Page 113 of Prey

The door disintegrates in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.

Dr.Elena Martinez looks up from her desk, where she’s frantically destroying files. Late forties, gray hair pulled back severely, and dead eyes that probably never showed mercy to a child’s tears.

“You’re too late,” she says, trying to maintain professional composure. “The damage is already done. These children will never be normal.”

“No,” I agree, walking toward her desk. “But they’ll be alive.”

She reaches for a panic button. I put two rounds in her shoulder, spinning her away from the desk.

“Fuck!” She cradles her wounded arm, blood seeping between her fingers. “You can’t—this is illegal?—”

“So is torturing children.” I grab her by the collar and drag her away from the desk. “But here we are.”

Nikolai searches her files while I keep the doctor secured. Most of the documents are partially burned, but he salvages what he can.

“Names,” he says, holding up a personnel roster. “Funding sources. Other facility locations.”

“She was trying to destroy evidence,” I observe.

“Good thing we arrived when we did.”

Dr.Martinez tries to stand, still bleeding from her shoulder wound. “You don’t understand what you’re destroying. This program—it saves children from worse fates. Gives them purpose, structure?—”

I backhand her across the mouth hard enough to split her lip.

“Structure?” My voice comes out deadly quiet. “You call strapping eight-year-olds to chairs and frying their brainstructure?”

“They were damaged already,” she insists. “Orphans, runaways, children from abusive homes. We gave them?—”

Nikolai’s fist connects with her jaw before I can stop him. She crumples to the floor, unconscious.

“Sorry,” he says, flexing his knuckles. “Couldn’t listen to that bullshit anymore.”

I understand the impulse. The urge to hurt her, to make her pay for every child’s scream, every broken mind, every small body strapped to conditioning equipment.

But we have work to finish first.

“Extraction status?” I ask through comms.

“Thirty-four children secured,” Marcus reports. “All alive, various states of damage. Medical team is prepping for transport.”

“Personnel count?”

“Eight confirmed eliminated,” Darius answers. “Approximately six remaining.”

“Dr.Martinez is secured for interrogation,” Nikolai reports. “Continue sweep.”

We drag the unconscious doctor with us as we clear the remaining rooms. The eastern wing holds more torture chambers, more evidence of systematic child abuse disguised as scientific research.

In the final room, we find a scene that makes my stomach turn.

A girl, maybe ten years old, is suspended in a sensory deprivation tank. Electrodes monitor her brain activity while she floats unconscious in the dark. Her medical chart shows sixteen hours of continuous sensory isolation.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe.

Nikolai moves immediately to the tank controls, draining the fluid and carefully extracting the child. She’s barely breathing, her pulse thready and weak.

“Priority extraction,” he calls through comms. “Medical emergency.”