I didn’t hesitate.
I swiped it across the recessed panel beside the bunker door.
For half a second nothing happened.
Then the mechanism hummed — a soft mechanical sigh — and the heavy steel slab rolled upward on silent hydraulics.
Cool, stale air spilled out into the hallway like breath exhaled from a grave.
I stepped back just enough to glance at him one final time.
His breathing was ugly now.
Shallow. Forced.
Each inhale dragged through damaged muscle, each exhale came out as a faint groan that he couldn’t suppress.
His right arm hung limp at his side, the bicep wound still bleeding steadily. His fingers twitched reflexively but couldn’t form a fist.
The thigh wounds leaked in slow, heavy pulses — blood running down his leg and pooling beneath him before trailing across the floor toward my boots.
Pain carved permanent lines into his face.
Yet he still didn’t call for help.
Still didn’t shout for Petros.
Still didn’t activate backup.
He was choosing control even in collapse.
That realization made him more dangerous.
Or maybe it just made him stubborn.
No guards rushed in. No footsteps echoed. No emergency alarms blared.
The silence told me everything.
His men were obeying one rule:
Do not interfere unless ordered.
I tore my gaze away from him and stepped into the bunker.
The moment I crossed the threshold, darkness swallowed me whole.
My finger tightened instinctively around the trigger.
I kept my stance low, weapon raised, scanning for movement.
Then—
Click.
Lights flickered on overhead.
Not warm lighting. Not domestic. Industrial fluorescents.
