Detective Ramirez, lingering, adjusts his stance, his gaze flicking between the shadows within and the teams moving. He murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, though loud enough for us all to catch it. "Or someone."
My heart starts to race and my chest tightens so much that it hurts. Each pulse feels like it's trying to push its way out. I can feel it in my throat, temples, and jaw, where my teeth have locked together without me knowing. Claire.
Rurik moves next to us, pulling on the strap of his vest with a firm, practiced tug. The movement is subtle yet intentional, as if he's grounding himself in the moment before everything unravels.
"Let's finish this," he says, his voice steady and calm. No drama.
I see Ivar roll his shoulders once behind us to relax, and Bjorn steps half a step closer to me, not enough to crowd me, just enough to remind me he's there, solid, still, and ready.
Always prepared.
Captain Holt raises his hand again, this time higher, with two fingers up. He looks around at his team to make sure everyone is in the right place, at the right time, and in the right alignment. The atmosphere shifts, and with it, a sense of expectation swells.
"On my mark." Everything gets smaller.
The noise recedes, leaving only the thrum of my pulse and the measured cadence of my breath, which I'm struggling to steady. All the work, the training, the gut feeling, the self-control, hangs on, though it's a fragile thing, teetering on the brink of something far more unpredictable.
I can feel Stellan's gaze on me, even though I'm not looking at him. Waiting. Taking measurements. I am ensuring that I remain in the correct position. Before the mark is given. Before anyone can stop me.
One step forward, then another, getting closer to the locked door. Every muscle in my body is tense with purpose, but the restraint is already starting to wear thin.
The steel is right in front of me now, close enough that I can see the small scars on its surface and the small flaws that show it has been used, over and over again, and that something is happening behind it.
My jaw gets tight. My attention narrows to one thing. “Open it," I say, my voice low and measured. There's no gentleness in it, nothing that would invite hesitation or discussion.
"Now."
Captain Holt doesn't protestor offer corrections. Instead, he pivots, his hand slicing through the air to signal the breaching team to advance. The change from holding back to action is so sudden that it feels like the air around us breaks. There are many quick movements and then the blast rips through the hallway.
The reinforced door doesn't just open; it bends inward under the force, and the hinges break loose as the blast punches a hole through steel and silence. The shockwave hits a split second later. It hits my chest and shakes through my bones and muscles, sending heat, dust, and the bitter sting of explosives into the air.
I'm already on the move. I don't wait for clearance. I don't ask for permission. When the debris stops falling, I'm throughthe door. My boots hit the concrete hard enough that it shakes up through my legs, making me feel like I could break the structure below me if I hit it hard enough.
The team behind me rushes in, their voices cutting through the noise in a controlled, precise way that fits the rhythm of this kind of entry.
"Moving to the right side."
"Left clear."
"Contact down."
The words echo, bounce, and then fade away into the space behind me. I don't look back, nor do I track the motion, even though I sense it: my brothers, the Rangers, and the agents fanning out, securing the area as we move.
The only direction that matters is forward. At first glance, the corridor looks sterile, with clean lines and neutral colors. This kind of deliberate minimalism is meant to hide its purpose, but it doesn't hold up under close examination. Not when you move through it quickly enough to see the details between breaths.
Someone is already forcing open the first door I pass. The second one, I take. It swings wide under my hand and hits the wall hard enough to bounce back a little. What waits inside is not right.
The room is mostly made of stainless steel, and every surface reflects coldness and clinicalness that makes it feel like no one cares. The floor slopes very slightly toward a grate drain in the middle, and the metal is dark in spots that have nothing to do with age.
There isn't a bed. There is no sign that anyone was ever supposed to stay here long-term, only temporarily, as if to conduct some kind of procedure. I'm already moving again before I can see the whole thing, but it doesn't leave me. It follows me, leaving a mark and building up with every door that opens after.
Because every one of the doors I open is worse. The next room is lined with thick, planned soundproofing panels that soak up the sound of our entry as soon as the door opens.
Another empty room awaits, its air too cold for comfort, deliberately preserved in that state. Down the hall, metal arms reach out from next to a narrow table. They are articulated, adjustable, and built with a level of precision that has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with restraint.
A sharp, violent sensation is coiling in my abdomen, and my stomach heaves as the unwelcome understanding begins to dawn. This isn't a commercial establishment. It's a system to process something… almost like cattle.
"What the hell is this place?" Soren's voice comes from somewhere behind me, and it's tighter than I've ever heard it. It's like he can't quite hold back the reaction.
