Here, on the thirteenth floor, the only light was from the cold dim glow of machines. Officially, none of it existed. None of them existed. But they weren't as invisible as they thought. They, all of them, had names, doctors promoted to their positions and test subjects stolen from the lower wards alike.

Someone had been watching this time. And he, nameless, darkness within darkness, remained unnoticed among them until metal sang from scabbard.

They looked up from their helpless victims as one; from their monitors, their syringes, their charts, from silver wires running through flesh and skull. They looked at him, these butchers, or maybe at his unsheathed steel, and blanched.

Not so long ago, he had respected ones such as them, the good works they were doing, making improvements in the lives of citizens in exchange for the glorious sacrifices of the few. Now, he saw only atrocity, felt only shame and pity for these unknown martyrs of relentless control, for those whose lives had been destroyed in the name of progress. "Ariel," he mused, his voice soft and his eyes traveling over shadows and blinking lights, "who watched over Miranda. This is where it began."

One of the researchers approached nervously, the rest continued to watch, frightened. Did they know then? Did they know what retribution looked like? This one was young, pretty, a blonde with green eyes. She might have family, he realized sadly. "Sir? Sir, you can't be here. This is a restricted area."

The arc of a blade was art, a loathsome skill he had learned for viler purpose. They scattered like mice before she even hit the floor, blood staining her white coat. The alarms they ran for never sounded; he had disabled them. No cameras caught the massacre; no one wanted recorded what went on in these rooms.

Worse than this was the mercy he dealt afterward with the same instrument. Revenge would not be long coming, the tiny white and blue clues left for him revealed his next target. But, he suppo