They took the stairs two at a time, Luci ghosting between them, the air getting colder as Alexei let the temperature fall without thinking about it.

Breath fogged in front of their mouths. Frost traced the rails where his hand brushed them.

A man in a helmet burst around the next landing and stopped dead when he saw them. He lifted his rifle.

Zubair was already moving.

He hit the man high and hard, took the rifle, and threw the soldier into the two behind him.

All three went down in a tangle.

Alexei flicked his wrist and a thin sheet of ice ran over the steps under them. Boots lost grip. Bodies slid.

Zubair grabbed the first one by the vest and bounced his head off the wall. Luci took the second by the throat and dragged him backward, growling deep, satisfied.

The third tried to crawl. Alexei put a heel on his calf and pushed until the bone popped. The scream cut short when Zubair’s hand closed.

More shadows came over the rail above—more helmets, more rifles, too many for the narrow space.

"Down," Alexei said.

Zubair dropped into a crouch without question.

Alexei raised both hands and pulled cold through the stairwell like drawing a curtain. The air around them snapped.

The metal of the rails sang as ice took it. The first three men on the upper run hit the new slick with their full weight and went out from under themselves in one breath.

They crashed down toward them, weapons pinwheeling.

Zubair reached up, grabbed the first by the collar, and used his falling body like a club to knock the second off his feet again. Luci jumped, teeth bright, and took the third by the face.

More boots hammered above.

Alexei’s eyes narrowed. He opened his hands wider.

Cold poured down the shaft, a clear, low waterfall that sheeted the steps, the walls, the rails.

It did not stop. It built. The men above slowed without meaning to. Their joints seized. Their fingers would not bend. Breath steamed like smoke from dying engines.

"Move," Zubair said.

They moved together, one killing, one freezing, one tearing, up into the flood of bodies that had not yet figured out they were already dead.

The stairwell filled with the grind and crash of gear, the small wet sounds of things breaking, the rumble of a wolf pleased with work.

They reached the next landing and the one after that. Fresh soldiers tried to anchor a line across the hall—shields up, muzzles leveled, a little wall of men who still believed walls meant something.

Zubair laughed once, low, and ran.

Alexei lifted his palms.

The world went white with cold as boots hit blood and blood hit ice and the line broke like glass.

They did not stop.

The hall ahead filled with more shapes.

The dark took them and gave them back in pieces. The pack moved forward through it, quiet, fast, sure, and the building learned what came for it when it had nothing left but corners and hope.

------

The corridor shook under another explosion somewhere above them.

Elias didn’t flinch.

He moved through the smoke like it had been waiting for him, his boots finding the floor without hesitation, a rifle balanced in his grip but silent for now.

The glass in the walls rattled with every step he took.

He stopped at the next corner, leaned in just enough to see.

Two guards with their backs to him. Nervous. Too loud.

Elias lifted his rifle and put two rounds in the first man’s spine, then shifted his aim before the second even turned his head.

The shot hit the man behind the ear. Both went down hard, rifles clattering across the tile.

"It’s loud tonight," Lachlan muttered behind him. "You know, I almost missed this, sitting in the penthouse, doing nothing. The team is back! Woohoo!"

Lachlan moved lighter, a shadow flicking between broken lights. Blood streaked his cheek like paint, and his grin was too wide for the moment.

The next hall opened wide—a choke point, long with nowhere to duck.

Figures moved at the far end.

Soldiers, four, maybe five.

They wore the right armor, carried the right weapons, but their shoulders sat too high and their heads jerked too fast.

Scared.

Lachlan stepped forward, boots loud enough on the tile to make them hear him coming. He slung the rifle over his back and pulled the machete at his hip.

"Care to make this interesting?" Lachlan asked, voice carrying down the corridor.

No one answered.

One of the soldiers lifted his rifle halfway before he realized he was the only one with the nerve left to try.

Elias moved past Lachlan without a word. He raised his rifle, braced it to his shoulder, and fired twice.

Two men went down before they returned a single shot.

The other three panicked. They scrambled to take cover in doorways that didn’t exist, rifles jerking toward shapes they couldn’t hit fast enough.

Lachlan was already running.

He crossed the hall in seconds, boots slamming the tile, machete in his right hand flashing under the lights. He hit the first man high, arm slashing across his neck. Blood went wide, hot and fast. The soldier’s knees buckled before Lachlan even yanked the blade free.

The second tried to swing his rifle around for a close shot.

Lachlan shoved the muzzle aside with his left hand and drove the machete up under his ribs with his right. The man folded in half, mouth opening without sound.

The last soldier dropped his rifle and went for a sidearm. His hands shook too hard to get it clear of the holster before Lachlan’s blade took him across the throat.

The hallway went quiet except for the drip of blood off the machete tip.

Elias stepped past the bodies without slowing.

Another explosion hit the far side of the building.

"They’re throwing everything at us," Lachlan said, his voice too casual for the mess around them.

"They’re out of everything," Elias answered, reloading smooth, eyes already scanning the next corner.

A low sound padded up behind them—claws on tile.

Luci came out of the dark streaked red from jaw to chest. His teeth were wet. His ears were forward. He stopped next to Lachlan, breath fogging in the cold air Alexei had left behind on the lower floors.

"Good boy," Lachlan murmured, reaching down to scratch bloody fur without looking.