Veil of the forsaken.

"Sister, sick."

Level 3

The dust and smoke clung to the air as Matthew and Dorothea ducked into a small room, the door barely holding against the chaos outside. The faint glow of their flashlights bounced off the cracked walls, and Dorothea slumped onto the edge of a broken desk, wiping the grime from her face.

"You know," she started, her tone light despite the tension, "for someone who used to be such a ladies' man, you're remarkably clueless about how to treat a woman now."

Matthew leaned against the wall, catching his breath. "Oh, here we go," he muttered, shaking his head.

"I'm serious!" she said, grinning as she leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. "I mean, back in the day, you couldn't walk into a room without some poor girl falling for that smirk of yours. Now? You barely know how to say two kind words to someone who isn't holding a gun."

He glanced at her, one brow raised. "Kind words don't win fights, Dorothea."

"No, but they win hearts," she shot back, her grin widening. "Not that you'd know what to do with one if you had it. You'd probably just hand it back like, 'Thanks, but I've got a war to fight.'"

Matthew rolled his eyes, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. "You done?"

"Not even close," she teased, leaning back and crossing her arms. "You used to be so smooth—charming, cocky, a real pain in the ass. Now you're just... well, mostly just a pain in the ass."

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer to her. "You keep talking like that, and I might start to think you miss the old me."

Dorothea snorted. "Miss you? Please. The only thing I miss is watching you crash and burn when a girl saw through your act."

Matthew leaned down slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make her pause. "Funny. I don't remember you complaining back then. Or now."

Her grin faltered for half a second, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "Careful, Matt. You're treading dangerous ground."

He straightened, the faintest smirk on his lips. "I live for danger."

Dorothea shook her head, but the faint blush creeping up her neck didn't go unnoticed. "You're impossible," she muttered, standing and brushing past him toward the door.

"And you're stalling," he countered, his voice following her like a shadow.

She turned back, pointing a finger at him. "Don't get cocky."

"Too late," he replied, his grin widening as he checked his rifle. "Let's move."

Level 7.

The faint echoes of gunfire rattled through the dilapidated hallways as Art, Father Gonzales, and Mai-Lee moved cautiously toward the lab's upper levels. Dust drifted from the cracked ceiling, each creak of the floorboards threatening to give away their position.

Mai-Lee took point, her blade glinting faintly in the dim light, while Art followed close behind, his rifle scanning the shadows. Father Gonzales brought up the rear, his steady presence a calm contrast to the tension simmering between his companions.

They turned a corner, and Mai-Lee froze, raising a hand to signal the others to stop. Ahead, a group of V.L.T.R. units moved in formation, their sleek, black armor reflecting the pale glow of their tactical lights.

Art leaned in, whispering, "Six, maybe seven. Standard patrol. They haven't seen us yet."

Mai-Lee's lips curved into a grim smile. "Good. That gives us the advantage."