I step closer to read the sign etched above the door in thin block letters:
SECTOR 4 — PROTOTYPE STORAGE
Luca lets out a low whistle. “Looks like we found the right place.”
Jace turns to Noah. “Can you get us in?”
“I can try,” Noah mutters. “But I’ll need time.”
Jace scans the corners. “Then we cover him.”
We form a perimeter around the door as Noah unpacks his tools again, cracking into the wall’s access panel.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Each second feels like a countdown. I flex my fingers around my weapon. We’re here. This is it.
The door slides open with a sharp hiss. Cold air rushes out, metallic and sterile.
We step inside. The lights flicker overhead, dimmer than the hallway, tinged faintly blue. The room is massive, rectangular, lined with reinforced glass cases and dark crates, each one labeled in code.
Weapons meant for people like us, to kill people like us.
Noah’s voice is a whisper through the comms. “I’ve never seen half this tech before.”
“Don’t touch anything unless I say,” Jace warns.
We move through the aisles, splitting into a wide sweep. My boots clicksoftly against the floor. Every surface reflects ghostly shadows, warped by glass and frost.
I pause in front of one case.
Inside is something long and sleek, like a rifle, but not. Its barrel is jagged, non-standard. There’s no trigger. Only a pulse module.
This isn’t normal weaponry.
This is black market innovation. This is Daniel’s playground.
Beside me, Luca exhales low. “You feel that?”
I nod. It’s not just the chill. It’s the silence. Too deep. Too empty. Like we’re walking through a memory. Not a live facility.
Jace calls out softly, “We sweep fast. Mark anything that looks active. Extraction team is ten minutes behind.”
As the others move ahead, I pause, fingers resting on the side of one glass panel.
And I murmur, almost to myself, “This is too easy.”
The words hang in the air.
Jace hears. He stops walking, turns halfway back toward me. His jaw tightens. “Say that again?”
“It’s too clean,” I whisper. “Too quiet. No guards. No heat signatures. No dead ends. It’s like… he wanted us to get in.”
The air shifts. Behind us, the doorslamsshut with a mechanical shriek. A loud clunk echoes through the chamber, magnetic locks slamming into place.
Tex curses. “Shit.”
Lights above us snap red. A voice crackles to life over the comm system, deep, distorted by static. But the tone is unmistakable.
