A service corridor cut into the ridge—utility access for the broadcast generators. My people breach it with a quiet plasma cutter, slipping inside like smoke.
“Side entry confirmed,” Jessa reports. “We’re in the scaffolding underlayer.”
I stand from the helm chair. “I’m going.”
Renn’s eyes widen. “Boss?—”
“I’m going,” I repeat, and he knows better than to argue. Not now.
I’m strapped into a drop harness within seconds, helmet sealed, internal comm keyed only to my encrypted channel.The world outside my helmet smells faintly of rubber seals and heated metal. My pulse is steady.
I descend with the second wave shuttle, feeling the judder of atmospheric turbulence through the harness as we skim low over jagged rock. The ridge platform appears ahead—a bright, ugly stage under floodlights, drones buzzing like flies.
We land behind the ridge, out of direct camera angles.
The air hits me the second the hatch opens—dry, dusty, sharp with ozone and burnt circuitry. It tastes like old storms.
My boots hit rock. My men move around me in disciplined silence, weapons up, visors scanning.
We slip into the service corridor and the sound changes—metal under boots, generator hum louder, the faint hiss of jammers cycling. The corridor smells like coolant leaks and hot plastic.
A guard appears at the corner, rifle raised.
My man—Jessa’s lieutenant—steps behind him and clamps a hand over his mouth, pulling him into the shadows. One quick stun jab. The guard drops limp.
No screams.
No drama.
Efficient.
We push forward.
Morazin’s command chamber is ahead—a reinforced module bolted into the ridge like a tumor. A side door, not the main stage entrance. That’s what he’s using to run the show.
I nod at my breach tech.
He places a charge—low yield, directional—on the side entry hinge.
A softthump.
Door pops inward.
We flow in.
The chamber is bright with screens—control consoles, broadcast routing panels, drone feeds, audience windows, market tickers screaming chaos. Morazin’s techs spin toward us, eyes wide.
They don’t get time to scream.
My men drop them—stun rounds, baton strikes, clean restraint cuffs. I stride straight to the main control console and slam my fist down, cutting power.
The screens flicker.
Half go dark.
The jammers stutter.
Morazin’s voice on the main feed hiccups—brief distortion.
