The Disabled Man's Obsession

Chapter 4: Cold-Blooded Reclamation

Alarm.

Deafening, it shrieked and wailed down the steel corridor, which was now bathed in flashing emergency red light. Behind them, the sound of heavy boots and angry shouts echoed, growing closer.

Miguel didn’t look back. His right hand gripped Anya’s upper arm, pulling her through the chaos. In his left hand, his knife dripped with Ronan’s fresh blood.

Brief Flashback: Thirty Seconds Ago.

Ronan stared in horror as Miguel severed Anya’s restraints. "What are you doing, you insane Asset?!" he shrieked, his hand reaching for the communicator on his collar.

Miguel moved. Not as an obedient tool, but as a force of nature. One cutting motion silenced the shriek forever. Amidst the turmoil, Anya’s quiet voice in his mind felt louder than the alarm he had just triggered.

"This is not betrayal," she whispered in his memory. "This is reclamation."

Now, in this corridor of hell, Miguel’s mind was clear for the first time. Every limping stride was no longer a sign of weakness, but the rhythm of his freedom.

"Left!" Anya yelled, her voice sharp, cutting through the wail of the sirens. "There’s a maintenance grating thirty meters ahead! I saw it when they brought me in!"

Miguel followed without hesitation. Anya wasn't running like a victim. She moved with purpose, her eyes scanning every corner and pipe connection on the ceiling. She wasn't panicked; she was executing a plan.

They reached the grating. It was sealed with an electronic padlock. Miguel shattered it with one powerful kick; the metal dented and sprang loose.

"Protocol 13 is active," Miguel hissed as they slipped into the narrow, damp tunnel. The sound of gas began hissing from the vents behind them.

"I assumed that would happen," Anya replied, breathless. "A paranoid organization like this must have a scorched-earth protocol. They’ll flood the entire lower level with neurotoxin or fire to eliminate all evidence, including witnesses and failed assets. Right?"

Miguel could only stare at her back in astonishment. She was right. Protocol 13: Cinder Block, was the nightmare of every low-level operative. A total sterilization mechanism.

"How did you—"

"Not now!" Anya cut him off. "Listen! The sound of water!"

They ran toward the increasingly loud gurgling, finally arriving at the tunnel’s end: a giant drainage pipe leading to the watery darkness outside. Below, the waves of Amethyst Bay crashed against the concrete wall. The fresh, salty air was the first breath of their new lives.

Tied up at a hidden, tarp-covered dock was a small motorboat.

*

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the middle of the dark bay. The siren’s wail from the Iron Claw underground facility had become a faint hum, swallowed by the roar of the boat engine. The glittering lights of Ametis City in the distance looked like an unreachable galaxy.

Miguel cut the engine. The sudden silence felt heavy, broken only by the sound of waves lapping against the hull. He finally looked at Anya, who was wringing water from the hem of her ripped dress, her face pale in the moonlight but her eyes alight with triumph.

"How?" Miguel asked. His voice was hoarse. It wasn't just a question about the boat. It was about everything. "The escape route. Protocol 13. This boat. You’re not psychic."

Anya gave a small laugh, a sound that felt strange out on the lonely sea. "Of course not. I am the wife of a man who built his empire on secrets and paranoia. I learned to read the system, Miguel. Not books."

She leaned forward. "An underground facility near the bay? It has to have a major drainage system. I observed the airflow direction when they dragged me in; it pointed downward and out toward the sea. That was the most logical exit."

She paused, letting him absorb the information. "And this boat?" She patted the seat beside her. "This was part of my contingency plan to escape my husband, Daniel. I set it up months ago, hidden, waiting for a signal I never managed to send. Iron Claw capturing me was a nasty coincidence. But my escape assets were already in place. I just adjusted the plan."

She was intelligent. Intelligent in a terrifying and deeply human way. She was a survivor who prepared her war long before the battle began.

Miguel finally understood. He hadn't been freed by a goddess. He had allied himself with a queen in exile.

"So, what’s next?" Miguel asked. A fresh layer of respect crept into his tone.

"Next," Anya said, her eyes catching the city lights, "we stop being the hunted and start being the hunters."

She reached for a small, waterproof bag hidden beneath the seat. From inside, she pulled out a device the size of a thumb, blinking with a faint blue light. A microchip.

"When they captured me, I had just managed to steal this from my husband’s safe," she explained. "This is the 'thing of value' Dr. Dark was talking about."

"Financial data?"

"Better than that." Anya smiled, a smile as dangerous as Miguel’s knife. "This is the complete genetic engineering data and conditioning protocols for the next generation of Type-B Assets. The perfect prototype to replace you."

Miguel’s heart seemed to stop. The key to his existence—and his erasure—was in this woman's hand.

"Iron Claw will hunt you to the death to get that back," Miguel whispered.

"Of course," Anya countered. "But Daniel Molserat will also pay me billions to get it back before Iron Claw finds it. And rival syndicates will kill to possess it."

She placed the chip in Miguel’s palm. It was cold and pulsed like a mechanical heart.

"This is no longer just about our freedom, Reaper," she said. "This is your real audition. You want ownership? You want validation? Then we will sell Iron Claw’s future to the highest bidder and build our own empire on its ashes. This is no longer reclamation. This is conquest."

Miguel stared at the chip in his hand, then at Anya’s ambitious face beneath the moonlight. He had traded one prison for another. But this prison... felt like a throne.