.

Far below, the city was a blur of smeared, distant lights, a forgotten world they were leaving behind.

"Just a friendly reminder," Leo's voice crackled over their comms, a frantic, high-pitched counterpoint to their silent, terrifying climb. "I am currently being pursued by five elite, military-grade killing machines who seem to have a personal and deeply offensive disagreement with my continued existence!"

"So, you know, no pressure!"

"But if you guys have a plan B, now would be a great time to share it with the group!"

"We're working on it, Leo," Clara replied, her voice remarkably calm, considering she was currently clinging to the side of a skyscraper like a terrified backpack.

"Just stay alive for a few more minutes."

"Oh, is that all?" Leo's voice squeaked back. "Just stay alive? Why didn't I think of that? It's a brilliant plan! So simple! So elegant!"

Miles ignored them.

He was focused.

He was a machine.

Left hand.

Right hand.

Left foot.

Right foot.

The rhythm was a prayer.

The climb was an eternity.

They passed the fortieth floor.

The fiftieth.

The city was a toy set below them now.

The storm was no longer above them.

They were in it.

They were climbing into the heart of the thunder.

And then, just as a new, impossibly close flash of lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the entire world in a brilliant, stark, and deeply terrifying white, they heard it.

A shout over the comms.

A single, triumphant, and deeply, deeply relieved word.

It was Leo's voice.

"It's in!" he screamed, his voice a ragged, breathless cry of pure, unadulterated victory.

"The Wraith is in the machine!"

And in that instant, the entire tower, the monstrous, monolithic symbol of Silas Cross's power, flickered.

The lights in a thousand windows stuttered.

And died.

A cheer, a raw, ragged, and deeply satisfying sound, erupted over the alliance's comms channel.

Victory.

It was a small victory.

A temporary victory.

But it was a victory nonetheless.

And then, just as the last of the cheer faded away, a new sound filled their ears.

A sound that was far, far more terrifying than the roar of the storm.

It was the sound of silence.

Leo's comm channel had cut out.

It wasn't static.

It wasn't a scream.

It was just… dead air.

The ghost in the machine was gone.

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