The air conditioning in the São Paulo Convention Center fought a losing battle against November's sweltering heat. Karen Stevens stepped out of the main auditorium, her business jacket already clinging to her shoulders despite the climate control. Around her, delegates from orbital manufacturing companies clustered in small groups, their conversations a mix of Portuguese, English, and the universal language of profit margins.

"Director." Sabine appeared at her elbow, tablet in hand, sweat beading despite her professional composure. "We need to talk. Privately."

Karen followed her down a corridor lined with conference rooms, past clusters of executives discussing the morning's presentations on asteroid mining efficiency. The humidity made everything feel heavy, oppressive. Sabine opened the door to a small meeting room, empty except for a conference table and chairs that had seen better days.

The moment the door sealed, Sabine activated a privacy scrambler. The device hummed softly, creating a dead zone for electronic surveillance.

"Project Nightingale," Sabine said without preamble. "We cracked it."

The display appeared above the scarred conference table, a web of connections spreading across three continents. At the center sat a black silhouette that made Karen's stomach clench despite the stifling heat. A songbird.

"Walk me through it," she said.

Beside her, Sabine looked like hell. Three days without sleep, parsing data that would give anyone nightmares. "Financial layer first."

The display shifted. Shell corporations appeared across the display, a network of legitimate fronts and legal entities. Karen watched the organizational chart unfold, each connection a thread leading back to that damn bird.

"They needed traditional corporate structures for legitimacy," Sabine highlighted clusters of entities. "Can't run a legal adventuring company with just System credits. Need banks, business licenses, government contracts." She expanded the view. "All these shells trace back to one holding group in Montenegro."

"Owned by?"

"Front men. But the paperwork?" Sabine pulled up personnel files and contract documents. "Personnel records, training facility leases, equipment purchases. All pointing back to Russian intelligence networks tied to Barkov's known associates."

She highlighted the songbird.

"Project Nightingale."

The display zoomed to Eastern Europe. Personnel files cascaded down the screen. Young faces. Desperate faces. Karen's chest tightened.

"After the System arrived, someone started targeting struggling adventuring companies across the former Soviet sphere." Sabine traced patterns through the data. "Small companies with desperate members - portal overflow survivors, people who'd lost everything. But the companies themselves aren't the target."

She pulled up another layer of data. Transport manifests, movement orders, facility transfers.

"The companies are recruitment fronts. Their real mission is identifying and collecting displaced individuals - people affected by portal overflows, monster attacks, anyone on the margins of society. Ostracized, desperate, with no family to look for them."

Karen's blood chilled. "Collection for what?"

Sabine met her gaze with a look that held years of intelligence work, of seeing humanity's darkest corners. She didn't answer.

The silence stretched between them until Karen felt sick.

"How many?"

"Thousands. Moving through a network of seventeen compromised companies across Eastern Europe and Central Asia." Sabine highlighted transport routes. "The adventuring company members think they're doing courier runs, security escorts, facility inspections. They have no idea they're facilitating the largest trafficking operation in post-System history."

"And when they figure it out?"

"Re-education." Sabine's voice was flat. "The gulag facility processes two types of people. The trafficking victims who end up with Barkov's oligarch clients. And the company members who ask too many questions about their cargo."

The name hung between them like a curse. Karen stared at the web of exploitation, two hundred lives reduced to assets. Children turned into weapons.

"Show me the companies."

Nodes scattered across Europe and Asia. Names appeared: Velvet Chain. Iron Sparrow. Silver Thread. Legitimate adventuring companies turned into unwitting fronts.

"Two hundred fourteen confirmed members across seventeen companies. But we're not tracking these from the Brasov files." Sabine pulled up a new interface. "Remember Tokyo? The protocols Sarah Chen developed to penetrate Barkov's communication networks?"

Karen nodded.

"We've been inside his systems for weeks. Monitoring operational communications, transfer orders, and personnel assessments." Sabine's expression darkened. "Three days ago, we intercepted a batch of performance reviews. Company members who've been asking inconvenient questions about their missions."

Karen felt the pieces clicking into place with horrible clarity. Two hundred company members serving as unwitting mules. Thousands of displaced people as cargo. The adventuring companies had no idea they were transporting human beings instead of equipment.

The display zoomed to the Ural Mountains. Satellite imagery showed a sprawling compound in frozen wasteland. Concrete walls. Guard towers. Architecture of containment.

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"Former gulag. They're calling it a 'training facility' for underperforming adventuring company personnel." Sabine highlighted compound sections. "But the internal communications tell a different story."

Karen understood. The adventuring companies were cover operations. When their members figured out what they were really doing, Barkov didn't outright eliminate them.

"Which companies have members flagged for transfer?"

Sabine pulled up a list. Velvet Chain topped it.

"Show me their files."

The display focused on personnel records. Two faces appeared:

Volkov, K. & A.

The first: mid-twenties, dark hair severe, eyes hard with survivor's defiance. Katerina Volkov, 26, combat specialist, level 41.

The second: younger, softer. Dark eyes holding fear instead of anger. Anastasia Volkov, 18, covert ops specialist, level 29.

"Sisters. Parents died in the northern Moscow overflow during the first portal crisis." Sabine paused. "Velvet Chain found them within a week. Food, protection, training."

"The leverage?"

"Each other. One tries to leave, the other pays. Barkov's people made that clear from day one."

Karen stared at Anastasia's face. The girl who'd made contact with Matteo in St. Petersburg. Who'd pressed a gun to his ribs and whispered about being trapped.

She'd been asking for help.

"The grandmother. Still alive?"

"Died six months ago. Natural causes, according to records."

"So the only leverage left—"

"The sisters themselves." Sabine pulled up surveillance footage. Two figures training in a St. Petersburg courtyard. "They're each other's cage now."

Ice spread through Karen's chest. This wasn't corporate warfare. This was systematic brutalization wrapped in legal language and state security protocols.

She looked at the web of names and faces. Two hundred children, maybe more. All trapped, all headed for a former gulag.

All about to disappear.

"He's not just a rival." Her voice low. "He's running human trafficking disguised as state security."

She turned to Sabine. The veteran operative read the shift in her director's eyes.

"I want an assault plan for that facility. Full tactical breakdown. Entry points, garrison strength, guard rotations, and extraction routes. Our people are ready to move the second we have a window."

"Director, that's UER territory," Sabine said carefully. "A raid of that scale... Anderson's going to have questions."

"Anderson can swallow his questions." Karen's voice could cut steel. "The Alpha Centauri Charter gives us significant operational latitude, and I've got more leverage over him than he'd like to admit. Barkov tried to kill my kids. He's enslaving children."

She looked back at the display, at the web of compromised companies. At Anastasia Volkov's face staring from her personnel photo.

"The Interstellar Frontier Company doesn't abandon people to monsters. UER politics be damned."

The message appeared in Matteo's phone like a bomb waiting to explode.

They know about St. Pete. Marked for review. Nightingale sings at Dawn.

He'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, sitting on a bunk bed in his family's apartment in Genesis Platform's while his dad thought he was at the gym. The encrypted channel they'd used for their stupid little word games suddenly felt like a lifeline someone was cutting.

Anastasia.

Her name still made his chest flutter. Dark eyes in the St. Petersburg snow. The way she'd grabbed his arm, strong fingers through his jacket. How she'd smiled before everything went to hell, real and vulnerable and devastating.

The way she'd said his brother's name like she knew exactly what it meant to be the one left behind.

They know about St. Pete. That meant someone had figured out she'd made contact with him. Cage is closing. Whatever freedom she'd had was gone.

That last part made his blood freeze. He didn't know what Project Nightingale was, but 'sings at dawn' sounded like an execution order.

His door chimed. "Matteo, we need to talk."

Dad's voice, carrying that particular tone that meant trouble. Matteo flicked off his phone and stood, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Athan entered looking like he'd aged ten years in the last hour. Gray stubble, exhausted eyes, the weight of running Genesis Platform and worrying about sons scattered across the solar system.

"I just got off a secure call with Karen," Athan said without preamble. "There's something you need to know."

"What's Project Nightingale?"

The words came out before Matteo could stop them. His father froze, eyes going wide.

"How do you—"

Matteo pulled up the message. "She sent this an hour ago." His voice cracked slightly. "Dad, what is it?"

Athan stared at the text. Something shifted in his expression, pieces clicking into place.

"It's a control operation," he said finally. "Barkov's been compromising small adventuring companies. Using them as fronts for trafficking operations while the company members think they're doing legitimate work."

The words hit Matteo like punches. "She figured it out."

"Seems like it."

"And 'marked for review'?" But he already knew from the way his father's face went grim.

"Means she's been flagged as a problem. They'll transfer her to a 'retraining facility' where she'll disappear."

Matteo sat down hard on his bunk. The training sessions with his squad, the portal runs, the careful progression of levels and skills... it all felt like playing games while real people suffered.

While she suffered.

"How long have you known?" he asked.

"I got the briefing from Karen an hour ago."

"An hour." Matteo looked up at his father. "You've known for an hour that she's about to be killed for trying to reach out to me, and you were just going to what? Keep me locked up here?"

"I was trying to protect you—"

Matteo stared at the message between them. "So this is real. She's really trapped in this thing, and now they're going to disappear her because she reached out to me."

His voice broke. The image of her in the snow, vulnerable and beautiful and desperate, burned behind his eyes.

"I can't be that person."

Athan was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer.

"Karen's already planning a rescue operation. You don't need to—"

"Yes, I do." Matteo moved to the viewport, staring out at the flickering lights in the darkness of the Asteroid belt. "She sent the message to me. That means something."

"It means she thought you might help. Doesn't mean—"

"Dad." Matteo turned back to his father. "I know you're scared. Luca's God knows where in another star system, and it's just me and Alessio on this side of the galaxy." He paused. "But I won't abandon someone who needs help. Not when they trusted me."

The silence stretched between them. Outside, skeletal ship frames reached toward the stars, tools of humanity's future taking shape one weld at a time.

Athan turned toward the door, then stopped. His shoulders sagged with the weight of impossible choices.

"I need to think," he said finally.

"Dad—"

"I said I need to think." Athan's voice carried finality. "This isn't just about you, Matteo. If Karen's planning an operation, if we get involved..." He trailed off. "There are consequences I have to consider."

"What about the consequences of doing nothing?"

"Those too." Athan paused in the doorway. "Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Matteo alone with the message.

Nightingale sings at dawn.

He stared out at the void, thinking about dark eyes in the snow. About a girl who'd pressed a gun to his ribs and whispered about being trapped. About trust and courage and the weight of someone else's life in your hands.

Somewhere out there, beyond the asteroid belt and the cold between worlds, Luca was exploring an alien star system. Making history while following his own path.

And somewhere on Earth, in the frozen wastes of the Urals, Anastasia was running out of time.

Matteo pulled up his squad's roster. Echo Team. Five people he trusted with his life, who'd followed him through portal runs and combat zones. Who'd signed up for adventure, not corporate politics and family drama.

But who'd also understand what it meant to not abandon someone who'd reached out for help.

His finger hovered over Evan's contact. Then Sarah's. Then Jules's.

Dawn was coming to the Ural Mountains. Anastasia was running out of time.

And his father needed time to think.

Matteo thought about snowflakes in dark hair. About a smile that was real and scared and beautiful all at once. About the kind of person he wanted to be when the chips were down.

"Fuck it," he whispered, and started typing.

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