The shadow folded back in on itself—
—and Pitch stumbled out of it instead of landing cleanly.
His boots scraped stone.
He sucked in a sharp breath and flattened himself against a column, pulse hammering as he peeked around the edge.
Voices.
Low.
Controlled.
Not from the main lab.
Not from the corridor.
Somewhere below him, beyond a half-open service gallery, a private room glowed with a single blue projection.
Pitch eased closer.
A figure stood in the centre of the room, back turned, wearing a hooded jacket far too plain for Godiad’s polished halls. The hood was up, the shoulders slightly hunched, one hand resting near a console as if they belonged there and absolutely did not.
A voice came through the projection.
Pitch knew that voice.
Smooth.
Amused.
Rotten with money.
Gideon.
“We are receiving subjects,” the hooded figure said. Their voice was low, distorted slightly by a throat modulator. “But nothing compares to Subject CA-70 onwards. What you’ve sent us under the radar has been useful, Gideon, but not enough.”
Gideon gave a soft, indulgent laugh.
“Oh, how tragic. You mean the desperate, unwanted, and politically inconvenient do not compare to custom-made miracles? I am wounded.”
“Our mutual client is impatient.”
“That makes two of us,” Gideon replied lightly. “Unfortunately, impatience does not make the streets refill themselves.”
The hooded figure did not move. “You had access.”
“I had excellent access,” Gideon said, and even through the projection his smile was audible. “Then the Arcturus mutt developed a conscience and began sniffing through old arrangements.”
Pitch went cold.
Silver.
“His interference caused problems,” Gideon continued. “Warehouses closed. Routes watched. Helpful little clerks suddenly remembered they had morals. A dreadful epidemic.”
The hooded figure’s hand tightened once on the console. “We need stable material.”
“And you shall have it,” Gideon said. “Luckily, I’ve had assistance from other means. You can never get enough political prisoners. Especially when everyone is so eager to make them disappear quietly.”
Pitch’s stomach turned.
The hooded figure’s voice sharpened. “They need to hurry up. Clawdiff won’t survive two years at this rate.”
“Relax,” Gideon purred. “I’ll delete anything harmful to my image, smooth over the ledgers, and then we can all move on.”
“There are too many eyes on Godiad now.”
“Yes, yes. Knights, paladins, distressed little heroes with feelings.” Gideon sighed as if compassion personally offended him. “Still, whatever the Director is planning here, keep me posted. I need to get ahead of the profits.”
“The profits?”
“My dear unknown associate,” Gideon said warmly, “if the world is ending, someone sensible ought to monetise the final act.”
The hooded figure was silent for a moment.
Then they said, “Put Lysander on.”
A pause.
Static crackled.
Then another voice joined the projection.
Cold.
Precise.
Familiar.
Lysander.
“What is this?” he asked. “You said this channel was closed.”
“It is,” the hooded figure replied.
“Then why is he still here?”
Gideon laughed softly. “Because I enjoy being included.”
“I am not interested in your amusement,” Lysander snapped.
“No,” Gideon said. “You’re interested in the pressure disappearing.”
Lysander went silent.
Pitch pressed closer to the stone, barely breathing.
The hooded figure turned slightly, just enough for Pitch to glimpse the edge of a pale mask beneath the hood.
“Your father had data,” the figure said. “Archives. Trial notes. Transfer records. Core compatibility studies. We want them.”
Lysander’s jaw tightened in the projection.
“My father is dead.”
“And yet his sins remain wonderfully organised.”
“I don’t have his files.”
“You have access to his estate.”
“I’ve given you what I found,” Lysander said sharply. “That was the arrangement. I cooperate, and this ends.”
Gideon made a soft tsking sound. “Poor Lord Whytemere. Still believing unpleasant things end because one asks nicely.”
Lysander’s eyes cut toward him. “You said this would stop.”
“I said many things,” Gideon replied. “Most of them charming.”
The hooded figure ignored him. “The remaining data matters. CA-70 onwards changed the programme. Your father knew why.”
“I said I don’t have it.”
“No,” Gideon said lazily. “The Knights do.”
The room fell quiet.
Pitch’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs.
Lysander’s expression shifted. “What?”
“The Knights,” Gideon repeated. “Or parts of it, at least. They’ve been collecting scraps without knowing the value. Mostly the hedgehog.”
“Arcade,” Lysander said under his breath.
“Is that his name?” Gideon sounded delighted. “How quaint. Yes. The little hedgehog with the clever hands and the very irritating robot.”
The hooded figure’s head tilted. “Can you retrieve it?”
Gideon sighed. “I wish I could. I would love to get my hands on that robot. Unfortunately, We can't. Too attached to the little emergency mascots. If we take Arcade we might be able to.”
“Then create a reason.”
“My dear,” Gideon said smoothly, “I create reasons professionally.”
Lysander’s voice sharpened. “No.”
Both the hooded figure and Gideon went quiet.
Lysander drew himself taller, though even through the projection Pitch could see the tension around his mouth.
“No more ‘excuses’. Whatever arrangement my father made died with him. I want this arrangement ended.”
The hooded figure regarded him for a long moment.
Then laughed once.
Soft.
Humourless.
“You don’t get to inherit the benefits and disown the debts.”
“I inherited a corpse and a ledger full of poison,” Lysander said. “Do not mistake that for loyalty.”
Gideon hummed appreciatively. “There he is. That little noble bite. I always knew your spine existed somewhere under the paperwork.”
Lysander ignored him. “If the Knights have the data, then this is finished. Take it from them yourself.”
“Careful,” the hooded figure said.
Lysander’s eyes narrowed. “Was that a threat?”
“It was advice.”
The figure stepped closer to the projection.
“You have not given us enough.”
“I don’t have enough.”
“Then find more.”
Lysander’s mouth thinned. For the first time, his composure slipped—not far, but enough. Enough to show exhaustion beneath the polish.
“I can pay,” he said.
The hooded figure was silent.
Lysander lifted his chin. “Whatever Gideon promised you, I can exceed it. Quietly. Cleanly. No records. No questions.”
Gideon made a soft, delighted sound. “Oh, he is desperate. How refreshing.”
Lysander ignored him. “Name your figure.”
The hooded figure tilted their head.
“My lady is not interested in your money.”
Lysander’s eyes narrowed. “Everyone is interested in money.”
“Small men say that because money is the only leash they understand.”
Gideon laughed. “Careful. You’ll hurt his little noble feelings.”
Lysander’s voice sharpened. “If this is no longer a negotiation, then we’re done.”
He reached toward something beyond the projection, likely to sever the call.
The hooded figure lifted one hand.
Between two gloved fingers, they held a data chip.
Small.
Black.
Stamped with Sweettooth’s old internal seal.
Lysander froze.
The hooded figure let the chip catch the projection-light.
“I wonder,” they said softly, “whether Caedrix Umbranox would be interested to know Sweettooth continued to experiment on babies even after she turned the project down.”
The colour drained from Lysander’s face.
Even Gideon went quiet.
Pitch felt cold crawl down his spine.
Babies.
The word sat in the room like something rotten had been uncovered beneath clean tiles.
Lysander’s voice came out thinner. “That project was closed.”
“Officially.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Perhaps,” the hooded figure said. “Perhaps not. But your father’s company. Your father’s seal. Your father’s authorisations.”
Lysander swallowed.
The hooded figure’s voice remained calm.
“You have one week.”
“For what?”
“All data on the Knights of Clawdiff. Combat output. Core activity. Weapon manifestation. Mana capacity. Recovery rates. Any anomalies relating to any of Subjects CA-70 onwards.”
Lysander’s stare hardened. “No.”
The hooded figure continued as if he hadn’t spoken.
“And updated stats from their suppression runes. Transferred directly. My mistress wants live readings.”
Lysander stared at them.
“That is impossible.”
“No. It is inconvenient.”
“They’ll notice.”
“Then make them not notice.”
Gideon’s amusement crept back in, oil-smooth. “You do know a great many useful people, Lord Whytemere. Clerks. Technicians. Little men who think loyalty is a pension.”
Lysander looked sick now.
Not guilty enough.
But sick.
“If I do this,” he said slowly, “the chip is destroyed.”
The hooded figure closed their fingers around it.
“If you do this, my lady may decide there is no need to use it yet.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” the figure said. “It is the only thing.”
Silence pressed down.
Lysander looked away.
For one brittle second, Pitch thought he might refuse.
Then Lysander exhaled through his nose.
“Fine.”
The hooded figure did not react.
“One week,” they said. “All Knight data. Live rune statistics. No omissions.”
Lysander’s jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.
“Agreed.”
“We will be in touch again. Both of you watch yourselves. Silent is sticking his nose into everything.”
Gideon’s amusement thinned for the first time.
Lysander went still.
Pitch didn’t know the name.
But he knew the reaction.
Fear.
Not panic.
Not shock.
The controlled, bitter fear of powerful people hearing another powerful person had entered the game.
Gideon recovered first, voice smooth once more.
“Silent has always had a talent for appearing where he isn’t wanted.”
“And if he finds this?” Lysander asked.
The hooded figure’s voice dropped.
“Then you had better hope he finds someone else first.”
Something clicked behind Pitch’s ribs.
Instinct screamed.
Get out.
He shifted his weight—
—and his heel nudged a loose stone.
Tick.
A tiny white dragon-shaped robot perched near the ceiling whirred, its crystal eyes flaring red.
“—I'M SEEN—!”
“Oh stars—”
The drone shrieked and bolted, wings buzzing wildly.
The hooded figure snapped their head toward the gallery.
Pitch didn’t think.
He shadow-jumped—
—but panic made it sloppy.
The world twisted sideways and dumped him unceremoniously into sunlight.
He landed hard in a garden.
Ancient stone surrounded him—weathered thrones half-swallowed by ivy, shattered columns, statues eroded into abstract shapes by centuries of rain. The air hummed with old mana, heavy and watching.
Pitch froze.
“This is not where I meant to be.”
The throne at the centre—cracked, ancient, unmistakably important—seemed to loom at him.
“Nope. Nope. Don’t like that.”
Something moved beneath the roots.
Pitch did not wait to find out what.
He shadow-jumped again—
—and slammed back into the main hall in a rush of cold air and incense.
Hughes caught his shoulder instantly, steadying him.
“Pitch,” Hughes said sharply. “Report.”
Pitch swallowed.
“I saw someone,” he said. “Hooded. Not staff.”
Hughes frowned. “Doing what?”
“Talking to Gideon.”
The name landed like a dropped blade.
Silver’s face went still.
Silver’s eyes narrowed. “Gideon as in Rex Gideon?”
Pitch nodded once. “Over comms. Then they put Lysander on.”
Celeste went pale. “Lysander?”
“Yeah.” Pitch wiped a hand over his mouth, trying to make the words come out properly. “But he wasn’t giving orders. He sounded… trapped. Angry. They were talking about subjects. CA-70 onwards. Political prisoners. Data from his father. And the Knights having some of it.”
Mezzo blinked. “Us?”
Pitch looked at him. “Mostly Arcade.”
Mezzo’s fur bristled. “He will hate being valuable.”
“They mentioned C.H.I.P. too,” Pitch added. “Gideon wants him.”
Hughes’s expression had gone grim in a way that made him look older. “Did they see you?”
Pitch opened his mouth.
Closed it.
His throat felt dry.
“…A drone did.”
“That’s not a no,” Mezzo said.
Pitch looked toward the corridor he had come from.
Then toward the garden doors.
Then back at the others.
“There was somewhere else,” he admitted. “Old. Underground, maybe. A garden with thrones. I jumped wrong.”
Skye turned slowly.
Not just looking—
seeing.
His sharp eyes traced Pitch’s posture, the way his shoulders were tight, how his tail flicked once, twice, anxious. His gaze drifted to the corridor Pitch had come from.
Then to the sealed garden doors.
Then back to Pitch.
He hesitated.
You could almost see the thought tearing at him:
Do I say something?
Do I tell an adult?
Do I make it worse?
Skye looked away.
His hands clenched at his sides.
“…We should leave,” he said quietly.
Hughes studied him for a long beat.
Then nodded once.
“Agreed.”
Pitch let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
Lumina returned to the main group moments later, holo-projections still flickering faintly in her eyes.
She looked cheerful.
Too cheerful.
Skye noticed.
He didn’t say anything at first—just watched her a long while, golden gaze steady.
Then, quietly:
“Be careful who you trust.”
Lumina blinked at him. “What?”
Skye shrugged, looking away. “Just… be careful.”
She frowned slightly.
“I’m fine,” she said.
But she didn’t really understand what he meant.
