This is it.
The neural-linked earpiece pulses to life as we get into position. It feeds me motion sigs, heat readings, the full tactical overlay of our trap. He disappears into the shadows of the upper catwalk without a sound, a living weapon wrapped in obsidian armor.
I walk alone into the center of the kill box.
We set up a spotlight in the middle of the floor—industrial, ugly, and bright enough to show sweat. It flares to life with a static hiss, casting a hard circle of light around me. My shadow stretches like a stain, reaching toward the crates and cables piled around the room.
I stand still. My heart doesn’t.
Then, a door groans open across the room. Casual footsteps echo—confident, easy. A man appears out of the gloom, dressed like a courier. Patch on the chest. A box under one arm. Whistling.
“You’re late,” I say.
He shrugs. “Traffic.” Then tosses the box.
I catch it. It’s light. Wrong.
But it’s the voice that does it.
It slinks down my spine like oil.
“Nice try,” I say, flat, and double-tap my earpiece.
Everything happens at once.
Ceiling panels snap open. Drones scream to life—six of them, fast, angry, precise. Stun-webs fire in perfect sync, a radiant net of crackling light.
But Tugun’s already moving.
His form blurs, ripples—he twists midair with an acrobat’s grace, dodging webs like he knows the rhythm. He cartwheels across concrete, rolls between gaps, and then leaps, narrowly avoiding a net that scorches the floor behind him.
Voltar’s voice crackles in my ear. “He’s not playing.”
“No kidding!” I shout, diving behind a stack of crates.
The courier disguise is gone now—burned away mid-shift. Flesh ripples across Tugun’s body like wet silk, forming no stable shape. He’s part smoke, part nightmare. The kind of thing you don’t fight—you just pray you survive.
Another drone fires. Tugun flips up and over, grazing a wing of the net. It singes part of his arm and for half a second, his illusion collapses—revealing a grotesque amalgam of stolen features and sinew.
Then he’s whole again. Faster.
More precise.
He ducks, tumbles, twists—dodging every single trap with terrifying ease.
He’s not escaping.
Yet.
But he’s dancing on the edge of it.
Too fast.
Too good.
We weren’t ready forthis.
The moment the mine hits the floor, it’s like time forgets how to work.
