The first knock against the train doors wasn’t loud.

  It was wrong.

  Metal rang, not from impact, but from pressure—something testing the door, feeling for weakness. The passengers closest to it backed away instinctively, palms raised as if the thing on the other side could see surrender.

  Then the gunfire started.

  Shots slammed into the reinforced glass, spiderwebbing it in an instant. People screamed. Someone fell. Another voice begged—please, please, please—over and over, growing shrill with panic. The doors shuddered as something struck them again, harder this time, denting steel inward.

  Elias felt his breath seize in his chest.

  “No—no—” he whispered, backing up until his spine hit a seat. His hands shook violently, fingers numb, mind screaming that this couldn’t be happening again.

  Rhys stood frozen for half a second, staring at the door as if trying to understand how something that looked human could do that. The memory of the old woman’s smile burned behind his eyes.

  Another impact.

  The door buckled. The locking mechanism screamed, metal tearing loose with a sound like bone snapping.

  Amélia grabbed Rhys’s sleeve. Her face had gone pale, eyes wide and shining with fear she didn’t bother hiding. “No,” she said, voice breaking. “No, please—”

  The glass exploded inward.

  A figure forced its way through the shattered doorway, armorless, faceless in the dark—its movements jerky and deliberate. A rifle came up, firing blindly into the car. A man was hit and dropped instantly. Blood sprayed the seats. A child screamed so loudly it cut through everything else.

  Passengers surged away from the breach, trampling each other, clawing for space that didn’t exist. Hands slammed against windows. Someone tried to pry open a door that wasn’t there.

  “STOP!” someone shouted. “STOP IT!”

  The thing didn’t respond.

  Another figure punched through beside it, tearing metal apart with bare hands, shards raining down like glass snow. More shots. More screams. The train car became chaos—noise, smoke, fear folding in on itself.

  Elias slid down to the floor, curling in on himself for a heartbeat too long.

  Then Rhys grabbed his arm hard.

  “Move!” Rhys shouted, hauling him up. “Elias, MOVE!”

  Amélia was already pushing people aside, dragging a sobbing woman into cover, her hands slick with blood that wasn’t hers. Her heart hammered so hard she thought it might tear free of her chest. This wasn’t a battle. This was slaughter.

  The fake humans advanced through the car slowly, methodically, firing to clear space, punching through seats, tearing people from hiding. They didn’t rush. They didn’t hesitate.

  They knew there was nowhere to run.

  Elias stumbled as another shot cracked past his head. He screamed—not words, just sound—as Rhys pulled him down behind a row of overturned seats. Amélia dropped beside them, breath ragged, eyes blazing with terror and something sharper underneath.

  Outside the doors, more shapes moved in the dark.

  And the train kept rolling forward, carrying them straight into the nightmare again.

  Then the world ruptured.

  Something fell—no, impaled—from above with a sound like the sky being torn open.

  A massive blade punched through the train car from the ceiling down, a slab of metal so wide and heavy it split the car almost clean in two. The laughing fake human mid-aisle—its mouth stretched in that awful, human imitation of joy—didn’t even have time to turn.

  The blade took it through.

  Its body was severed instantly, the upper half sliding off the steel edge in a wet, boneless collapse. The rifle clattered uselessly to the floor as black fluid sprayed the walls and ceiling, hissing where it touched hot metal.

  The impact shook the entire train.

  Passengers were thrown from their feet. Seats tore loose. The lights burst overhead in a rain of sparks, plunging the car into red emergency glow and smoke.

  For a heartbeat—absolute silence.

  Then the blade moved.

  It tore sideways, ripping through seats, bodies, and steel alike as something outside wrenched it free. The remains of the fake human were dragged out with it, smeared across the torn doorway like refuse.

  A voice boomed through the tunnel—deep, amplified, unmistakably human.

  “Ironford United Front.

  All Schreitpanzer units—identified.

  Civilians, take cover.”

  The train door exploded outward as something enormous stepped into view.

  White armor, scarred and soot-stained. Four mechanical legs slammed into the tunnel floor with thunderous weight. Floodlights cut through the smoke, pinning the remaining fake humans like insects.

  A Warden.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Behind them, the tunnel shook again as something even heavier advanced—metal grinding, servos roaring, the silhouette of a Bulwark filling the tunnel mouth like a moving wall.

  The remaining fake humans reacted instantly—rifles snapping up—

  They didn’t get a chance.

  Gunfire erupted, precise and merciless. The Wardens moved as a unit, blades flashing, cannons barking. One fake human tried to charge and was flattened under a Warden’s leg. Another was pinned to the tunnel wall by a blade taller than a man.

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  It was over in seconds.

  Rhys stared, breath caught in his throat, heart hammering so hard it hurt. He felt it then—the weight of them, the difference between chaos and control.

  Amélia sagged against the seat, shaking, one hand clamped over her bleeding side. Elias just stared, mouth open, eyes wide with disbelief and relief crashing into each other.

  A Warden stepped forward, towering over the ruined car. Its cockpit hatch slid open with a hiss.

  A young man leaned out, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, eyes sharp and alive despite the carnage.

  He looked at the three of them—and smiled, just a little.

  “Hell of a ride,” he said lightly.

  “Anyone still breathing?”

  This was Captain Guren Valka.

  And everything had just changed.

  Guren’s Warden powered down with a low, controlled hum behind him.

  The cockpit hatch slid open, and he dropped lightly to the floor of the tunnel, boots crunching over glass and twisted metal. His uniform was crisp despite the soot—white and black plating fitted close to his frame, a strip of white cloth resting over one shoulder like a ceremonial sash that had no place in a massacre like this. Dark blue hair framed a sharp, angular face, eyes already moving, already measuring.

  He didn’t rush.

  He walked into the ruined train car with his hands folded behind his back, stepping over bodies with careful precision. His boots left faint red prints. He paused at the blade that had split the car in half, ran two fingers along its edge, then looked at the ceiling where it had punched through.

  “Tch,” he muttered. “Messy.”

  His gaze drifted across the scene—blood-smeared seats, shattered glass, civilians huddled together in shock. A woman rocking a child who wouldn’t stop crying. A man staring blankly at his hands like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

  Guren’s jaw tightened.

  “Schreitpanzer,” he said quietly, with genuine loathing. “Always turn everything they touch into a slaughterhouse.”

  He exhaled through his nose and continued forward.

  That was when he stopped.

  A man was crouched near the far end of the car, pressed into the corner between two seats. His hands were raised, shaking violently, eyes darting everywhere except at Guren.

  Guren tilted his head.

  “Hm.”

  He stepped closer, boots scraping softly.

  “Quick question,” Guren said lightly, almost cheerfully. “You left-handed or right-handed?”

  The man blinked. “W—what?”

  Guren leaned in a little, studying him. “No rush. Take your time.”

  “I—I don’t understand—”

  Guren’s eyes dropped.

  To the man’s forearms.

  There were no veins.

  Not faint ones. Not hidden ones. None at all.

  Guren sighed, disappointed. “Ah. That’s what I thought.”

  The man froze.

  Then he smiled.

  It was wrong immediately—too wide, too stretched, lips pulling back farther than skin should allow. His voice changed, smoothing out, losing its panic.

  “Clever,” it said. “You humans always miss that detail. Blood vessels are such a—how do you say—nuisance to replicate.”

  Black fluid rippled beneath the man’s skin. His arm twisted, splitting apart as something dark and liquid flowed outward, hardening midair into the shape of a rifle.

  The three friends froze.

  Amélia’s breath caught in her throat.

  Elias felt his legs lock.

  Rhys felt something twist deep in his chest.

  The thing raised its arm—

  —and Guren moved.

  Steel flashed.

  In one fluid motion, he drew a blade from the holster at his side, the metal singing as it cleared the sheath. He stepped in, calm as a surgeon, and drove the sword clean through the thing’s neck.

  The scream that followed was inhuman.

  The body convulsed, black liquid bursting from the wound, spilling onto the floor like oil. The smile melted, face collapsing inward as the form dissolved, sloughing off into a formless, twitching mess that evaporated into smoke and residue.

  Guren withdrew the blade and flicked it once, splattering dark droplets across the floor.

  He turned, sheathing the sword as if he’d just finished a routine inspection.

  “That’s why,” he said casually, “you don’t skip biology.”

  Only then did he look at the three of them.

  Rhys met his gaze, stunned. “How did you—”

  Guren smiled, softer this time. “Experience.” His eyes flicked briefly to Rhys’s bleeding shoulder, then to Amélia’s side, bound tight but still seeping red. “And paranoia. Keeps you alive.”

  He raised his hands slightly, palms open, voice easy.

  “Relax. You’re safe now. Ironford’s got you.”

  Behind him, Wardens moved to secure the tunnel, white armor standing firm against the dark. The Bulwark anchored itself near the breach, a silent guardian.

  Guren glanced back once more at the black stain where the thing had been, his expression hardening for just a second.

  “Schreitpanzer like pretending they’re human,” he said. “Problem is—”

  He looked back at them, eyes sharp and knowing.

  “Humans bleed.”

  A sound caught their ears—a sharp, deliberate crack of gunfire from outside the car.

  Rhys, Amélia, and Elias froze, hearts hammering. Through the shattered windows, they saw her: a tall woman moving with lethal grace, long black hair whipping around her face, her red eyes cold and unyielding. The same white uniform and black boots the UF soldiers wore gleamed even in the smoke and dust.

  Mara Kestrel.

  She knelt briefly, firing methodically at several figures lying against the tunnel wall. One small figure, a child, had been caught in her sweep, who disolved into a puddle of black mess. The flash of her weapon made the three of them flinch.

  Rhys’s stomach dropped. “Wait… are… are those real humans?” His voice shook. “They could be real…”

  Guren, standing casually behind them, glanced toward the scene, arms folded. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Relax. I’d bet my boots that they’re not. Otherwise, Mara’s aim would’ve missed every shot.”

  Rhys scowled, not satisfied. “Seriously. Are you joking? Tell me the truth!”

  Guren’s expression softened for a fraction of a second, his tone settling into something firm yet casual. “Alright. Out of the hundred bodies I counted before I got here… sixty are real. The rest are… Schreitpanzer.”

  Rhys blinked, processing the weight of that. Fifteen humans, the rest machines masquerading as flesh. The horror of the crowd outside—the screams, the blood, the fire—pressed in on them again.

  Guren glanced down at their wounds. “You three,” he said, voice sharper now, “come on. Enough sitting here like statues. My platoon can patch you up, get you moving. You’re not leaving the tunnel looking like this.”

  Amélia moved instinctively, keeping a protective hand near Rhys, while Elias hesitated, glancing warily at the carnage outside.

  “Don’t worry,” Guren added, with a hint of his usual teasing tone. “Try not to faint while you’re walking.”

  The three friends exchanged a glance. Elias muttered something under his breath, and Rhys huffed. “Fine. Let’s move. But don’t make me laugh, or I’ll trip over your boots.”

  Guren’s smirk widened. “Oh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  And with that, he led them toward the exit of the train car, the tunnel still alive with smoke, echoes of gunfire, and the distant, unrelenting pulse of the Stormbreaker beyond.

  As the three stepped out of the blood-soaked train car, Elias held Rhys and Amélia close, supporting them both by the shoulders. Their legs felt like lead, the adrenaline of the fight fading into trembling exhaustion.

  Mara stepped in behind them, her boots clicking against the concrete floor of the tunnel. Her red eyes swept over the three friends like a predator’s gaze, sharp and calculating. She spoke without preamble.

  “All of the Vorl?ufer have been neutralized,” she said, her voice calm but carrying the weight of cold efficiency.

  Rhys blinked, shaking his head slightly. “Wait… a… Vorl?ufer? What’s that?”

  Guren crouched down slightly to meet their eye level, letting a small smirk play on his face. “Think of them as wolves in sheep’s clothing. They look human… act human… but they aren’t. They’re part of the Schreitpanzer. Highly dangerous, almost impossible to detect until it’s too late.”

  Amélia’s fingers tightened around Rhys’s arm. Elias’s jaw clenched, his mind already racing ahead, thinking of how many more could be waiting in the darkness outside the tunnel.

  Mara’s gaze flicked to the three of them. “And these three,” she said slowly, tilting her head as she studied them like specimens, “you don’t happen to be one of them, do you?”

  Guren let out a soft, almost amused laugh. “No, Mara. They’re human. Not that anyone would blame you for checking twice.” His eyes glimmered with playful mockery, but there was steel beneath the joke.

  The three friends noticed it—the cold precision in Mara’s eyes, the way her gaze lingered just a moment too long. There was a terrifying clarity there, a clarity that made it obvious: she was someone who could kill without hesitation, without remorse, and still find the act perfectly normal.

  Amélia shivered slightly, not from cold but from instinctive unease. Rhys, still wincing from his shoulder wound, sensed it too, and though he didn’t speak, his stance tightened protectively.

  Guren’s smirk softened. “Relax. She’s dangerous, sure—but we’ve got this under control.”

  Yet even as he said it, Mara’s eyes never left them, and for a heartbeat, the three friends felt that chill of the world they’d only just glimpsed—the world where Schreitpanzer could wear human skin and walk unseen.