The one retrieved from The Void

Perched ominously above The Drift Isles and the industrial moons of Caelum, the station siphoned resources in secret, its reach extending like a shadow over high-risk zones. Sleek, brutalist architecture blended seamlessly with arcane mysticism: glowing sigils etched into its outer hull, energy conduits pulsing like veins, and mystic runes faintly visible even through the stormy veil. Portions of the station flickered in and out of sight, a side effect of experimental cloaking systems and spatial distortion fields, giving the impression that the station existed only partially within the physical plane.

At the station's core stood The Nexus Eye, a towering structure rising like a monolithic spear into the tumultuous skies. The spire acted as a conduit for Caelum's unrelenting energy, harnessing its volatile electromagnetic forces to power Kadmon's sprawling operations. Within its labyrinthine corridors, neon lights pulsed with rhythmic precision, holographic interfaces flickered with coded streams of data, and glowing runes emanated an eerie hum—evidence of the station's seamless marriage of cybernetic advancement and forbidden mysticism. The air itself seemed charged, heavy with both technological precision and an underlying, otherworldly presence.

At the apex of the Nexus Eye stood Kadmon Primal, the man whose shadow loomed as large as the station itself. A figure of commanding presence, he was in his late fifties but exuded the vitality of someone who had long refused to bow to time. His angular face was chiseled like stone, his piercing gray eyes sharp enough to slice through any deception. Salt-and-pepper hair, neatly combed back, crowned his head, adding an air of timeless authority. A faint scar ran diagonally across his left cheek—a reminder, perhaps, of battles fought long ago. Tall and wiry, his lean frame spoke of a life shaped by discipline and control. His tailored three-piece suit, dark and flawless, was accented by silver cufflinks engraved with Kadmon's sigil—a symbol of power and precision.

He stood at the center of a command chamber, his presence alone enough to silence any dissent. His voice, deep and resonant, carried an authority that left no room for argument.

"Sir," came a voice from the chamber's comm system, cutting through the charged silence. "We have news."

Primal turned, his expression unreadable. "Go on."

"Your daughter, Carmilla," the voice said hesitantly. "She's in the Nu Prison."

Primal's gaze hardened. "I'm aware. So?"

"There has been a breach at the Nu Prison," the voice continued. "And… Carmilla is missing."

The temperature in the chamber seemed to drop instantly. A faint crackling noise echoed as veins of energy surged across the room's walls, reflecting the tension in Primal's tightening control over his emotions. His gray eyes narrowed, and his voice, though calm, carried an undercurrent of menace. "Tell Veritas to investigate the matter immediately. And prepare Umbra for deployment."

"There's more, sir," the voice pressed, cautious now. "Vastian Hek is also among the missing."

Primal's jaw clenched, but his response was measured. "So? Inform Arcanum if you think it necessary, but we both know her relationship with her son is… strained, at best."

"Sir," the voice replied, its tone more urgent now. "Arcanum isn't the problem. Gerald is."

Primal froze. His composure faltered, just for a moment. "What do you mean?" His voice carried a slight tremor, betraying unease.

"Abigail and Gerald Hek have confirmed their involvement. They're heading to Nu."

The air seemed to grow heavier, oppressive with unspoken implications. Primal's voice, when it came, was low and laced with dread. "Help? No, this isn't help. This is trouble. Avoid crossing paths with them at all costs. Anger the government, the military, even the damned churches if you must, but do not—do not—provoke those two." His words hung in the air like a death knell. "I still haven't identified who Gerald sent to infiltrate Kadmon. It's not Arcanum, nor Celine, nor Jacob. But Gerald…" He trailed off, his gray eyes narrowing. "Gerald is an enemy we cannot afford to make."

Before the words could settle, the comm system buzzed again. "Sir, incoming communication… It's Gerald."

Primal's assistant visibly tensed. Primal's expression hardened further. "Put him through."

The line crackled briefly before the unmistakable voice of Gerald Hek came through, smooth yet cold, like a blade sliding free of its sheath. "Kadmon Primal," Gerald began, his tone calculated and disarmingly casual. "I assume you're preparing to head to Nu."

Primal straightened, his shoulders squared. "Indeed, I am, Gerald."

"Good," Gerald replied, a faint edge of amusement creeping into his voice. "You're finally acting like a father."

Primal's expression turned ashen. That statement struck deeper than any threat. It was information that no one—save for his inner circle—should have known. His assistant's breath hitched audibly, the tension in the room palpable.

"Relax, Primal," Gerald continued, his voice a dark melody of reassurance and menace. "I have no intention of revealing your secrets. But I do intend to head to Nu as well. Let's… work together, shall we?"

The line went dead before Primal could respond. The silence that followed was deafening.

"At least he's reasonable," his assistant ventured, her voice shaking slightly.

"No," Primal said, his voice cold and grim. "That wasn't reason. That was a warning. He's telling us, in no uncertain terms, to stay out of his way."

He turned back to the command console, his piercing eyes glowing with an inner fire. "Prepare the forces. We proceed with caution. But mark my words—this just became a far deadlier game."

The Aetherion Apex, a colossal, city-sized space station, loomed in the gravitational equilibrium of the Aetherion system—a masterpiece of engineering and diplomacy. Suspended at the precise midpoint between the system's planets and moons, the station served as a neutral arbiter, a hub for political deliberations, trade negotiations, and celestial governance. It was a gleaming beacon of unity, though its foundations often bore the tremors of hidden tensions.

The station's central spire pierced the void like a needle of light, its structure brimming with holographic projections of stellar maps, shifting trade routes, and real-time readings of celestial events. These projections swirled like an intricate ballet, emphasizing the station's vital role in overseeing the system.

At the very peak of this spire sat Supreme Arbiter Althea Corwin, her silhouette framed by the vast expanse of the cosmos beyond the panoramic viewport. Her deep brown skin, kissed with subtle golden undertones, glowed faintly in the ambient light of the room, her sharp cheekbones and thoughtful gaze lending her an air of unassailable authority. Her tightly coiled hair was styled into an intricate updo, adorned with glimmering pins that echoed the stars outside. Draped in flowing, high-tech robes that shimmered with shifting patterns—symbols of her high station—she seemed a living embodiment of the council's ideals: balance, vision, and power.

Yet, Althea's composure was tested as her dark eyes scanned a holographic report. It was a live feed from Nu Prison, the notorious maximum-security facility hidden in the system's shadows. A stark series of updates scrolled before her: Massive breach reported, Kadmon operatives mobilizing under military guise, Unusual readings emanating from the prison depths. 

Amid these grim updates was a terse message from Gerald Hek, stark in its simplicity but laden with unspoken weight:

"Abigail and I will be assisting with the Nu situation."

The message both reassured and unsettled her. The Heks were legends in their own right—forces of nature whose presence could tip any balance. Yet their methods were unpredictable, and their motives often inscrutable. Althea's fingers tightened around her CypherSync, a sleek, advanced device that pulsed faintly with her bio-signature. She activated it with a thought, her voice steady but edged with urgency.

"Ariane," she said, the communication link crackling to life.

"Yes, ma'am," came the crisp response of Ariane Okafor, commander of the Special Containment Division (SCD).

"I need the SCD mobilized for Nu Prison immediately," Althea ordered. "We're deploying the Army as well, but…" Her voice trailed off, the weight of unspoken concerns hanging in the silence.

"I understand, ma'am," Ariane replied without hesitation.

"Thank you, Ariane," Althea said, allowing a rare, fleeting smile to soften her features.

"It's my duty, ma'am," Ariane said firmly before cutting the connection.

Althea sighed and prepared to contact the representatives from Caelum, knowing the coming hours would demand intricate coordination and even greater resolve. As she initiated the call, her gaze flickered back to the Nu Prison report. Something deeper, something far more insidious, was at play.

Far away, on the shadowed, foreboding grounds of Nu Prison, the situation was deteriorating with each passing second. The Warden, a towering figure of discipline and grit, was making his way down into the lower levels. He had fought his way through rioting inmates and collapsing infrastructure, his path marked by the crackle of his stun baton and the steady thud of his boots on the cold steel floors.

Yet, as he descended deeper into the facility, an eerie wrongness began to permeate the air. The walls themselves seemed alive, etched with arcane symbols and strange, alien paintings that pulsed faintly as though in response to his presence. These markings were not part of the prison's original design. Try as he might, the Warden could not recall seeing anything like them in his years overseeing the facility.