The air by the docks was thick and wet.
It tasted of salt, diesel fuel, and dead fish.
Miles crouched in the shadow of a rusted dumpster across the street from Warehouse 7, the damp concrete cold against his knees.
He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt low over his face.
He was a ghost in the making.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the otherwise quiet night.
He took a slow, deep breath, trying to calm the storm in his chest.
This was insane.
He was a high school student, about to commit breaking and entering.
And probably a whole list of other felonies before the night was over.
A sudden wave of fear, sharp and powerful, washed over him.
He almost stood up.
He almost turned around and ran back to the safety of his anonymous little apartment.
Then, the system intervened.
[WARNING: ELEVATED CORTISOL AND ADRENALINE LEVELS DETECTED.]
[HOST FEAR RESPONSE EXCEEDING COMBAT OPTIMAL PARAMETERS.]
[ACTIVATING NEW PASSIVE SKILL.]
[SKILL UNLOCKED: SILENT WILL LVL 1]
A strange sensation, like ice water being poured directly into his brain, flooded his senses.
The frantic drumming of his heart didn't stop, but he felt suddenly… distant from it.
The fear was still there, but it was in a cage.
He could observe it, analyze it, but it no longer controlled him.
He was calm.
He was focused.
He felt a cold, clear purpose settle deep in his bones.
"Whoa," he breathed, the word a small white puff in the frigid air.
He looked at his hands. They were perfectly steady.
This skill was terrifying.
And incredibly useful.
He pulled out the burner phone and checked the feeds from his micro-cameras.
Just as the system had predicted, the two guards at the front were getting lazy, their shift almost over.
He checked the time.
1:58 AM.
Showtime.
He moved from the dumpster, a shadow detaching itself from other shadows.
He flowed across the street, his sneakers making no sound on the wet asphalt.
He reached the north wall of the warehouse, pressing his back against the cold, corrugated metal.
He was in the main camera's blind spot.
He found the electrical junction box exactly where the blueprints said it would be.
It was secured with a cheap, rusty padlock.
He pulled the multi-tool from his pocket and went to work.
The lock was pathetically easy to break.
Inside the box was a tangle of thick, greasy wires.
The system highlighted the main power conduit in his vision, a bright red line in the darkness.
He took a roll of electrical tape and carefully wrapped one hand in it, creating a crude but effective insulator.
He checked his phone.
2:01 AM.
The window was open.
He took a final, steadying breath.
Then he reached into the box and ripped the main power line free.
Sparks showered the wall, and the low, humming buzz of the warehouse died instantly.
All the lights inside blinked out.
The world was plunged into pitch-black silence.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, shouting erupted from inside the warehouse.
"What the hell was that?"
"Power's out!"
"Somebody check the breaker!"
Miles didn't wait.
He ran.
He rounded the corner of the building just as the massive, roll-up door began to slide upward with a loud, metallic groan.
A guard stood there, silhouetted against the faint moonlight, fumbling with a flashlight.
"Stupid generator probably failed again," the guard grumbled to himself.
Miles activated his skill.
[ECHO STEP LVL 1]
The world stuttered.
He felt that familiar, disorienting lurch as reality pulled him sideways.
He wasn't running anymore.
He was just… past the guard.
He was inside.
He immediately ducked behind a stack of wooden crates that smelled of sawdust and mildew.
The guard at the door was still trying to get his flashlight to work, completely unaware that he was no longer alone.
Miles moved deeper into the warehouse, a phantom in the sudden darkness.
His eyes adjusted quickly, the system enhancing his low-light vision.
He could see the shapes of shelves, boxes, and machinery.
He could also see the guards, clumsy and blind, their flashlight beams cutting uselessly through the dark.
He used [Phantom Drift] in short, controlled bursts, the shimmering afterimage of his movement lost in the gloom.
He flowed from one patch of shadow to the next, silent and unseen.
The system fed him a constant stream of information.
[GUARD A: 10 METERS, RIGHT.]
[GUARD B: 15 METERS, AHEAD. STATIONARY.]
It was like playing a video game, but the stakes were terrifyingly real.
He reached the back of the warehouse, where the main office was located.
It was a small, cheaply constructed room built into the larger space.
Light spilled from underneath its door. It must be on a separate power source.
He heard angry voices from inside.
He needed to get closer.
He looked up.
The ventilation shaft. Just like in the blueprints.
He used the tall shelves as a ladder, climbing silently, his fingers and toes finding easy holds.
He reached the vent, its metal grate held in place by four simple screws.
His multi-tool made quick work of them.
He slipped inside the shaft, pulling the grate back into place behind him.
The vent was narrow and coated in a thick layer of greasy dust that smelled ancient.
He crawled forward on his stomach, every small scrape of his clothes sounding like an avalanche in the confined space.
He followed the shaft until he was directly over the office.
He peered through the grate.
The room below was small and dirty. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating three men.
Two of them were built like the thugs from the alley, big, dumb mountains of muscle.
The third man was sitting behind a metal desk.
He was wiry and tense, with a shaved head and a tattoo of a coiled serpent crawling up his neck.
His eyes were like chips of black ice.
Spike.
He was yelling at a fourth man, a small, balding shop owner who was kneeling on the floor, his face already a mess of blood and bruises.
"I told you, Leo," Spike snarled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "The fee is the fee. I don't care if your sales are down."
"Please, Spike," the shop owner begged, his voice thick with tears and pain. "Just give me one more week. My daughter… she's sick."
Spike laughed. It was a short, ugly, brutal sound.
He stood up, walked around the desk, and casually kicked the man in the ribs.
The shop owner cried out, a wet, gasping sound.
"You see, this is the problem with you people," Spike said, circling the kneeling man like a shark. "You always have an excuse. You always have a sob story."
He leaned down, grabbing a handful of the man's hair and yanking his head back.
"Your daughter's sickness is not my business," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "My business is collecting what I am owed."
He nodded to one of his goons.
"Break his arm," Spike ordered, as if he were asking for a cup of coffee. "The left one. So he can still work the register."
The goon grinned and cracked his knuckles, stepping toward the terrified, sobbing man on the floor.
Miles watched from the darkness above.
A cold, absolute rage, purer and sharper than anything he had ever felt, burned away the last of his fear.
This wasn't just a mission anymore.
This wasn't just a stepping stone to get to the Cross family.
This was justice.
His hand tightened into a fist, his knuckles white.
The system, sensing his intent, flashed a single, stark message in his mind.
[THREATS IDENTIFIED.]
[OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE THE SERPENT'S HEAD.]
Miles looked down through the grate at the monster below.
He took a slow, silent breath.
Then he pushed.