The bike tore through the dark tunnel like a bullet loosed from the barrel. Its engine howled, reverberating off the damp concrete walls as sparks lit up from under Silas's boots. The rough terrain rattled beneath them, each bump sending vibrations through Ayla as she clung tighter to him. Her hands gripped his jacket with quiet urgency, fingers curled in tight. Her breath came in sharp, irregular bursts — stirred by more than fear. There were too many thoughts, too many things left unsaid, pressing like static between them.
Silas leaned low, narrowing his profile, his gaze locked on the widening circle of daylight at the tunnel's exit. His grip on the handlebars was rigid, bloodless. He wasn't just riding — he was racing against something unseen, something tightening around Zayn with every passing second.
They shot out of the tunnel like a slingshot, into the chaotic outskirts of Valthera — where the air crackled with malfunctioning power lines and something close to panic. Electrical surges blinked across neon signs, some sputtering out completely. In the distance, sirens cried out in dissonant waves, their pitch cutting through the city's chaos. Overhead, the low drone of hovering surveillance machines loomed — circling like mechanical scavengers waiting for the next victim to fall.
Silas veered hard around the bends, the bike's tires shrieking against the pavement. He navigated through tight, dim alleys — paths so obscure only those who'd grown up on these streets or run from something would ever know they existed. Sparks flew from the exhaust as he brushed a wall too close.
From inside his coat, he pulled out a communicator. He tapped in a coded sequence. Static. No signal.
"Still nothing?" Ayla asked, breathless, leaning in close enough for her lips to graze his ear.
He shook his head grimly. "Zayn's dark. That's not like him."
"Then we head to the safehouse."
Zayn crouched silently behind a reinforced wall panel, knees bent, every muscle coiled and ready. His pistol rested steady in his hand, finger off the trigger but close — disciplined. From across the street, he'd spotted the sniper over twenty minutes ago — a figure cloaked in matte black, positioned high on a rooftop. No movement. No errant motion. Just watching.
He didn't panic. He didn't flee. He'd survived too long for that.
Instead, he'd set a diversion charge near the back exit. A precaution — not a plan.
Then his burner phone buzzed.
A message blinked on the cracked screen:
"Wait. Trust the rooftop."
No name. No trace. No logic.
His brows furrowed. He whispered the name, barely audible.
"…Karen?"
His mind raced. Was she back? How? Why now?
Two blocks out, Silas parked the bike behind a rusted delivery truck. He and Ayla continued on foot, navigating side streets like shadows, avoiding open sightlines. As they neared the building, the glint of glass caught Ayla's eye.
"There," she whispered, pointing. "Rooftop, northwest."
Silas squinted through the dim haze. "Sniper."
He reached for his sidearm, flicking the safety off.
"That has to be one of Wellington's."
Ayla grabbed his wrist. "No. Wait… something's off. Look at the stance. That's not a hunter's posture."
The figure didn't aim. Instead, they scanned the street in slow, methodical arcs.
The scope flashed once. Then again. Then again — a pulse, not an accident.
Ayla narrowed her eyes. "Three flashes… pause… then two."
"Morse?" Silas muttered.
"Yeah. 'Z inside. Eyes on. Trust me.'"
Silas hesitated, the gun lowering slightly. "Who the hell sends cryptic Morse code from a sniper nest?"
She met his gaze. "Someone watching over him."
The side door gave way under Silas's boot. Inside, the air was thick with tension, shadows stretching long under flickering fluorescents. Zayn appeared from the hallway like a ghost, gun raised, face unreadable.
Weapons nearly fired. Fingers twitched.
"Silas?" Zayn blinked, lowering the gun. "You're alive."
"Barely." Silas exhaled. "So are you."
Ayla shut the door behind them, glancing toward the window. "Sniper across the street. We thought—"
"I saw them," Zayn interrupted. "They've been watching since dawn."
He relayed the situation quickly — the tail he shook off three blocks back, the burner message, the rooftop vigil. Silence followed.
Then the stairwell creaked.
Silas turned, raising his gun again.
A woman stepped into view.
Coat hanging open, eyes sharp as razors, jaw clenched like a loaded spring. She moved with purpose, boots silent on the concrete.
Karen.
Zayn froze. Like time stopped.
"…Karen?"
She didn't answer. Not immediately.
Instead, she crossed the room, removed a flat device from her inner pocket — sleek, military-grade — and dropped to one knee beside the
wall terminal.
"We don't have time," she said. "They know you've seen Dorian."
Silas didn't lower his gun. "You're a journalist?"
Karen snorted softly, fingers dancing over the terminal. "That's the cover."
Ayla's tone hardened. "So what are you?"
Karen's eyes flicked up. "The reason Zayn's not in a body bag."
The terminal pinged — frequencies scanning, purging digital footprints. She worked fast. She had muscle memory, not media instincts.
Silas stepped in closer. "You're trained. And not by a newspaper."
Karen didn't blink. "Keep up, Greek boy."
Zayn's voice cracked. "Have you been spying on me?"
"Protecting you," she replied, voice quiet. "Not the assignment I asked for… but the one I took anyway."
Karen's device chirped twice. Her hand froze.
She swore under her breath. "Inbound heat signatures. Six. Maybe more."
She sprang into motion. "Exit's under the floor. Sewer lines. Old Soren tunnels."
Silas followed, tension coiled tight in his chest. "You're awfully prepared for a journalist."
Karen shot him a withering look. "You've got ten seconds to stop being impressed and start moving."
Zayn trailed after her, silent, unreadable. Ayla kept close to him, glancing back as a distant rumble shook the walls.
The safehouse trembled. The assault had begun.
They descended into the sublevel, into forgotten catacombs of Valthera — damp concrete and rusted rails. Karen slapped a timed charge to the hatch behind them, the LED blinking red.
"We're burning this place," she said. "Too many eyes."
The tunnel lights flickered, then bathed them in pulses of crimson.
Karen turned, looking each of them in the eye. Her voice was calm, but heavy with meaning.
"You've stepped into something bigger than Wellington. That bunker you accessed? It was a signal fire."
Ayla met her stare. "What is this really about?"
Karen hesitated. Her tone dropped to a whisper.
"Survival. And rewriting the rules before someone else
erases you from the board."
Silas grit his teeth. "You and Dorian talk in riddles."
She allowed the briefest smirk. "You're about to get answers."
The timer reached zero.
Boom.
The safehouse sealed behind them — a final exhale of dust and flame swallowed by darkness.
As they fled into the unknown, Karen's voice was the last thing echoing through the tunnels:
"You're in this now. And if you want to make it out alive…"
A pause.
"…you'll start listening."