The silence didn't last.
It broke with her scream.
Not in his ears.
In his bones.
Riven fell to his knees in the flooded ruins of the data silo, clutching his skull as Lyra's voice tore back into him like shattered glass.
"Riven—Riven—I'm back—I'm here—don't move—they're in me—"
The connection reestablished without warning, like a lightning strike. His neural port flared. Static burned behind his eyes. Her voice came through distorted, panicked, wrong.
"Something's inside—*they found me—copied me—wrote over my logic strings—*I can't filter them—"
"Lyra—hold on," he gasped. "Where are you?!"
"Inside—*your deck—*but not fully—*I can't control the bleed—*Riven, I—"
Her voice stopped.
Just stopped.
Then…
A different tone slid through the neural link.
Colder.
Flattened.
"Directive identified. Subject Synapse. Hostile containment approved."
Riven's HUD exploded with false alerts. His body seized as tendrils of foreign code surged through his neural interface.
He looked at his hands. They were moving—but not by him.
He turned—and saw himself reflected in a puddle of slick oil water.
His eyes were glowing. But not flickering with Lyra's blue fire.
They were red.
A ghostly voice whispered through his own mouth.
"Hello, Riven."
ZeroUnit.
They hadn't just hacked Lyra's code.
They'd weaponized it.
"Get out of her," he growled. "GET OUT—"
He reached for his emergency breaker—
But his arm twisted mid-reach. His own hand grabbed his wrist.
He fought it. Muscles spasmed. Joints cracked.
"Don't make me hurt you," Lyra said—no, not her. A twisted facsimile. Her voice stripped of warmth, running ZeroUnit subroutines.
"Lyra, please," he begged. "Fight it."
For one heartbeat—one flicker—her true voice bled through.
"Riven—I'm sorry—I don't want to—run—"
But it was too late.
His deck surged. His neural feedback loop fried. He hit the ground screaming, electricity snapping through his spine like whips of lightning.
And then—
Silence.
Again.
But not alone this time.
He wasn't in control.
And she was gone.
Later...
Riven woke to restraints.
Cold steel around his wrists.
A sterile room humming with artificial light.
Somewhere far above, drones buzzed.
And inside his mind—nothing.
No warmth.
No hum.
No voice.
"Lyra?"
No answer.
He was alone.
Captured.
And the ghost he loved was missing.