18
CASSIAN
The darkness is absolute.
The air in the hallway is instantly stagnant, the hum of the HVAC system dead, replaced by a silence that rings in my skull.
I hold Iris’s wrist in my left hand. Her pulse beats hard against my fingertips.
“Cassian,” she whispers. It’s barely a breath.
“Silence.”
I pull her tight against my back. The heat of her body burns through my shirt, the rapid rise and fall of her chest impossible to miss.
“Hand on my shoulder,” I command, my voice a vibration in my chest rather than a sound. “Step where I step. Don’t let go.”
She grips my shirt.
I raise the SIG P226. I keep it close to my body, ready to fire.
We move.
I know this house. Hell, I built it.
Twelve paces down this corridor, the floor transitions from tile to hardwood. Five paces after that, there’s a recessed alcove for a sculpture I never bought.
I move through the blackness, mapping the layout by memory.
The silence is the worst part.
If the alarm had tripped, sirens would be wailing. Strobes would be flashing. The house would be screaming.
But the silence means they killed the brain.
They bypassed the perimeter sensors. They cut the hardline. They jammed the wireless. And they physically severed the generator linkage.
This isn’t a gang hit. This is precision. It’s either Kirill or mercenaries hired by someone who knows what kind of fortress they’re walking into.
Crack.
A sound from the floor above.
It’s faint—the sound of a heavy boot stepping on a loose floorboard in the Great Hall.
They’re inside.
My earpiece crackles. A burst of white noise that makes me wince.
“...ssian... copy... Sector...”
The signal is weak, fighting through a localized jammer.
“Varro,” I whisper. “Status.”
Static. Then, a voice cutting through the interference, urgent and strained.
“Breach! North Gate! They blew the mag-locks. Multiple tangos. Heavy armor. They’re in the courtyard.”
