Good.
That means Malenkov is arrogant.
And arrogance gets men killed.
“We’re not ghosting this,” I say quietly. “We’re punching straight through.”
No one argues.
Explosives bloom in controlled fury—concrete rupturing, steel screaming as the bunker’s roof collapses inward. Alarms finally wail, echoing through the underground chambers.
We drop through smoke and debris into hell.
Gunfire erupts instantly.
I move through it without thought—muscle memory and rage guiding every step. Guards fall. Doors blow. Shouts in Russian bounce off the walls.
“Left corridor!” Aaron calls.
“Taking it,” I answer.
The air grows colder the deeper we go. Damp. Stale. Heavy with despair.
Cells line the walls—empty, open, abandoned.
Then—
A sound.
Not a scream.
Awhisper.
“…Pierce…”
My blood freezes.
I follow the sound, boots skidding on wet concrete as we round a corner into a narrow chamber.
Cal hangs shackled to the wall, wrists bound low now, head slumped forward. His body is bruised, gaunt, and trembling violently. His lips are cracked and bleeding.
Alive.
Barely.
“Cal,” I say, voice low but fierce. “Look at me.”
His head lifts slowly.
Eyes unfocused at first.
Then they lock on mine.
The moment stretches—silent, impossible.
“You’re… not real,” he whispers. “You’re what they use when I stop sleeping.”
I step closer, ignoring the gunfire echoing down the corridor.
