When Angelo saw the cracks spreading across his back, the voice in his mind let out a low, knowing laugh.
A chill ran straight down his spine.
Something deep inside him shifted—an instinctive, grim understanding. He couldn't explain how he knew, but he felt it: the cracks were connected to the voices. Connected to the Void inside him that had begun to stir.
Hale's voice cut in, tight with worry.
"Are you alright?"
"I don't have time for this," Angelo muttered, lowering the mirror. "Need to hurry."
He changed into the fresh clothes from the bag Hale gave him, fastening the last button when Grant approached with a small, worn notebook.
"This has a few things I was planning to teach you—after the mission," Grant said. "Read it when you get the time. Could come in handy."
Angelo took the notebook, handling it with unusual care. He gave a faint, genuine smile.
"Thanks, Teach. And… stay safe."
Grant nodded, returning a ghost of a smile—but Hale cut in with a smirk.
"You two are so dramatic. We'll still be in contact over radio."
Grant rolled his eyes. "Had to ruin the moment, huh?"
A sharp knock came at the door.
A young soldier stepped in and snapped a crisp salute. Angelo recognized the face instantly.
"I remember you," Angelo said. "You were on the mission with me."
"Yes, sir," the soldier replied. "Private Ryan Maddox. You saved me from the Watcher the other day. I owe you my life—and I'll give everything I've got to help."
Hale nodded toward him. "He's with us on this journey."
Angelo offered a firm handshake. "Glad to have you with us, Maddox."
"Please—just Ryan," he said with an earnest smile. "No need for formalities."
Angelo smiled back. "Ryan it is. Then call me Angelo."
He turned to the weapons rack, grabbed a few rifles, and started loading them into the duffel bag alongside extra magazines.
Grant raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you need guns? You're basically a walking flamethrower."
Angelo let out a dry laugh. "Not anymore. My powers aren't what they used to be. So… old-fashioned approach. Just in case."
Hale nodded. "The colonel gave clearance for weapons. You're good."
She reached into the duffel bag again and pulled out a locked case.
Angelo blinked. "What's that?"
"You should check the bag properly before cramming things into it," Hale said, placing the case on the table.
Two metallic clicks echoed as she undid the locks.
Before lifting the lid, she turned the case toward him. Grant and Ryan leaned forward, eyes curious.
Hale pushed it toward Angelo. "Go on. Open it. It's a gift from the General."
Angelo lifted the top.
Inside lay a Desert Eagle.
Matte black. Heavy. Absolute presence. The grip shaped like it was meant for one person's hand—and it was his.
He picked it up.
Perfect fit. Perfect balance. Perfect weight. Perfect everything.
Like it had been built for him.
The room stayed silent until Ryan let out a breath.
"Wooow. Now that is a gun."
Grant grinned. "Yeah… it suits him a little too well."
Angelo released the magazine, checked it, slid it back, then raised the weapon to eye level and looked down the sights.
A whisper slipped out of him before he could stop it.
"I think I'm in love."
The room froze.
Three pairs of eyes turned to him—stunned.
Grant blinked. "You… really like it that much?"
Angelo loaded it with .50 AE rounds, holstered it, and strapped it securely to his side.
"Yeah," he said. "I love it."
After Ryan and Hale finished preparing their gear, they met Angelo in the hallway outside his room. The three of them moved together toward the hangar.
The base was alive with motion. Soldiers darted through the corridors in coordinated patterns. Civilians were being herded and briefed by officers. Parents held their children close, whispering reassurances they barely believed themselves. The echo of orders, hurried footsteps, and the distant rumble of vehicles formed a tense, relentless rhythm.
Ryan glanced at the commotion. "They're really evacuating everyone."
"They have to," Angelo said. "Those creatures are heading this way. If the base stays occupied… it'll be a slaughterhouse."
A silence fell. Each of them clenched their fists tightly, feeling the weight of what was coming.
"We're taking the Nomad," Hale announced, pointing toward the vehicle parked outside.
The Nomad was a beast—an armored, all-terrain tactical transport built for chaos. Matte black, reinforced plates, a sturdy frame designed to survive enemy fire and brutal landscapes. Its cabin held four comfortably, with weapon racks and emergency storage in the back.
Angelo's eyes widened. "Wow. Never rode one of these before."
Hale climbed into the driver's seat. "Well, you're about to."
Angelo called shotgun and slid into the passenger seat, while Ryan climbed into the rear, checking his gear. The engine rumbled to life, low and steady.
Angelo leaned out the window to Grant, who had just arrived to say goodbye. "Evacuate as soon as you can. And… make sure nothing happens to my family."
He hesitated for a heartbeat. "Tell them… tell them I'm sorry. For everything."
"I will," Grant replied. "But promise me one thing."
Angelo looked puzzled.
"Promise me you'll look after Marcelle… and yourself. Don't do anything reckless."
Hale leaned out the window, her glare sharp. "What do you mean, 'look after me'? Do I look like a lost puppy to you?"
Grant stepped back, hands raised defensively. "Hay, hay, calm down, Marcelle. I'm just worried, that's all."
Angelo and Ryan laughed inside the Nomad.
Angelo leaned out again. "Don't worry about the Lieutenant. She's more than capable of taking care of herself. And me? No promises."
Grant dragged a palm across his face. "Just… don't get yourselves killed, okay? Especially you, Angelo."
Angelo grinned and waved as Hale started driving off. "Take care of yourself, you crazy piece of work."
Grant bristled. "Who are you calling crazy, you… you Walking Flamethrower?"
Hale stuck her hand out the window and waved at him. Grant exhaled and relaxed.
Together, in near-perfect sync, both muttered under their breath: "Please… stay safe."
The Nomad rolled forward, tires crunching against gravel, pulling out of the base and veering north—altering the path of the coming storm.