“Move,” I say.
We funnel in, weapons up, every step measured. The corridor beyond is narrow, angular—designed to slow attackers, to isolate them.
It won’t.
Not us.
Lena’s voice sharpens. “Internal alarms just triggered. He knows now.”
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
We advance deeper, following the faint but steady biosigns pulsing on my HUD.
Alive.
Still alive.
“Contact,” Aaron murmurs.
A guard steps into view at the far end of the corridor—confused, weapon half-raised.
I fire once.
Center mass.
He drops without a sound.
We keep moving.
Because stopping is how men die.
“Jonah’s pressure is holding,” Lena reports. “Hunters are fully committed uphill.”
Good.
I push forward, heart steady, mind razor-focused.
Three years ago, Malenkov thought he had taken everything from me.
My team.
My leverage.
My future.
What he actually gave me—
Was time.
Time to learn him.
Time to wait.
Time to strike exactly where it hurts.
The detention wing marker pulses ahead.
