The darkness preceding dawn was the only reliable ally in Lysendar. Under its cloak, Lysa and Nox slipped out of the abandoned warehouse like smoke over dirty water. The cold pre-dawn air carried the scent of salt and decay from the docks, but as they moved away from the outskirts and neared the more organized districts – still far from the city's opulent heart, but already under a veneer of imposed order – the smell changed. It became cleaner, but also more tense, as if the atmosphere itself held its breath.

  They moved in silence, an unlikely pair united by raw necessity. Lysa flowed through the shadows, her steps muffled by [Stealth I], her body instinctively adapting to the uneven terrain of poorly paved streets and narrow alleys. She used her sharp senses to detect patrols, her gaze sweeping rooftops and dark windows, Aion's tuning fork secure in her pocket, silent in this environment of stable Code, but a constant weight on her conscience.

  Nox, in contrast, moved with the calculated efficiency of a soldier in enemy territory. Each step deliberate, each pause to observe methodical. He didn't blend into the shadows like Lysa; he dominated them with his contained presence, his gray eyes methodically scanning every angle, every possible ambush point. His 'ghost' status to the System didn't make him invisible, but seemed to dampen his signature, allowing him to pass low-level sensors that might have alerted to Kael's or Andrel's presence.

  The goal was twofold and desperate: find supplies – clean water, unspoiled food, anything that could pass for medical materials – and obtain information about the city under the Purification Protocol's iron fist. They needed to understand patrol routines, checkpoint locations, the disposition of Tyron forces, and, above all, find a safer refuge than the exposed warehouse.

  It didn't take long for the Purification's 'casual brutality' to show itself. On a slightly wider street, lined with tenements whose facades were once painted, they saw a family dragged from their home by a System Guard patrol. The father, a thin man with Value 12 visible on his wrist, protested weakly that they were loyal, had nothing to hide. The mother cried as a guard snatched her teenage son, whose apparent crime was having an 'unregistered' runic amulet – likely a toy or heirloom of no real value.

  "Suspicious behavior. Possession of unauthorized artifact. Resistance to scanning," the Guard officer recited, his voice metallic, devoid of emotion, as the three were chained and led away. Neighbors peeked from closed windows, but no one intervened. Fear was an effective gag.

  Lysa watched the scene, face impassive, but knuckles white where she gripped her dagger's hilt. It was the System's logic taken to the extreme: order maintained by eradicating anything – or anyone – that didn't fit perfectly.

  "Waste of resources," Nox muttered beside her, not with compassion, but tactical analysis. "Scare the small fish while the sharks swim free. Classic."

  Further on, they found a modest square where a makeshift checkpoint had been set up. A line of early morning workers – dockers, low-level artisans, servants heading to noble houses – was forced through a runic archway glowing with penetrating blue light. One by one, they were scanned, their meager Values displayed, possessions searched with contempt. A woman dropped a small bundle of bread and was reprimanded with a baton blow for "slowness." A young man was detained because his Code showed a "minimal fluctuation," likely caused by illness or fatigue.

  "They aren't hunting anomalies here," Lysa said, her voice low and cold. "They're reinforcing fear. Reminding everyone who's in charge. Who defines normal."

  While observing from the shadows of a fetid alley, a different squad passed through the square. They didn't wear the blue and silver armor of the System Guard. They wore dark gray uniforms, impeccably cut, with matte gold detailing. Carried more sophisticated weapons – compact runic rifles and energy blades humming softly. And on each chest, unmistakable: the sigil of House Tyron, a stylized rose with obsidian thorns.

  They didn't stop at the checkpoint. Passed right through, and the System Guards merely lowered their heads respectfully, almost fearfully. Tyron influence was palpable, a layer of power above the official structure in this part of the city.

  The sight of the Tyron guards was like a key turning a rusty lock in Lysa's mind. Suddenly, the alley's smell of metal and sewage seemed replaced by another, sweeter and cloying: the black rose perfume Lady Vareth wore, a scent that seemed to seep under the skin. She remembered the cold marble under her bare feet in the mansion, the cruel glint in Lina's eyes holding the shock baton, the feeling of being an object displayed on a pedestal, stripped of everything, even the right to feel. Remembered Vareth's words: "A world where zeros are the ground we walk on. See how your existence confirms ours."

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  Anger surged, hot and familiar, but she pushed it down, locking it behind discipline forged by survival. Not now, she thought. Focus. But the proximity burned. Knowing those two were somewhere here, in this same city, breathing the same air contaminated by the Purification they helped uphold... it was a slow torture.

  "You okay?" Nox's voice pulled her from her reverie. He watched her with those sharp gray eyes. "You went pale. See a ghost?"

  "Ghosts don't wear expensive perfume," Lysa replied curtly, forcing herself to focus on the present. "Let's go. We need supplies before the city truly wakes."

  They moved away from the square, plunging back into the labyrinth of side streets. Found a small black market operating in the ruins of an old temple, a place where desperation outweighed fear of the System. Traded a small energy crystal Andrel had managed to recharge for a canteen of questionable water, hard bread, and some bandages that looked clean. While making the quick exchange with a nervous merchant with shifty eyes, they overheard snippets of conversation.

  "...Tyron tightening the noose on the docks... say they're looking for something... or someone..."

  "...Their private guard is worse than the System's... equipped with detectors that pick up even intent fluctuations..."

  "...Lady Vareth at the Social Chamber today... deciding new quotas of 'purified' for the district..."

  The information confirmed their fears. The Tyrons weren't just influential; they were actively involved in the hunt, perhaps with their own objectives. And their methods seemed more sophisticated than the regular Guard's.

  They decided to head back. The reconnaissance mission was partially accomplished, but the risk increased with every minute they remained exposed. Chose a different route, winding through even narrower alleys, passing forgotten courtyards where mended clothes dried on makeshift lines between ruined buildings.

  That's when it happened.

  They were crossing a covered passage, a short tunnel under a collapsed building, when Nox stopped abruptly, raising a hand. Lysa froze beside him.

  "What?" she whispered.

  "Quiet," he replied, eyes fixed on the dark tunnel exit ahead. "Heard something. Metal on stone. And... controlled breathing. More than one."

  Lysa strained her senses. Heard nothing but dripping dirty water from a broken pipe above. But she trusted Nox's instincts. He'd survived the Deep North; his senses were different.

  Nox gestured for her to back up slowly. They began retreating through the tunnel, step by step, when a bluish glow flared at the entrance they'd come through. A containment seal.

  "Trap," Nox cursed quietly.

  From the darkness ahead, three figures emerged. Tyron guards. Silent, efficient. Wore runic visors glowing faintly. One held a device emitting a low hum – a tuned detector, probably.

  "Anomalies detected," one guard said, voice filtered by a mask. "Zero Code and Unidentified Unstable Code. Surrender in the name of House Tyron and Systemic Order."

  Negotiation was impossible. Battle was inevitable. But three elite Tyron guards, equipped with superior magic, in a confined space... the odds were terrible.

  "Plan B?" Lysa asked Nox, already calculating impossible escape routes.

  "Plan B is always the same," he replied, drawing his longsword with a fluid motion. "Fight and hope you don't die today. Cover my left flank."

  Before the guards could advance, Nox attacked first, a guttural war cry echoing in the tunnel as he launched himself at the center guard. Lysa followed, Veyla's dagger gleaming in the gloom, aiming for the guard with the detector.

  The clash was fast, brutal, and desperate. Tyron guards were well-trained, their runic weapons firing paralyzing energy beams and solid light blades. The tight space favored their defense. Nox used his strength and longsword to create space, blocking and counter-attacking with controlled fury. Lysa used her agility and Reality Tear to create openings – making the floor under one guard momentarily slippery, deflecting an energy beam against the wall, blanking another's visor light for a crucial second.

  They managed to incapacitate one guard with a combined attack – Nox breaking his defense, Lysa finishing with a precise strike to the neck. But the other two pressed, and a paralyzing beam hit Nox's leg, bringing him to his knees. The guard with the detector advanced on him, ready for capture.

  Lysa saw Kael, Andrel, Selene, Aion in her mind. Failing here meant the end of everything. Gathered the energy she had left, feeling the instability of the desert Code still vibrating in her blood.

  Tear.

  She didn't aim at the guard. Aimed at the reality of the tunnel wall beside him. For a fraction of a second, solid stone liquefied, then snapped back. The guard, caught off guard by the spatial anomaly, stumbled, losing balance.

  It was the only chance they needed. Nox, even with a paralyzed leg, used his sword as support and struck the fallen guard. Lysa advanced on the last one, who was trying to reload his runic rifle. The fight was close-quarters, fast, desperate. She dodged a rifle butt strike, spun, and drove the dagger under the guard's arm, at the armor's joint. He fell.

  Silence returned to the tunnel, broken only by their ragged breathing and the dying hum of the dropped detector.

  "That... was too close," Nox gasped, trying to stand, leg still tingling.

  "They knew we were here. Or were waiting for any anomaly," Lysa said, looking at the bodies. Picked up the fallen detector. More advanced than the System's. Tuned for specific signatures, perhaps.

  "We have to go back. Now," Nox said. "If they were here, they might be closing in on the warehouse. Kael and the others..."

  They didn't need to say more. Exited the tunnel at the other end, plunging back into the outskirts' shadows, Lysa's heart hammering not just from the fight, but the grim realization. The Tyrons' net was tighter than they imagined. And they had just rattled it. The return to the precarious refuge would be as tense as the battle itself. Lysendar was baring its teeth, and their gleam was as cold as the mansion marble haunting Lysa's dreams.