Predatory.
Their hand moves—not toward a tray, but under the cart.
Weapon.
My blood turns to ice.
“Jordan—” Clint’s voice crackles in my ear, panicked. He followed faster than he should’ve.
I don’t answer.
I slam my palm onto the wall panel and trigger my lockdown code.
The corridor lights flare red.
LOCKDOWN INITIATED.
Metal shutters begin to drop at both ends of the corridor with a heavy, grinding sound. Door seals hiss. The air pressure shifts.
The assassin realizes what’s happening and lunges.
Fast.
They go for me first—because they know I’m the key.
I pivot sideways, catching the cart with my hip and shoving it hard into their path. Trays clatter. Hot oil splashes. The smell of fried food explodes into the air.
The assassin snarls—actual, animal sound—and swings the weapon up.
I grab the nearest thing—one of the metal serving trays—and slam it into their arm.
The weapon discharges.
A tight, suppressed crack and a hiss of energy.
The bolt scorches the wall, leaving a neat black crater inches from my shoulder. Heat grazes my skin.
I gasp, adrenaline surging.
Clint appears at the corridor entrance, eyes wild. “Jordan!”
“Back!” I shout.
He freezes, horror on his face.
The assassin tries to recover, stepping around the cart with practiced efficiency.
But the lockdown shutters are almost fully down now, narrowing the exits.
I don’t need to win a fight. I need to survive long enough for the Nun to respond.
I feint left, then slam my elbow into the assassin’s chest as they move. Their breath whooshes out, but they don’t go down. They’re trained. They twist, trying to hook my arm.
I feel the grip start to bite.
“Not today,” I snarl, and hit the wall panel again—secondary function.
A burst of localized stun current ripples through the corridor floor grid—Kaijen tech, meant to drop intruders without killing civilians.
