The red waves were actively washing over the sleeping residents of Aunt Maeve’s soup kitchen, their brain waves visualised as delicate, green threads that were being systematically twisted, rewritten, and dissolved under the force of the corporate frequency.

Zeke stared through his single functioning eye—his right—as the nauseating crimson waves pulsed from the rotating transmitter on the matte-black OmniCom van. His left eye remained a gray screen of dead, flickering static, a persistent reminder of the feedback loop that had scorched his optic nerve during the clinic raid. His raw scalp incisions, infected by the toxic sewer water they had crawled through to escape Sergeant Briggs’s surface sweeps, throbbed with a rhythmic, hot agony. A clear, yellow fluid seeped from beneath his crude bandages, mixing with the cold sweat on his neck. His left hand twitched in that relentless, three-beat tremor—the digital echo of the biological EMP he had triggered hours ago.

"We have only minutes," Zeke whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. He clutched his father’s silver locket in his right pocket, drawing strength from the cool, tarnished metal. It was his only anchor, the physical reference point that kept his remaining memories of his sister Clara from dissolving into the static of his own failing mind.

Cole nodded, his broad, grease-stained shoulders tensing under his heavy leather welding apron. In his calloused hands, he held the EMP Distraction Grenade—a crude, heavy cylinder packed with salvaged capacitors and battery cores. "Jax, stay on the fire escape. Keep your eyes on the street. If Vance's cruisers show up, you whistle. Don't use the comms. Standard tech is useless in this noise."

Jax, shivering in his damp orange windbreaker, nodded frantically and slipped back into the shadows of the rusted metal stairs of the warehouse. His youthful face was pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and determination.

Cole and Zeke crept down the wet alley. The air here was suffocating, smelling of stagnant sulfur, hot silicone, and the bitter residue of the copper-smelting furnaces that roared in the distance. The massive armored van hummed, its heavy tires resting in puddles of acidic rainwater. Inside the vehicle’s cabin, they could see the faint, sterile glow of server racks and diagnostic monitors. The Screamer, the cold corporate technician, was likely monitoring the compliance metrics, completely indifferent to the slow cognitive murder taking place in the tenements above.

"Now," Zeke hissed, his Spectrum Sight tracking the red waves as they reached their peak, twisting the delicate green threads of Aunt Maeve’s mind. "Throw it!"

Cole stepped into the open alley, his heavy boots splashing in the toxic puddle. With a low grunt, he hurled the EMP Distraction Grenade directly at the van's rotating transmitter.

But before the cylinder could impact, the rear cargo doors of the armored van burst open with a pneumatic hiss.

Out of the darkness of the cargo bay stepped a monster.

It was Iron-Clad Heavy #1. The non-verbal corporate soldier was massive, clad in thick, matte-black power armor that made him look like a walking block of industrial concrete. He moved with a terrifying, silent precision, his hydraulic joints emitting only a low, pressurized hiss. In his left arm, he held a heavy-duty tactical ballistic shield—a massive slab of reinforced alloy glowing with a faint, blue capacitor grid.

The Heavy didn't hesitate. He thrust the ballistic shield forward, intercepting the EMP grenade mid-air.

The cylinder detonated against the shield with a sharp, crackling roar. A dome of blue electromagnetic energy erupted, but instead of disabling the vehicle, the surge was completely absorbed by the shield's grounded capacitor grid. The blue arcs flickered across the matte-black alloy and died, leaving the Heavy completely unscathed.

The Heavy’s visor glowed a cold, mechanical red. Without a sound, he raised his high-velocity automatic rifle with his right hand.

"Cole, get down!" Zeke screamed.

The Heavy fired. The deafening roar of supersonic rounds shattered the quiet of the alley, the muzzle flash illuminating the yellow-gray smog in violent bursts. High-velocity bullets tore into the brick walls, chipping concrete and spraying sharp fragments. Cole lunged behind a rusted pile of metal scrap, the bullets chewing through the iron sheets just inches above his head. He was pinned, unable to move as the relentless stream of fire kept him trapped.

Desperate, Cole tried to crawl low, attempting to use his heavy-duty steel pipe wrench to short-circuit the Heavy's exposed knee joints. He lunged forward through the mud, swinging the heavy tool with all his strength. But the thick, military-grade power armor didn't even dent. The Heavy didn't even look down; he simply swept his armored boot in a short, brutal arc. The impact caught Cole squarely in the ribs, throwing his heavy frame back into the scrap pile with a sickening crack. Cole collapsed into the mud, gasping for air, a cracked rib screaming with agony as he clutched his side.

Zeke watched in horror. They were completely outmatched. The EMP had failed, Cole was incapacitated, and the cognitive wave was about to hit stage-three. He could feel the low, nauseating hum vibrating in his own skull, threatening to dissolve his remaining memories of his sister Clara. He could feel the cold, synthetic voice of the Screamer laughing in his head, a phantom echo of corporate arrogance.

He had to act.

Zeke looked up at the wet brick wall of the alley. Running along the concrete was a thick, high-voltage utility line that fed electricity directly from the smelting core to the corporate sector. It was uninsulated, carrying thousands of volts of raw, uncooled power.

Using his Spectrum Sight, Zeke visualized the line as a burning river of blinding green light. It was volatile, dangerous, and completely unshielded.

*The Siphon-Tapping Method.*

It was a suicide protocol. A single grounding error would instantly vaporize his physical body. But it was their only chance.

Zeke dragged his numb left leg forward, scrambling toward the metal utility pole. His hands, blistered and raw from the sulfuric acid of the sewers, burned as he gripped the cold iron struts. He climbed up, his muscles screaming, his infected scalp incisions weeping fluid as the intense electromagnetic field of the high-voltage line began to interact with his copper crown.

The hum in his skull grew to a deafening shriek. He pulled his pocket tools from his duster, his hands trembling violently.

Below him, the Heavy detected the massive energy spike. The non-verbal soldier turned his weapon away from Cole, his red visor locking onto Zeke’s climbing figure.

The Heavy fired.

A burst of high-velocity rounds chewed through the metal struts of the pole. One bullet grazed Zeke’s shoulder, tearing through his patched duster and slicing a deep, bloody furrow into his flesh. The impact nearly threw him off the pole, but he gritted his teeth, his right hand clutching the high-voltage line with a desperate, white-knuckled grip.

He stripped the uninsulated wire.

Bright blue sparks erupted, illuminating the dark alley in a violent, flickering glare. Zeke connected his Decryption Deck directly to the raw copper line, his body becoming the physical bridge between the high-voltage grid and his own biological scalp array.

"Aghhhhh!"

The scream was torn from his throat, a raw, primal sound of absolute agony. The raw, uninsulated electricity surged through his arms, his nervous system, and straight into his parietal lobe. The copper crown embedded in his scalp flared with a blinding, white-green glare that lit up the entire alley. His skin blistered around the implants, the smell of scorched hair and burning flesh filling the damp air.

His co-processor screamed with static.

*Warning: Scalp Array Temperature: 41.9°C. Neural necrosis imminent. Cardiac arrest warning.*

Zeke didn't stop. He channeled the massive, volatile surge directly through his Decryption Deck, directing the high-voltage blast straight at the Heavy’s rear power pack, which was directly linked to the jamming truck's transmitter.

The raw electrical torrent bypassed the Heavy's ballistic shield, striking the power pack on his back.

The power core of the jamming truck detonated with a deafening, metallic roar. A blinding flash of green light erupted, illuminating the yellow-gray smog of the Shallows like a dying star. The Heavy’s power armor sparked violently, his hydraulic joints locking as the massive surge fried his internal systems. He collapsed forward into the mud, a silent, inert block of metal.

But the victory was catastrophic.

Zeke fell from the utility pole, crashing onto the wet tar of the alley. His body was seizing violently, his limbs locking in rigid, erratic spasms. The copper crown on his scalp was sparking, throwing off bright green arcs of static as a critical thermal runaway threatened to stop his heart. His right eye rolled back, his breath rattling in his throat as the blinding white steam rose from his blistered neck.