Page 173 of Pulse Zero
Burned fabric. Burned skin. Burned…
Oh fuck.
He slides to the floor. And he doesn’t get back up.
Then there’s just…silence.
Okay. So, I’m pretty sure I just killed someone.
I stare at the body for maybe too long. Waiting. Waiting for something to happen, for the feelings I’d expect to come rushing forward. Guilt or shock or horror.Anything.
Instead, all I feel is adrenaline still screaming through my veins. My pulse pounds hard enough for me to feel it in my throat. Once. Twice.
And that’s it.
That should probably bother me more than it does, but all I can think about as I move past the body without a single glance back is that maybe Malcolm is right. Maybe Ascendedaredangerous.
The thought follows me all the way deeper into the underbelly of the Institute. The walls become darker, the lighting dimmer, pools of white illumination cutting through long stretches of shadow. My powers reach farther ahead than I can physically see, threading through the systems buried inside the walls. I continue peeling through encrypted directories while walking, opening doors, rerouting cameras, pulling building schematics straight into my head.
And then I find something strange.
There’s an entire sector disconnected from the main network. No active surveillance, no security feeds, no digital footprint at all. That shouldnotbe possible inside Bellrose Institute.
Which means Malcolm did it intentionally.
I’m surrounded by fucking supervillains.
A final door unlocks with a heavy metallic thud. I push through it slowly. And then stop.
The room beyond is enormous. It’s circular and quiet and nothing like the sterile labs upstairs. The walls curve upward into darkness, lined with old analog monitors and dormantmachinery. Cables snake across the floor like veins feeding into a massive central structure made of black glass and steel. It looks less like a laboratory and more like the inside of a machine someone built to talk to God.
Or to resurrect one.
The lighting is low and a cool blue, throwing long shadows across the room. And standing in the center of it is Malcolm. Alone. No guards, no doctors or scientists, no restrained subject waiting for a demonstration on Ascension. Just him, standing there with his hands behind his back as though he was waiting for me.
For about five seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then I ask, “What the fuck is this?”
My voice echoes slightly through the chamber as my uncle watches me.
“It’s time we talk.”
I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “That’swhy you lured us here?” I gesture vaguely toward the sound of distant fighting. “To fuckingtalk?”
“Yes.”
“What? Were family therapy appointments booked out?”
There’s a tick in his jaw, but he doesn’t respond, which just pisses me off even more.
“That’s why there’s a fucking war happening upstairs?” I demand, throwing a hand above our heads toward the muffled chaos still echoing through the building. “That’s why there are people dying? It was all just a distraction so we could have a deeply traumatic family conversation in private?”
“Yes,” Malcolm says again.
I stare at him in disbelief.
At least he’s honest aboutthat.
