Aaron
Location: Industrial Freight Zone — Outskirts of Lisbon
Time: Night
Ikill the bike a block out.
No engine.
No light.
No trace.
The rest—I take on foot.
The air smells like rust, oil, and standing water that’s been sitting too long.
Freight yards are honest places.
Big. Exposed. Empty in a way that makes it easy to disappear things.
Or people.
Ronan’s voice is low in my ear. “Thermal ghost confirmed. Large structure. Power draw spike ten minutes ago.”
I move along the shadow of a railcar, boots silent against gravel.
“Server or substation?” I ask.
“Both,” he replies. “Hybrid facility. Old logistics relay—quiet upgrade, off-books.”
Of course.
“They’re not squatting,” I say.
“No,” Ronan confirms. “They own it.”
That tightens something in my chest.
Ownership means planning.
Planning means time.
And time means—
They expected this.
I slide between two railcars, pausing just long enough to study the pattern.
Lights.
Gaps.
Movement.
Four guards outside.
Two walking a perimeter that looks casual—but isn’t.
