By the time the sun disappeared behind Central's walls, Ryn had slipped into a new identity.

Liam Bloodmane's attire was intentionally unremarkable—a dark hooded mantle and a mask, presumably to reduce the smell of corpses.

Ryn adjusted the mantle as he walked, letting it fall just enough to obscure his face.

No one stopped him.

Fritz followed half a step behind, helmet lowered, posture loose in a way that mimicked the guard's carelessness.

He was adapting faster than Ryn thought.

The guards at the holding block barely glanced their way.

A seal was raised.

Ryn mirrored the motion, presenting Liam's nameplate without a word.

The guard nodded immediately and stepped aside.

"Late run," he muttered.

"Ain't that better?" Ryn replied, keeping his voice flat.

That was all it took.

The guard sighed as the gates slid open, iron grinding softly as they parted.

Inside, the holding block was quieter than before. Lantern light flickered across stone, casting long shadows through the bars.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old blood, soaked so deep that no amount of scrubbing could ever clear the sin.

Ryn didn't slow.

Disposal teams weren't expected to hesitate.

As they passed, heads lifted behind the bars.

Some recognized the uniform.

Others didn't bother looking up at all.

Fritz's jaw tightened, but he kept moving.

They reached the central desk without incident. A clerk glanced at his name plate, stamped a form, and slid it back across the counter without asking a single question.

Ryn took the paper and turned away without one either.

As they moved deeper into the block, he felt it settle in. How easy it was and how efficient Central had gotten about the disposal of captives.

The corridor opened into a broad chamber.

Ryn had expected more cells, but was met with worktables.

Heavy wood scarred by knife marks and old burns filled the space, arranged beneath hanging lamps and dangling chains.

Glassware cluttered every surface, flasks and vials all holding liquids of slightly different colors. Shelves sagged under jars of preserved organs, powdered crystals, and dried herbs whose names Ryn didn't want to know.

However, the most gut-wrenching detail…was that all the researchers present were human.

The realization hit like a blow.

Men and women in plain coats moved between tables calmly. One adjusted a needle, while another recorded notes on test subjects.

Fritz stopped.

From the outside, no one noticed–but Ryn felt it immediately. The tension in his shoulder and shift in his breathing told him everything he needed to know.

He was already watching Fritz's hand drift toward his weapon.

Ryn caught his wrist.

Hard.

Fritz flinched, eyes snapping to him.

"Ryn—"

"Not here," Ryn said quietly.

One of the humans glanced up at the sound, eyes flicking to Ryn's attire.

Then she looked away.

Fritz's jaw trembled. "They're doing this willingly."

"Yes," Ryn said.

"And you're just—what? Letting it happen?"

Ryn leaned closer, his grip tightening just enough to hurt.

"If you kill them," he said evenly, "nothing changes."

Fritz froze.

"They're not the ones deciding this," Ryn continued. "They're tools, expendables."

His eyes flicked across the room.

"The captives die faster. And we never get another chance."

Fritz swallowed hard, chest heaving.

One of the tables was occupied.

A beastfolk male lay strapped to it, veins glowing dark beneath his skin. Ryn recognized him instantly.

The same horned beastman who'd come out from between the shelves last night. The one who'd looked at him with hope in his eyes.

A human assistant adjusted a needle beneath the man's ribs while another murmured observations and wrote them down.

The captive screamed, leather strap biting into his mouth.

No one reacted.

Both Ryn and Fritz turned away from the scene.

"Let's go."

They passed through a narrow archway at the far end of the lab.

The noise dropped off immediately.

The room beyond was darker, lit only by a single hanging lamp. Storage shelves lined the walls, empty crates, folded tarps, and discarded material filled the room.

And in the center of it—

People.

A whole group of captives stood clustered together, pressed into the shadows. Unbound, unsedated, and alive.

Ryn stopped.

So did Fritz.

There were at least thirty of them now.

They were injured, but not as badly as the first group Ryn had seen. Some looked exhausted, frightened, but intact.

For a heartbeat, Ryn couldn't reconcile it.

Then he saw her.

Mira stood at the edge of the group, one hand raised slightly, as if she'd just finished signaling them to stay quiet. Her posture was alert, eyes tracking the doorway the moment Ryn and Fritz entered.

Relief flickered across her face.

"You took long enough," she whispered.

Fritz stared at the captives, then at her. "How—"

"Later," Mira cut in softly. "They're not on the active list."

Ryn's gaze moved slowly across the room.

How did she hide this many captives, less than one corridor away from the lab?

One of the captives shifted, flinching at the sound of his voice. Mira lifted her hand again, calming them without looking back.

"They're the ones they haven't 'processed' yet," she continued. "Perfect to transport out."

Ryn let the moment pass.

Mira hadn't said anything wrong.

If anyone knew the streets of Central inside and out, it would be her. And if she knew that much, then she'd know how disposal worked too.

It was plausible.

And convenient.

Ryn turned away before the thought could settle.

"Alright," he said quietly. "Good work."

Mira looked up at him, surprised. Just a little.

"We'll talk later," he said. "For now, we move."

He stepped past her, already thinking through the next phase, but a part of his attention stayed behind—tracking her movements in the corner of his eye.

Not suspicion yet, just caution.

Ryn and Fritz stepped out and into a nearby door.

The passage widened again, opening into what looked like a loading bay beneath Central—if it can even be called that.

A long, sunken chamber stretched out before them, its ceiling arched high enough to swallow sound. Stone platforms flanked a pair of recessed tracks that vanished into darkness at either end.

Rails stripped bare of their metal and half buried beneath grime lay on top of said tracks.

Two wagons parked directly atop the old tracks, wheels fitted with spacers so they sat level. The horses were harnessed awkwardly, hooves planted between the rails as they stood with patient but empty stares.

A pair of guards waited near what looked like a booth made of glass. One straightened when he caught sight of Ryn's nameplate.

"Disposal team?" he asked.

Ryn inclined his head.

"Late batch," he said.

The guard snorted. "Aren't they always."

"We'll handle loading," Ryn added.

The guard waved a hand and turned back to his companion, conversation drifting away like echoes down an empty tunnel.

"This is it."

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