Sydney's Pov.
"Watch your step," Sam whispers, her voice tight as she boosts me over the chain-link fence leading to the evidence lockup. The metal is cold and gritty under my fingers. I drop down on the other side, my boots hitting the damp grass with a soft thud. She follows me right after, landing in a low crouch. We slide through a thick patch of decorative bushes, the leaves scraping against our arms, when two soldiers rush past, their footsteps pounding and panicked. Sam instantly grabs my sleeve and yanks me deep into the shadow of a narrow alley between two buildings.
"I can't wait for the Culling to launch," one of the soldiers says, his voice ragged as he tries to load his gun, fumbling with the magazine.
"It'll be a great vacation for us, honestly," his companion agrees, not even breaking stride as they dash away.
What is the Culling? The name hangs in the air, ominous and strange. I don't get to think much more about it, because Sam is already pulling me by the hand, leading me out of the alleyway and through a heavy, unmarked door that leads to another annoying, seemingly endless deck of concrete stairs.
We rush up them, our breathing becoming labored, sweat pricking out on our skin despite the cool air. The physical strain doesn't affect our determination, not one bit. I push the thought of the Culling aside. I know that Sloane is out there right now, handling herself, buying us this time. I can't let her down.
The Culling is probably just another app or some stupid, flashy project my uncle could use to solidify himself as the acting president. It's a bitter, angry thought, but I just have to focus on the immediate goal: getting what we need. If we defeat this monster, we'll have leverage to negotiate our freedom. They'll definitely not leave us locked up if they know their only hope lies in our hands.
We burst out into a sterile, white hallway. There are no guards on duty at the evidence room doors; the chaos outside has pulled everyone away. Our job just got easier. We raid through the rows of grey cabinets, our eyes scanning the labels frantically until I find one with the clear, printed designation: "Agent. Sydney Floyd."
"I've got it," I call out to Sam. She rushes next to me, spots a red fire extinguisher mounted on the wall, and without hesitation, she grabs it and crashes the metal drawer handle. The lock gives way with a sharp, metallic snap. I quickly skim through the contents, my hands finding the familiar, compact shape of my small backpack. I unzip it, verifying the custom recurve bow and the quiver of toxic explosive arrows inside as the fingerprint scanner on the strap glows green under my touch.
Our joint sigh of relief is sharp and short-lived. It's cut off by the sound of steady, confident footsteps echoing down the hall.
"Shit," Sam curses under her breath. She grabs the bag from me and slides it onto her own back in one fluid motion, then helps me to my feet. She makes a sharp gesture with her hand, pointing behind the door. She's faster than I am, and as I move, my breath hitches. A tall man is suddenly standing in the doorway, his frame completely blocking the exit. He's dressed in an all-black suit that does nothing to hide the powerful muscles underneath. He has thick black hair pulled into a severe, tight bun, and his eyes are a stark, piercing green. I can swear I see his pupils dilating as he looks at us.
Before I can part my lips to say a word, to even form a sound, Sam acts. She swings the heavy fire extinguisher she still holds and slams it hard against the side of his face. The impact makes a dull, sickening thud. The man blinks, slowly. Once. Twice. But he doesn't stagger, he doesn't even move an inch from his spot.
"Is he the Hulk or something?" she whispers, her voice a mixture of fear and disbelief. We both know we are completely cooked.
"I don't know," I whisper back, my eyes still locked on him. "He is hot, though."
"That really shouldn't be your priority right now," Sam groans, her grip tightening on the extinguisher.
"Greetings to you, too," the man says, his voice a calm, low baritone that seems to vibrate in the small room. A wide, easy smile spreads across his lips, completely unfazed. "I was referred here to fetch weapons for my brothers and I."
"How hard did you hit him?" I whisper to Sam again, as we take two synchronized steps back, putting more distance between us.
"Just enough to knock a normal person out cold," she hisses back.
"I think you knocked out his social skills, too. He's way too polite for a guy who just got clobbered in the face."
"Hello?" he waves a hand at both of us, the gesture almost friendly. "Please, we don't have much time. The entry hour would be over soon."
"Entry hour?" I ask, the confusion cutting through my fear.
"Yes," he nods, his green eyes earnest. "We've been sent here to try for the Culling."
What the heck is that? The name is back, and now it's standing right in front of us, smiling.
"What do you mean by the Culling?" I ask first, raising a brow and studying him. This guy is a complete mystery, and not the fun kind.
"Look, ladies. I wish I had time for this, but I really need to get those weapons. That monster outside is moving mad, and the clock is ticking," he says, his eyes darting past us toward the hallway.
"We've already got that situation under control," Sam says, stepping forward and blocking his path into the room completely. She plants her feet. "And trust me, you don't want to use regular human weapons on that thing. Fighting a beast like that through purely human means?" Sam scoffs, the sound dripping with disdain.
"I never said I was a human fighting a beast with human means," he shrugs, that infuriatingly calm smile still playing on his lips. It's like he's in on a joke we don't get.
"Bro thinks he's Superman," Sam laughs, turning to tap my shoulder. I press my lips together, trying to hold back a giggle because now is definitely not the time, and we don't need to annoy the strangely durable man more than we already have.
"Why don't you two excuse me and let the big boys handle this already?" he suggests, his tone condescending. "Run for cover and hide or something. It's the smart move."
"Fuck you," I'm the first to curse him, the words snapping out before I can stop them. I grab Sam's hand tighter, a solid, familiar anchor. "Just because you're somehow immune to a fire extinguisher to the face doesn't make you a hero, you unfortunate prick."
"Sam, let's just leave him. We don't have much time," I groan, pulling her back from the doorway. Our mission is too important to get derailed by this arrogant stranger. He simply walks past us into the room as we retreat, already scanning the cabinets.
"Good luck trying," he shrugs, shaking his head as if we're a pair of silly children he has to humor.
"Shove that luck under your throat, you'll need it more than we will," Sam fires back, pointing a finger directly at his face. "Once I'm done with that thing outside, I'm coming for your face. Count on it."
I keep nudging her, pulling her down the hall just as another massive explosion rocks the building, the ground beneath us shaking violently. We've got a much bigger fish to fry, and this confusing, irritating man is the least of our problems right now.