The city rearranges itself around a single point.
No crowds.
No spectacle.
No leverage left.
Just a man who thought himself untouchable—
And the team he underestimated standing together, closing in.
I set my jaw, eyes locked on the shrinking distance.
“Malenkov,” I murmur, not into a mic, not into a camera—
Just into the truth of the moment.
“You don’t get to hide anymore.”
78
Ronan
Location: Industrial Quarter — Freight Yards
Time: 1322 Hours
The city thins.
Concrete gives way to rusted steel and abandoned rail spurs, the kind of place planners forget and men like Malenkov choose because it feels invisible. Warehouses crouch low and wide, windows dark, doors chained more out of habit than necessity.
“Seven hundred meters,” Lena says. “He’s still moving. Slow.”
He’s thinking.
Good.
Delta Five spreads without a word—Aaron left, Miles high, Jase right. I take center, letting the distance collapse at our pace, not his.
The marker flickers again.
“He’s shedding signatures,” Miles murmurs. “Power cycling.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I answer. “People leave patterns.”
And Malenkov’s pattern is control. He’ll choose a position that lets him watch the approach, not escape it.
The freight yard opens ahead—tracks crisscrossing like scars, a line of derelict cars rusted into place. One structure still draws power: a low operations building with reinforced glass and a single external antenna angled wrong for civilian use.
“There,” Aaron says.
I nod once.
We slow to a walk.
Not because we’re unsure—but because rushing would give him the illusion of choice.
“Lena,” I murmur. “Kill his eyes.”
