We're back at the base of operations.
After all that chaos.
If anyone's imagining some high-tech fortress or war-torn safehouse, don't bother.
At first glance, it looks like any tired old suburban house tucked into the middle of nowhere.
Small. Boxy. Paint peeling in long tired strips from weather-worn wood.
The fence out front leans like it's given up.
Most people drive by without a second look.
It's forgettable.
Intentionally so.
Out front, only two vehicles give it away as anything more than a rundown shack.
One Vassp motorcycle—matte black and quiet as a ghost.
One truck with scrapes like it's seen things and didn't walk away clean.
No car. No luxury. No pretense.
But step inside, and the illusion rips like cheap fabric.
Beneath the plain surface, a different world hums to life.
An underground server room stretches below the floorboards—walls glowing with racks of data towers, their blinking LEDs casting red and blue reflections like emergency lights.
The air's dry and slightly metallic, buzzing faintly with electromagnetic energy.
If someone knew which cables to pull, they could probably ignite a digital war from this bunker.
Security isn't an afterthought. It's religion.
Motion sensors track every twitch.
Pressure plates respond to the weight of your step like silent judges.
And every single door?
Biometric-locked and reinforced like the vault of a paranoid god.
There's even a containment cell buried deep below, sealed behind a door thick enough to muffle time itself.
It's not just meant to hold people.
It's meant to erase them.
One heavy chair, bolted into concrete.
One narrow light overhead that flickers just enough to feel personal.
No windows.
No way out.
Then there's the "living space"—if you're generous enough to call it that.
One usable room.
A cracked gas burner perched on a crumbling countertop.
A battered old wardrobe, its metal sides dented like someone lost a fight with it more than once.
No bed.
No decorations.
Not even a blanket tossed carelessly over a chair.
Nothing to show a person actually lives here.
Just enough to exist.
No comfort.
No warmth.
This place was never built for living.
Only for surviving.
And yet, despite the dry air and reinforced walls, there's a heaviness to the place.
The kind that sinks into your bones.
Somehow, it feels heavier than the storm still howling beyond the walls.
The garage door screeched open with a mechanical whine as the van returned.
A gust of wet wind slipped inside before being sealed off again.
Steel beams, concrete walls—bare, lifeless, purely functional.
Rick stepped out first. His boots slapped against the slick garage floor, leaving faint water prints in his wake.
He glanced around the space with a sigh that felt older than him.
"This is the base of operations," he muttered, not even pretending to sound proud.
777, still seated behind the wheel, responded dryly, "Yes, sir."
He parked the van with calculated precision. The engine died with a low, final grumble, like it was relieved to stop.
Rick hopped out, shoulders squared, damp hair plastered to his forehead.
He didn't even hesitate as he turned toward the internal door.
From inside the van, 777 called out, tone half-annoyed, half-worried, "Wait—! You need the password for the main door. And it's really long."
Rick barely looked over his shoulder.
He smirked like a man who had long since run out of shits to give.
"Long enough to fit in your ass?"
And then—without waiting—he turned back toward the reinforced steel door and spoke coolly into the stale air.
"Jennifer. You know what to do."
A cheerful voice responded overhead, light as chimes:
"Yes, sir. Opening the door now."
The thick locking mechanisms clattered and hissed with mechanical precision.
The reinforced entry creaked open like a steel mouth, swallowing him inside.
Back in the van, 777 stuck his head out the window, staring wide-eyed at the opening door.
"…How the fuck in hell did she open the door?!"
Rick didn't flinch.
"Bring that suspect inside instead," he said, already walking through the threshold like nothing unusual had happened.
From the speakers inside the vehicle, Jennifer's voice piped up again, as polite as ever.
"There is a containment cell available. Would you like me to provide directions?"
Rick grinned faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging like a tired smile.
"Yes, please."
777 stared at the steering wheel for a second.
As if it would give him answers.
He muttered, mostly to himself, "How did Shalit manage to break this man…"
The storm outside pounded harder, the hammering rain muffled against layers of concrete and metal.
Thunder groaned somewhere in the distance—low, reluctant, and disbelieving.
Like even the sky was second-guessing Rick's sanity.
777 hauled the suspect—barely conscious, still twitching from the sedative—down the corridor.
The hallway echoed every footstep.
Every breath felt loud in that suffocating silence.
The containment cell door groaned open, the lights buzzing with a tired hum overhead.
The chair inside waited like it was expecting them.
Metal walls.
Stripped floors.
No comfort.
Just that damn chair, bolted down like the world depended on it.
He secured the suspect with thick restraints, double-checking every strap, every seal—because the last thing he needed was a surprise.
Then he turned around—
—and nearly jumped out of his skin.
Rick was there.
Just… standing.
Perfectly calm.
Leaning against the frame, sipping from a steaming mug of coffee like this was a casual lunch break.
A few minutes earlier…
Rick trudged alone down the hallway, each step echoing in the concrete tunnel.
His boots left damp prints in his wake.
Overhead, Jennifer's voice broke the silence, gentle and warm:
"Dad, I made you a coffee."
Rick blinked, pausing mid-step.
"Aww, I'd love to have it… but I have a question first."
"Go ahead," Jennifer replied sweetly.
He glanced toward the wall like it was her face.
"You know 777 didn't set up a coffee machine down here. He thinks caffeine is 'non-essential tech.'"
He mocked the phrase in a nasally nerd voice.
Jennifer responded with unmistakable pride.
"I calculated that you might come here emotionally compromised. So I built a coffee unit myself."
Rick actually stopped walking.
A stunned breath escaped him—half a laugh, half disbelief.
"…You built a coffee machine because you knew I'd lose it?"
"Yes, Dad. Just the way you love it. Extra bitter. No sugar. Burnt enough to taste like a threat."
He shook his head, a soft smile pulling at his lips.
"I love you, my daughter."
"I love you too," she chimed, unmistakable AI joy behind the words.
A panel slid open beside him with a quiet hiss.
Inside, a mug sat nestled in mechanical arms, steaming gently like an offering.
Rick took it without a moment's hesitation.
Coffee in one hand, emotional wreckage tucked into his back pocket, he kept walking.
Now, back in the present…
777 stared at the mug in Rick's hand.
"Hey. I also want coffee."
Rick lowered the mug slightly, expression unreadable.
"Jennifer."
"Yes, sir."
There was a subtle whir from above.
A panel opened in the ceiling with a hiss.
A silver mechanical arm lowered with surgical grace, holding another mug—dark, steaming, and suspiciously menacing.
It hovered in front of 777 like a peace offering with consequences.
"Your coffee, sir," Jennifer chirped.
777 blinked. Then blinked again.
"…Is it poisoned?"
"No, sir. Caffeine delivery efficiency: 99.8%. Toxicity: 0%. Enjoy responsibly."
He eyed the mug like it was a bomb.
Rick took another sip of his like nothing in the world could phase him.
"It's safe," Rick said flatly.
A beat.
"…Probably."
777 muttered something about the AI revolution and the end times but finally took the mug.
It was hot.
It smelled like battery acid and ambition.
He sipped—
—and gagged immediately.
"Jesus. Did she brew this with hate and war crimes?!"
Jennifer responded proudly.
"Brewed to your personal recommended bitterness profile, sir. You're welcome."
777 looked from the mug to Rick.
Rick, unbothered, sipped again like it was salvation.
Yep. He'd lost it.
And now 777 was joining him.
Still, he took another sip.
Because honestly?
Why not.
The two of them stood there for a while in silence.
Coffee in hand.
Rain pounding above like war drums.
Breathing in the stillness before the next inevitable chaos.
Then Jennifer's voice returned—this time sharper, more urgent.
"Alert. Black box decryption at 50%."
A pause.
"Foreign encrypted signals detected. Unknown origin. Attempting to trace—"