Chapter 6: Escape Velocity
The service conduit was a tight, vertical shaft of grated metal, more an artery for maintenance drones than an escape route. The ladder rungs were slick with condensation and something that smelled faintly of chemical decay. Heaven went first, her movements sharp and efficient even with her burned hands, but the ghost of the memory—of his memory—hung between them like a third presence in the claustrophobic dark.
Above them, the facility groaned a long, deep protest. A tremor ran through the ladder, vibrating up into their bones. Dust and bits of rust sifted down from the darkness above.
“Faster,” Killua said from below, his voice echoing in the shaft.
“I’m going,” she snapped, but there was no heat in it. Just a hollow exhaustion. The anger that had armored her for five years felt like a shell now, cracked open and spilling something she didn’t want to name. She’d felt his calculation on that tarmac. The cold, precise fear for her. It didn’t absolve him. Nothing could. But it changed the shape of the wound.
Another shudder, more violent. A support beam somewhere screamed as it twisted. The ladder jerked sideways, groaning in its moorings. Heaven’s foot slipped. A jolt of pain shot up her burned arm as she gripped tighter.
His hand was instantly there, bracing against her calf, steadying her. The contact was electric, too real after the psychic violation. She flinched.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling his hand back as if burned himself.
They climbed in silence after that, broken only by their labored breathing and the escalating symphony of destruction below. The grating under their hands was cold. The air grew hotter as they ascended, thick with the smell of overheating circuits and melting polymer.
Heaven’s mind kept replaying the memory from his perspective. The weight of the Zoldyck seal in his pocket. The absolute certainty that staying meant signing her death warrant. It was a logic she understood, a calculus she’d been trained in since childhood. The Celeste way. Sacrifice the piece to save the… what? The board? The family name? It was what her family would have done.
That was the poison in it. He’d treated her like a Celeste. And she’d spent five years hating him for it.
They reached a landing, a small platform with a heavy manual hatch wheel. She leaned against the cold metal, breathing hard. Her hands were throbbing, the blisters weeping.
Killua joined her on the platform, the space so small they were almost touching. He studied the hatch wheel, then her hands. “Can you?”
“Yes.” She reached for the wheel.
He caught her wrist, gently avoiding the worst of the burn. “Don’t be an idiot. Let me.”
There was no condescension in it. Just a flat assessment of capability. She relinquished the spot, the fight momentarily drained out of her. He gripped the wheel, muscles corded in his forearms, and heaved. The mechanism screamed in protest, then gave with a loud crack. He shoved the hatch open.
Beyond was not sunlight and freedom, but another corridor. This one was wider, lined with shattered display cases that once held ceremonial weapons or mission trophies. Now they were just glittering shards underfoot. The emergency lights here were almost all dead, leaving pools of profound darkness between faint, flickering patches of red.
The structural sounds were louder here. A deep, grinding crackle resonated through the walls, followed by the distant, thunderous collapse of something massive. The floor tilted slightly under their feet, a permanent list.
“This way leads to the eastern ridge,” Heaven said, her voice steadier. She was back on familiar ground—terrain, exits, logistics. It was safer. “There’s a sheer drop, but a service lift cable runs down the cliff face. If it’s still powered.”
“If,” Killua echoed. He was watching her, not the corridor. The weird, shared-memory intimacy had scraped them both raw. “Heaven.”
“Don’t.” She didn’t look at him. “We don’t have time for a therapy session. That… back there… it doesn’t change the now. The now is us getting crushed.”
“It changes why you’re here,” he said, not moving. “You weren’t just stopping Reed. You were coming for me. For my family. Because of what you thought I did.”
She finally met his eyes. In the bloody emergency light, his pupils were dark pools. “I saw what you did. I felt it.”
“You saw me leave. You felt my reason.” He took a step closer, his voice low. “You think I wanted to? You think a day has gone by where I didn’t play it over, looking for another way? There wasn’t one. Not with my brother watching. Not with my father’s orders in my pocket. They would have hollowed you out and put you in a uniform, Heaven. You’d be just like those things down there. A puppet with your face.”
She shoved him. It was a weak push, fueled by a fury that had lost its foundation. “So you made the choice for me. You decided my life wasn’t mine to risk. How is that any different from what Reed was doing? From what my family does? You just used a softer knife.”
The accusation landed. He actually took a half-step back, his jaw tightening. “Yeah,” he said, the word quiet. “Maybe it is.”
A section of ceiling twenty yards ahead detached with a roar and smashed down, blocking the corridor with a mangled heap of conduit and structural alloy. Dust billowed toward them, thick and choking.
The path was sealed.
“Great,” Killua coughed, switching gears instantly. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by the cool, assessing operator. “Plan B.”
“There is no Plan B,” Heaven said, turning. “We go back. Find another conduit.”
“Back is a pancake.” He was already moving toward the wall where the display cases were. “This is a load-bearing wall. Means it’s an exterior.” He ran a hand along the smooth surface. “Means there might be…”
His fingers found a seam, almost invisible. He pressed. A section of the wall hissed and slid aside, revealing not another corridor, but a cramped, dark space filled with humming servers—a long-forgotten data annex. Cool, dry air washed over them. At the far end, a wide, floor-to-ceiling window looked out onto a staggering view: the jagged, mist-shrouded drop of the eastern ridge. And there, just outside the window, was the thick, greasy cable of the service lift, motionless.
“Bingo,” Killua said, but his tone was flat. The window was a single, solid pane of reinforced polymer, webbed with cracks from the facility’s convulsions.
“We can break it,” Heaven said, approaching.
“That’s not standard glass. It’s rated to withstand a direct artillery hit.”
“Your electricity—”
“Won’t focus fast enough. The whole structure is destabilizing. One wrong surge and we bring the rest of this ceiling down on our heads.” He studied the cable outside. It was anchored to a heavy beam that was sagging, stressed by the shifting building. “We need to be on that cable now.”
Heaven looked around the server room. Racks of dead machines, glowing only with tiny, lonely status lights. Her eyes landed on a single, finned cylinder mounted high on the wall near the door—a legacy fire suppression unit. An old-fashioned chemical explosive.
She pointed. “That.”
Killua followed her gaze. A sharp, almost-smile touched his lips. “Overpressure. Could work. Could also kill us.”
“You got a better idea?”
He didn’t. He was already moving, leaping onto a server rack with a lightness that defied his size. He balanced atop the shuddering unit, examining the canister. “High-yield foam concentrate. Pressure vessel.” He traced the pipes. “Conduit runs behind the wall… straight under the window frame. A localized blast might just compromise the seal.”
“Might?”
“Engineering was never my best subject.” He shot her a look that was pure, grim sarcasm. Then his hands were moving, deftly uncoupling a junction valve. “Get ready to jump. When this goes, it’s going to be loud, fast, and messy.”
Heaven positioned herself at the window, her good hand pressed against the cold polymer. She could see the cable, just an arm’s length away through the barrier. The mist below writhed like something alive. The drop was at least five hundred feet.
Killua worked quickly, his focus absolute. He was in his element. Chaos was a language he understood. He bypassed a safety regulator, rerouted a pressure line. “Okay,” he said, his voice calm. “On my mark, you hit the window with everything you’ve got. Right in the center. Don’t hold back.”
He took a small, cylindrical tool from his belt—a compact pulse discharger. He jammed it into the open valve connection.
“Now.”
Heaven drew back her fist, violet aura snapping around it like concentrated venom. She didn’t channel it into a blade or a point. She just let it build into a raw, concussive hammer of force.
Killua triggered the pulse.
The canister didn’t explode. It ruptured. A deafening CRACK split the air, followed by a jet of white, expanding foam that blasted through the wall cavity with the force of a cannon. The window didn’t shatter. It bulged inward, a giant blister, as the overpressure hit its frame.
Heaven struck.
The polymer, stressed beyond its limits, webbed into a thousand fissures and then, with a sound like a glacier calving, exploded outward in a shower of milky fragments.
The roar of the wind filled the room, tugging at their clothes, pulling the breath from their lungs. Killua grabbed Heaven’s arm. No hesitation this time. “Go!”
They leapt together into the screaming void.
For a heart-stopping second, there was nothing but falling mist and howling air. Then her outstretched hand slapped against the thick, rubber-coated cable. She gripped, her burned skin shrieking in protest, and wrapped her legs around it. Killua slammed into the cable just below her, his grip sure.
The cable held.
Above them, with a final, apocalyptic groan, the eastern wing of the Anthology Facility folded in on itself. Walls collapsed. The window they’d just jumped from was swallowed by a billowing cloud of dust and debris. The sound was immense—a rolling, grinding thunder that faded into a deep, settling rumble.
They hung there, suspended over nothing, as the echoes died away. The cable swayed gently in the wind. Fine grey ash began to snow down around them, sticking to their skin and clothes.
Heaven looked down at the mist-covered rocks far below, then up at the ruin above. A strange, hollow quiet settled in her chest. The source of her five-year mission was gone. Buried.
Killua’s voice came from below, strained but steady. “The lift mechanism’s at the top. Which is currently buried under several thousand tons of building.”
She followed the cable upward with her eyes. It vanished into the settling cloud of dust and smoke. “So we climb down.”
“Five hundred feet. With your hands.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”
A faint, tired smirk touched her lips. It felt alien on her face. “Takes one to know one.”
They began the agonizing descent, hand under hand, the rough texture of the cable grinding into their wounds. The world narrowed to the burn in their shoulders, the grip of their thighs, the aching progression downward one foot at a time. The mist soaked them to the skin.
After a hundred feet of silent, grim climbing, Killua spoke again, his voice barely audible over the wind. “You were right.”
“About what?”
“Using a softer knife. It’s still a knife.” He paused, finding a new grip. “I told myself it was protection. Maybe it was just the path of least resistance. Easier to break your heart than to fight my whole family.”
The honesty was a direct hit. It left no room for the clean, simple anger she’d nursed for so long. It was messy. Complicated. Human.
“I would have fought them with you,” she said, the wind stealing the words as soon as they left her lips.
He heard anyway. “I know,” he said, the words thick. “That’s why I couldn’t let you.”
They descended further, the world above slowly receding into the grey. The ground was becoming visible now—jagged boulders, a fast, churning river cutting through the ravine below.
“What now?” he asked after another long stretch of silence.
Heaven looked at the approaching ground, then at the man climbing below her, his white hair plastered dark with mist and ash. The facility was rubble. Her target was gone. Her purpose, the one that had fueled her for years, was ash in the wind.
All that was left was the climb down, and him.
“Now,” she said, her voice quiet but clear, “we survive the landing.”
The cable ended twelve feet above the churning, ice-fed river. There was no graceful way down. They dropped, hitting the surging water with twin, brutal crashes. The cold was a physical blow, driving the air from Heaven’s lungs. The current grabbed her immediately, tugging her under, tossing her against submerged rocks that felt like fists.
She fought for the surface, her burned hands screaming. A hand locked onto the collar of her jacket, hauling her up. Killua’s face, pale and grim, broke the water beside her. “Swim left!” he yelled over the roar, his voice shredded by the cold.
The river did the work for them, sweeping them around a bend and into a wider, shallower rapid. Her boots scraped against slick stone. He dragged her, stumbling, toward a gravel bar, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
They collapsed on the wet stones, coughing up river water. The cold was paralyzing. Heaven’s teeth chattered uncontrollably. Her hands were numb, purple, and throbbing. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the grey smear of sky where the facility had been. Only a plume of dust remained, a fading stain.
Killua pushed himself up on trembling arms. He scanned the tree line, the riverbank, the sky. His breath came in ragged clouds. “We can’t stay here.”
“No shit,” she managed, forcing herself to sit up. Every muscle protested. The world tilted slightly.
He was already moving, a study in pained efficiency. He shrugged off his soaked, shredded jacket. Underneath, his black shirt was plastered to his skin, revealing the lean, corded muscle and a latticework of pale scars. He tore a sleeve off the jacket with a sharp tug.
“Here,” he said, kneeling in front of her. He didn’t ask. He simply took her less-injured hand and began wrapping the damp fabric around it, tight enough to offer support, loose enough not to cut circulation.
She watched his face. Water dripped from his white hair into his eyes, but he didn’t blink. His focus was absolute, clinical. This was field dressing. Triage. But his fingers, for all their lethal capability, were precise, almost gentle.
“The other one,” he said, without looking up.
She offered her burned hand. The blisters had torn open during the climb and the river had washed them raw. The sight of it, the exposed pink flesh, made her stomach twist.
He let out a slow breath. “This is bad.” He examined the ruined jacket material, found a relatively clean inner section, and tore another strip. “No med-kit. No clean water. Infection will set in fast.”
“I’ll live.”
“Will you?” His eyes finally met hers. They were the color of a winter sky, and just as distant. “Your family. Are they expecting a check-in?”
The question was a bucket of ice water. Duty slammed back into the void left by adrenaline. The Celeste clan. Her absence would be noted. Her failure, or her death, would have consequences.
“Yes,” she admitted. The word tasted like ash.
“How long?”
“I had a forty-eight-hour window for recon. After that, a retrieval team.” She calculated the hours spent infiltrating, the fight with Reed, the collapse. “They’re already mobilizing.”
He finished tying off the makeshift bandage. His hands lingered on her wrist for a second longer than necessary, his thumb resting over her pulse point. It beat a frantic rhythm against his skin.
“They’ll find the rubble. They’ll look for a body. They won’t find one.” He released her. “You’re officially missing in a hot zone. That’s a problem.”
“For who?”
“For both of us.” He stood, scanning their surroundings again. “If your people find you with me, they’ll assume capture or collusion. They’ll engage. If my family catches wind I was here, and that you’re alive….” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The memory of his reason on that rainy tarmac was a fresh wound between them.
“So we split up,” she said, pushing herself to her feet. A wave of dizziness hit her. She locked her knees. “Your path is yours. Mine is mine. That was always the deal.”
He didn’t answer. He was looking past her, upriver. His posture changed, coiling inward. “Quiet.”
She stilled, filtering out the rush of the river. At first, there was nothing. Then, a low thrum, felt more than heard, vibrating up through the soles of her boots. A mechanical pulse.
“Scout drone,” Killua said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Zoldyck configuration. High-altitude passive scan.”
Heaven’s blood went cold. “Yours?”
“Not mine. My family’s.” He grabbed her by her good arm, pulling her toward the thick cover of pine trees at the edge of the gravel bar. “They’re sweeping the area. Looking for signals. Heat signatures.”
They crashed into the undergrowth, the scent of wet pine and damp earth enveloping them. Killua pulled her down behind a fallen log thick with moss. The thrum grew louder, resolving into a faint, insect-like whine. Through a gap in the canopy, she saw it: a matte-black, six-bladed rotorship moving with predatory slowness against the clouds.
It was methodical, painting the terrain in intersecting grids. It paused, hovering directly over the gravel bar they’d just vacated. A red laser scanner licked down, tracing over their wet footprints in the stones.
Killua’s breath was warm against her ear. “Don’t move. Don’t even think too loudly. It’s keyed to Nen fluctuations.”
They stayed frozen as the drone’s scanner passed over their hiding place. It moved on, continuing its pattern downriver. The whine gradually faded into the ambient sound of wind and water.
He didn’t let go of her arm. “They’re not just looking for me. They’re doing cleanup. Confirming the Anthology’s destruction. Silencing any… anomalies.”
He meant her. An anomaly that had escaped.
“You said they’d recruit me,” she whispered, the moss cool against her cheek.
“That was then. This is now. You’re a loose end who’s seen their dirty laundry. A rival clan asset in a deniable black site.” He finally released her, rolling onto his back beside her. He stared up at the patches of grey sky. “The calculus has changed.”
The reality of it settled over her, colder than the river. There was no safe path back. Her family would see her as compromised. His family would see her as a witness to be erased. She was adrift between two empires, and neither side would offer a harbor.
The dizziness returned, stronger this time. A wave of nausea followed. The pain in her hands was a deep, insistent throb that seemed to sync with her heartbeat. Shock was setting in.
“You’re going into hypothermia,” Killua stated. He sat up, assessing her with that detached, analytical gaze. “Adrenaline dump. Energy expenditure. Physical trauma. You need calories, dry gear, and a warm place to rest. None of which we have.”
“I’ll manage,” she repeated, the words slurring slightly.
“Stop saying that.” There was a flicker of genuine anger in his voice now. “You’re not managing. You’re deteriorating. If that drone circles back and you’re shivering this badly, your thermal signature will light it up like a festival lantern.”
He shrugged off his remaining sleeveless shirt, leaving his torso bare. A map of old scars and hard muscle. He balled up the damp fabric and tossed it aside, then began working on his belt. “We need to get you dry. Or drier.”
“What are you doing?”
“Problem-solving.” He removed his belt, then started on the fastenings of his tactical pants. “These are lined. Water-resistant exterior, thermal layer inside. They’re mostly dry. You’re wearing shredded denim soaked through.”
He wasn’t suggesting. He was telling. A flush of heat that had nothing to do with fever spread across her skin. “I’m not stripping out here.”
“You will if you want to live long enough for your family to disavow you.” He stood, stepping out of the pants. He wore simple, dark briefs underneath. He stood there, unselfconscious, a product of a life with no privacy, and held the pants out to her. “Turn around. Put these on. Your modesty is less important than your core temperature.”
The clinical logic was infuriating. And undeniable. She turned her back, her fingers fumbling with her own button fly. The cold air on her wet skin was brutal. She stepped into his pants. They were warm from his body heat, and miles too long. She rolled the waistband and cuffs, the thermal lining soft against her icy skin.
He was already moving, pulling on his wet jacket over his bare torso. “Your turn. The shirt’s useless, but your jacket might retain some heat if we wring it out.”
They moved like that, a desperate, practical ballet. They wrung river water from their clothes, swapped a few semi-dry items, all with the grim efficiency of soldiers in a trench. No room for hesitation. No room for the old history that hummed between them.
Finished, she leaned against the log, spent. The thermal pants helped, but the deep chill was in her bones. Killua crouched nearby, his bare arms covered in goosebumps, scanning the forest.
“We need to move inland,” he said. “Find shelter before nightfall. Then we figure out what comes next.”
“There is no ‘we,’” she said, but the protest lacked conviction.