They chose a night when the moon was thin and the wind was high.
Three days after the protest, two after Kira’s memories. Long enough for the media frenzy to spin into its next cycle, short enough that Kalugin’s security hadn’t had time to fully reconfigure.
“Tonight,” Irina had said, her voice clipped through the earpiece. “We… cut.”
Mira found herself standing again in the shadow of the old fish cannery, the building looming like a bad decision.
She wore dark clothes, a black knit cap, her warmest boots. Her hands shook inside her gloves, but her stride was steady as she moved with the others along the river wall.
The “others” this time were not students with slogans.
Irina. Kira. Sergei. Oleg. Two more vampires whose names Mira hadn’t caught but whose presence pressed on her skin like static.
And Aleksandr.
Humans had always fantasized about what an assembly of vampires would look like: cloaks, red eyes, theatrical menace.
This was… quieter. Scarves. Coats. Gloved hands. The only truly inhuman thing was the way they moved: soundless, precise, like a pack of big cats.
“Mira,” Aleksandr murmured at her side. “You stay… with me.”
“Overprotective,” she muttered back.
“Realistic,” he said.
They slipped in through the same riverside door as before. The lock was the only thing that had changed; it was newer, shinier.
It still crumbled under Irina’s hand like sugar.
Inside, the hum of machines was louder.
“He’s ramped up,” Kira whispered. “Smell that?”
Mira inhaled.
Chemicals. Disinfectant. Hot metal. A faint, coppery undertone that made her stomach roll.
“Plan,” Oleg grunted.
Irina nodded.
“Sergei, Kira,” she said. “Upper floor. Secure… exits. Oleg, with me. We… go… to the… core. Aleksandr…”
She looked at him, then at Mira.
“…you… and your… historian… handle… the… records,” she said. “Burn… or… steal. Whichever… hurts… more.”
Mira swallowed. “I thought—”
“You are… not… going… into… that… room,” Irina said, voice brooking no argument. “You’ve… seen… enough… in your… head. Leave… the… physical… to… us.”
“And if you need… me,” Mira shot back.
“We will… scream,” Sergei said cheerfully. “Very… loudly.”
“Listen… for it,” Kira added.
Aleksandr’s jaw ticked. “If you… die… in there…” he began.
“…you… will… be… very… angry,” Oleg finished dryly. “We know.”
“Do not… waste… this… on… anger,” Irina said. “Save… it… for… cutting.”
Mira had seen wolves look less focused before a kill.
Irina and Oleg moved toward the metal door that led up to the lab levels. Sergei and Kira melted into the shadows of a different stairwell.
Mira and Aleksandr veered toward a side corridor.
“Records?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “He… keeps… data. He is… proud… of it. That… is… a weakness.”
They found the file room on the second sub-basement level, tucked behind what had once been a storage area for salt.
It was almost comically mundane: metal shelving units, boxes, file cabinets with little plastic labels. A cheap desk with a computer on it, screensaver bouncing a corporate logo.
Mira’s fingers itched.
“Five minutes?” she asked.
“Less,” he said, head cocked. “Their… attention… is… elsewhere… now. It will… not… stay… that way.”
She went to work.
Years of archival training kicked in, honed now by the urgency of someone who knew precisely what her enemies wanted to hide.
She didn’t have time to lovingly catalogue. She scanned labels, grabbed anything related to “Subject,” “Protocol,” “UV Trial,” “Morozov,” “Genetic.”
“Here,” Aleksandr said, hauling a box down effortlessly. “These… smell… older. Paper… from… the… 40s. 50s.”
Her heart thudded.
“We can’t carry all this,” she panted, arms already straining under the weight of three thick folders.
“Burn?” he suggested.
“Not yet,” she said. “Not… without copies. We need… proof… more… than… fire.”
He nodded.
He moved to the computer, frowning.
“No… reflection,” he murmured.
“It doesn’t need one,” she said, sliding a USB stick into the port. “All I need is access.”
The machine woke with a beep, demanding a password.
She typed one.
Wrong.
Another.
Wrong.
She exhaled, forced her mind to calm.
“People reuse,” she muttered. “Birthdays. Pet names. Vanity…”
She typed KALUGIN1981.
Access denied.
She tried ARSENY1970.
No go.
“Think like him,” Aleksandr said quietly. “What does he… believe… about himself?”
She stared at the field.
POWER.
She typed VICTOR.
No.
KING.
No.
She almost laughed, despite everything.
“Of course,” she muttered, typing one more.
MIRACLE.
The desktop flashed open.
“You’ve got to be *kidding* me,” she said. “His password is—”
“Megalomania,” Aleksandr said. “Always… predictable.”
She had no time to browse. She went straight to what she needed: directories labeled “Trials,” “Subject Data,” “Phase III.”
She dragged as much as she could onto the USB, watching the transfer bar crawl.
Hurry.
Above, a muffled crash. A shout. The faint, distant sound of breaking glass.
“Speed,” Aleksandr urged.
The bar ticked: 60%, 71%, 83%.
Her breathing sounded too loud.
A scream cut through the building.
Not human.
Sergei or Kira. Or Oleg. Or—
The sound raised the hair on her arms.
“Almost,” she whispered, fisting her free hand.
100%.
“Done,” the machine announced cheerfully.
She yanked the stick out, pocketing it.
“Go,” Aleksandr said.
They left the files in chaos—enough to slow any attempt to reconstruct—but didn’t torch the room.
Evidence mattered.
They moved back toward the main basement corridor.
The noise above had intensified.
Something crashed down the stairs—a metal cart, wheels buckling, papers and vials scattering.
A body tumbled after it, hitting the landing with a sickening thud.
Human.
Male. Lab coat. Neck at an angle no neck should be.
Mira swallowed bile.
“Do not… stop,” Aleksandr said.
They climbed.
On the lab floor, the smell hit them first.
Burned flesh. Ozone. Blood.
Mira’s vision swam.
She had *not* promised herself she wouldn’t see this.
She stepped into a hallway that had felt like a nightmare in her mind and now was worse—because it was real.
Doors hung open. Emergency lights flickered. Alarms wailed, high and insistent.
The main chamber—the one with the table and the tank—was ahead, its door ajar.
Irina stood in the doorway, backlit by harsh lab light.
Her posture was very still.
“I told you…” she said without turning, “…to stay… out.”
“We got… the data,” Mira said, voice shaking. “If you… fail… they… *erase.*”
Irina exhaled, a sound like steam.
“Then… come,” she said. “See… what your… ‘evidence’… cost.”
Mira stepped past her.
Aleksandr followed, staying half a step behind, as if ready to catch her if her knees gave out.
The room was a battlefield.
The UV array hung crooked, glass shattered, wires sparking. Two bodies lay under it: one human, face melted in a way she didn’t want to look at too closely, and one… not.
Not quite like her nightmares—but close.
Subject 17.
He was off the table now, or what was left of him was. His restraints dangled broken. His skin was a patchwork of scars and fresh burns, but his eyes—they were open.
Empty.
Whatever had made him more than a subject was gone.
Irina’s jaw was clenched so hard a muscle in her cheek jumped.
“We were… too late… for him,” she said. “They… liked… him… too much. Tested… too long.”
Mira’s throat burned.
The tank…
She turned, dread coiling.
It was cracked.
Not shattered. But fractured, a spiderweb of lines running across its thick glass. Fluid leaked, pooling darkly on the floor.
Inside, the shape floated, curled, still.
“Alive?” she whispered.
“Unclear,” Oleg said from the other side of the tank, voice flat. His hands were on his hips, coat splattered with something that looked like oil and wasn’t.
Sergei perched on a counter, swinging his legs, a cut above one eye, grinning like a demon.
“That was… fun,” he said. “Messy. But… fun.”
Kira stood near the table, chest heaving, skin smoking slightly where a stray ray of UV had kissed her. Her eyes were black.
“Where is… he,” Aleksandr asked. “Kalugin.”
“Not here,” Irina said. The fury in those two words was a living thing.
“Of course,” Mira said bitterly. “He never gets his hands dirty.”
“He sent… one of… his… pets,” Sergei said. “Young. Full of… himself. Thought… he… could… take… us.”
“Where is he now?” Aleksandr asked quietly.
Sergei flicked his chin toward a dark corner.
Mira’s eyes followed.
For a second, she saw nothing.
Then her gaze adjusted.
A shape lay crumpled in the shadow, limbs at odd angles.
When he moved his head, light caught on his eyes.
Red. Faintly.
New vampire. Young. Turned recklessly.
“He’s alive,” she said.
“For now,” Kira said.
“He’s… one of them,” Oleg said. “Kalugin’s… breed. Made… for… obeying. For… taking… orders… and… blood.”
“Orphans,” Sergei said, voice dripping. “Strays. Club kids. The ones who think… it’s… glamorous.”
Mira stepped toward him before she fully decided to.
“Mira,” Aleksandr said, warning.
She ignored him.
The young vampire looked up at her. His lips were bloody; his teeth were too long for his mouth. He was maybe twenty when turned. Maybe nineteen.
Fear and rage warred in his eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly.
He spat something at her feet. Blood. Blacker than it should have been.
“None of your… business,” he snarled.
“Where is Kalugin?” she asked.
“Like I’d tell you,” he said. “He’ll kill you all. You think you’re… strong. You’re… old. Tired. He’s… building… better.”
“Better slaves,” Kira snapped.
“Better… everything,” the boy shot back. “You cling… to shadows. To scraps. He’s… making… a… new… world.”
Mira’s stomach flipped. “At what cost?” she asked.
He laughed, high and wild. “Cost? To who?” he said. “Subjects? Patients? We’re… beyond… that. We’re… gods.”
“Delusional,” Oleg muttered.
Mira stepped closer.
“I saw,” she said. “What they did in the last ‘new world.’ In labs like this. I saw… Kira… on a table. Men in coats. Men in uniforms. You’re not a god. You’re the same… old… story… in a different… jacket.”
The boy’s sneer faltered for a heartbeat.
“You don’t know… anything,” he whispered.
“I know… enough,” she said.
He hissed.
“Kill him,” Sergei said idly. “He’s… annoying.”
Mira spun. “No,” she said sharply.
“He’ll… kill you,” Sergei pointed out. “If he can.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But he’s… also… evidence. Not just… that Kalugin is making… more like him. But… how. Who. Where they’re… recruited. We can… use… him.”
“He will… not… talk,” Kira said flatly. “He is… bound.”
“Then… unbind him,” Mira said.
All eyes turned to her as if she’d announced she planned to juggle the tank.
“Do you think… we are… gods?” Oleg asked dryly.
“No,” she said. “But I know… you have… tricks. Glamours. Compulsions. Blood… bonds. You unmake… some… of his… hold. Or… weaken it. We… offer… him… a choice. Be a… subject… to Kalugin. Or… a witness… for us.”
“He’ll choose… the devil he knows,” Sergei said.
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not. He’s… young. He thinks… he’s… invincible. That makes him… stupid. But it also makes him… *capable* of… seeing… that this… isn’t… what he signed up for.”
The boy snarled. “You don’t know… what I signed up for,” he spat.
She met his eyes.
“You wanted… power,” she said softly. “Control. Not to be… meat. Not to be… used. Not to be… scared… of men like… him. And now… you’re doing… his… dirty work. The same… way… those men in labs… did… for the last… regime.”
His jaw clenched.
“And you?” he shot back. “You’re… using… them.” He jerked his chin weakly toward the older vampires. “To fight… your… war. You’re… no better.”
She didn’t flinch.
“Maybe not,” she said. “But I’m not… promising you… the world… while strapping you… to a table. I’m promising you… something… very… small. Very… basic. A say.”
He blinked.
“A say,” he repeated, scoffing. “In *what.*”
“In whether you… go back… to him,” she said. “Or not.”
Silence.
Oleg grunted. “You are… offering… him… sanctuary?” he asked, something like incredulity creeping in.
“I’m offering him… a chance… not to be… a pawn,” she said. “He can still… choose… to be… an asshole. I can’t fix that. But I can… take him… off the board… Kalugin controls.”
Irina watched her with a long, unreadable look.
“Dangerous,” she murmured. “You keep… collecting… strays.”
“Yes,” Mira said. “Apparently it’s… my… type.”
She felt Aleksandr’s gaze on her and flushed.
Oleg sighed.
“Bind him,” he said to Irina. “Lightly. Enough… that he… cannot… betray… us… easily. Let… her… try… her… human… tricks.”
Irina’s lips curved faintly. “You are… getting… soft,” she said.
He snorted. “No,” he said. “I am… getting… tired… of… only… killing… Kalugin’s… toys. Maybe… one… will… be… useful… for once.”
She moved to the boy, eyes focusing.
“Look… at me,” she said.
He tried not to.
He failed.
Mira felt something shift in the air, like a pressure change.
Irina spoke a few words in a language Mira didn’t know. They felt heavy.
The boy’s pupils dilated.
“You will… not… tell… him… what you… saw… here,” Irina said. “You will… remember… your… pain. Your… doubt. You will… remember… *her*—”
She nodded toward Mira.
“—when he… makes… you… promises. And you will… find it… harder… to… obey.”
The boy’s breath hitched.
Irina released him.
He slumped, chains clinking.
“Your… turn,” she said to Mira. “See… if your… words… can do… what our… blood… cannot.”
Mira swallowed.
She crouched again, felt Aleksandr’s presence at her back like a wall.
“Name,” she said quietly.
The boy stared at her, lip curled.
“You already… know… what he calls me,” he muttered. “17.”
“That’s not… a name,” she said. “That’s… a number. That’s… what they… called… Kira. In the… last lab. What they… called… my… ancestors… on ships. Numbers. Labels. That’s… how they… make it… easier… to… hurt you. Forget… you… *have*… a name. I’m… asking… what your… mother… called you. Your… friends. Before.”
He flinched.
“Don’t,” he rasped.
“I’m not… Kalugin,” she said. “I’m not… going to… carve it… into you. I just… want… to know… who I’m… talking to. Who I’m… offering a choice… to.”
His jaw worked.
“Dima,” he spat finally. “Happy?”
Her chest tightened. “Of course,” she muttered.
He glared. “You think… you’re clever,” he said. “You’re… just… noise.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But sometimes… noise… shakes… walls.”
He laughed bitterly.
“You can’t… keep me,” he said. “He’ll… come.”
“Let him,” she said. “We’re… already… in his… teeth. It doesn’t… get worse… because you’re… under our… roof.”
“You say that… like you even… have… a roof,” he scoffed.
She shrugged. “I have… a drafty… apartment,” she said. “And… friends… with… crypts. It’s… something.”
He stared at her, confusion flickering behind the hostility.
“You can… stay,” she said. “Not… as a… prisoner. Not… as a… subject. As… a… witness. As… someone… who knows… where the bodies are… buried. Who knows… how he… recruits. You can… help us… break… his… machine. Or… you can… go back. To his… lab. His… chains. His… promises. Your… call.”
He swallowed.
“I go back… he kills me,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“I stay… you… kill me,” he said.
“Less likely,” she said frankly. “But… not… impossible. At least this way… you might… die… for something… you… chose.”
He barked out a humorless laugh.
“That’s… fucked up,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Welcome to… ethics… under capitalism… and… vampirism.”
Behind her, Sergei snorted. “She’s… good,” he said. “I might… keep her.”
“Get in line,” Aleksandr muttered.
The boy—Dima—looked at him, then at the others, then back at Mira.
“What if I… run,” he asked. “Just… go. Neither… you… nor… him.”
“Then you’ll… spend the rest of your… very long… and probably… short life… looking over your… shoulder,” she said. “He’ll… always… be behind you. At least… if you’re… near us… we’ll… see… him… sooner.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“This is… a shit… choice,” he said.
“Yes,” she said softly. “But it’s… a choice.”
He opened his eyes.
“Fuck you,” he whispered.
She smiled, a little.
“Is that… a yes?” she asked.
He spat again.
“Get these… chains… off me,” he said. “And I’ll… consider… not… killing you… in your… sleep.”
“Progress,” Sergei said cheerfully.
They unshackled him—with caution, with redundant bindings, with Irina’s gaze locked on him like a rifle.
Mira watched as they led him away down a different corridor, toward whatever passed for a safehouse in Irina’s world.
She knew she’d just introduced a live wire into their already overloaded system.
She also knew she would have regretted not trying.
As they left the cannery, smoke from small fires curling into the winter sky, she looked back once.
The building loomed, wounded but not destroyed.
“You wanted… to burn it,” Aleksandr said quietly.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why didn’t you… insist?” he asked.
“Because… if we… incinerate… everything… we become… them,” she said. “And because… sometimes… you have to… leave… just enough… structure… for the collapse… to cause… maximum… damage.”
He smiled faintly. “Devious,” he said.
“Learning,” she said.
Snow began to fall again, silently, covering footprints and blood.
They walked away together—human and vampire, traitor and relic, with a stolen USB in her pocket and someone else’s blood in her veins.
The slow burn had spread.
The city would feel the heat soon.
***