The thirteenth raid application was approved without review.
Eiran Holt noticed immediately.
Normally, contracts tied to NULL required layers of verification—psychological evaluations, liability waivers thick enough to be weapons, and a final silence clause enforced by three different authorities. This time, the approval stamp appeared less than ten minutes after submission.
No comments. No warnings.
Just permission.
The staging zone lay three kilometers from the tower's base, a concrete field permanently scorched by failed deployments and emergency extractions that had gone wrong. Supply drones hovered low, humming nervously, as if proximity alone degraded their systems.
Six people stood with Eiran.
Not seven. Never seven.
He checked the roster again, more out of habit than doubt.
Frontliner: Kael Verne.
Burst mage: Lyra Chen.
Sniper: Rook.
Healer: Sister Maelin.
Utility scout: Dax.
Leader: Eiran Holt.
A balanced team. On paper.
In reality, the team was already dead.
Kael cracked his neck and laughed, forcing confidence. Lyra avoided looking at the tower. Rook kept his scope trained on the entrance, as if expecting something to emerge. Maelin whispered prayers that did not belong to any registered faith. Dax bounced on his heels, pretending excitement.
They all knew his reputation.
No one mentioned it.
The tower dominated the horizon—red stone layered like dried blood, its surface etched with architectural patterns that did not repeat. There were doors at the base, tall and narrow, sealed shut despite no visible mechanism. Above them, the tower spiraled upward, swallowing light.
Eiran stepped forward.
The moment he crossed the invisible threshold, his wrist device vibrated.
Not an alert.
A confirmation.
ENTRY ACCEPTED.
RAID STATUS: ACTIVE.
RETURN CONDITIONS: UNDISCLOSED.
Lyra cursed under her breath. "It didn't ask for floor selection."
"It never does," Eiran said.
The doors opened without sound.
Inside, there was no grand hall. No welcoming chamber. Just a corridor of dark stone stretching forward, lit by a dim red glow that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. The air was dry, carrying the faint scent of iron.
Dax deployed his drone.
It flew twelve meters in before freezing midair.
Then it folded inward, crushed by something unseen, and dropped to the floor in pieces.
No alarms triggered.
No enemies appeared.
Kael tightened his grip on his weapon. "Leader. Orders?"
Eiran looked ahead, eyes steady.
"Standard formation," he said. "No heroics. No assumptions."
They moved.
Five steps in, the corridor split.
Not physically—visually.
Each of them saw something different.
Lyra staggered, clutching her head. Rook's breathing spiked. Maelin froze, eyes wide, staring at nothing. Kael swore and swung at empty air.
Eiran felt it too.
A pressure, subtle but invasive, like fingers testing the seams of his thoughts.
A voice—not sound, but intent.
CONDITION CHECK COMPLETE.
QUALIFICATION: INSUFFICIENT.
ADJUSTMENT: INITIATED.
The floor vanished.
They fell.
Not downward.
Inward.
Eiran did not scream. He never did.
As darkness swallowed them, a single certainty settled into his mind, heavy and familiar.
The raid had already failed.
The tower was simply deciding how long it would take.