The safehouse was behind them. Silent as it had been, the echoes it left behind clung to each of them—memories, warnings, ghosts.
The corridor ahead was dark, claustrophobic. Crumbling infrastructure from a time when Valthera's underground veins carried life instead of resistance. Now, only broken wires and rusted conduits remained, snaking like roots of an ancient tree through the concrete. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of decay, and the distant hum of power systems still alive with only the barest breath of energy. The city throbbed with a weak, uneasy rhythm—like it sensed the storm building but had no breath left to brace for it.
Ayla adjusted the strap on her vest. Her gear pressed down with familiar weight as she moved. She caught Silas's gaze briefly before he looked away. "You've done this before. How many times?"
He shrugged, his eyes locked on the dark path ahead. "Enough to stop counting. Not enough to forget."
Sable handed out the gear scramblers, EMP darts, a neural disrupter prototype. When he passed one to Silas, he hesitated, his hand lingering for a moment before pulling back. His voice was quiet but pointed.
"Make sure you come back with more than scars this time," Sable said.
Silas gave a half-smile, slipping the device into his pack without a word.
Karen stood by the access terminal, blue light washing over her sharp features as her fingers moved with precision. She uploaded a route
map to the team's ocular overlays, the lines and digital grids forming in the
air between them. Her voice was cold, clear.
"NexaCore runs thermal sweeps every thirty minutes. If one of us glitches even a second off pattern, they'll know. You follow my lead. No improvising."
No one argued. Not even Zayn.
Before moving out, Silas pulled a small locket from beneath his shirt. He opened it, revealing a faded photo—a face now blurred with time. Ayla caught a glimpse, but she said nothing. She didn't need to ask. She knew the look in his eyes. The burden of what they were about to do, the weight of every step taken toward the heart of their enemies.
---
The descent into Valthera's old industrial belly brought the familiar stench of oil and rot, mixing with the chill of the underground. The walls loomed tight around them, suffocating, like Valthera had drawn a final breath and never exhaled. They pushed forward through tunnels long forgotten,
their surfaces leaking moisture and murmurs of old signals that no one had
listened to in years.
Not a word passed between them. Only the brittle crunch beneath their boots—glass, wood, and rusted shells from battles lost—punctuated the silence that pressed down like a weight. Karen slowed near a rusted pipe wall, her eyes scanning the surroundings. Faint outlines of graffiti were still visible:
"They built gods. We bled trying to stop them."
Zayn snorted. "They forgot to finish the job."
Ayla's fingers curled around her weapon's grip, a reflex more practiced than thought. Whatever waited ahead, she was already braced for it.
They reached a service junction and paused. Two options—left toward stability, right toward the unstable but shorter bypass.
Zayn pointed right. "We cut five minutes if we go through the trench."
Karen shook her head, her voice low but firm. "And lose our exit if it collapses."
"We're wasting time," Zayn growled.
"You think this is a damn street brawl?" Karen shot back, the edge in her tone unmistakable.
Zayn's eyes narrowed, but he took a step forward. "No. I think we're already too late."
Tension spiked. Ayla stepped between them, checking the charge on her sidearm, her eyes flicking between the two of them, ready for whatever might come next.
Karen's eyes narrowed. "Expecting to need that on one of us?"
Ayla didn't blink. "I don't expect anything anymore. I prepare."
Silas's voice cut through the rising tension, calm and firm. "Enough. We move left. Keep your anger for when we hit their walls."
Sable lingered behind, his focus locked on a device in his hand. A faint green glow flickered on his lens. Hidden code streamed across his vision. A symbol flashed—recognition. His fingers froze over the device, face unreadable. He closed the feed quickly, casting a glance over his shoulder. They didn't stop.
---
The substation came into view. Above it, NexaCore towered—its golden lattice pulsing like a heartbeat in the night, tall and proud like the last monument to a dying empire. Karen initiated the uplink, and a schematic of NexaCore projected in front of them: floors, security patterns, entry points, pulse grids.
"This is the heartbeat," Karen said, her voice low, full of quiet anticipation. "And we're about to stop it."
Sable pried open a biometric panel—old model, pre-neural mesh. He smirked, running his fingers across the dusty surface. "Crude. Clever. Forgotten."
The doors creaked open. Karen's scanner flickered, a single encrypted ping flaring on her display.
Her frown deepened. "We're not alone."
Silas's instincts flared. He scanned the nearby wall, and under UV light, faint paint revealed a message:
"Trust no voice. Not even your own."
Silas wiped it away, as if erasing the warning could somehow erase the danger.
Then footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. It wasn't the metallic stutter of drones—but something heavier. Footsteps. Human. Measured.
"Drones?" Karen whispered.
Sable shook his head, his expression serious. "Too heavy. Too human."
The hallway behind them darkened. A silhouette stepped from the shadows.
A voice emerged—low, oily-slick, dangerous in its calm:
"You've stepped too far in… and there's no stepping back."