Adrien's POV
Dusk bled into night, staining the sky purple and orange over Evergreen Falls. From the hospital window, Adrien watched the town's lights wink on, one by one. The festive streetlamps along the parade route still glowed, but the crowd was gone, leaving behind trash and silence. The celebration was over for the masses. For the elite, it was just beginning.
Sarah's words were a drumbeat in his head. The gala is tonight. He had hours, maybe less. He needed to move, but leaving Harper felt like tearing a piece of his own soul out and leaving it behind in the sterile bed. He sat beside her, holding her cool hand, talking to her in a low, steady voice.
"I have to go for a little while, Harper. There's something I need to do. For you." He swallowed, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "I saw the video. I know who they are. And I know they're not going to pay for what they did… not the way they should. So I'm going to make them look. I'm going to make the whole town look."
The ventilator hissed its monotonous reply. Her chest rose and fell with its artificial rhythm. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I love you. You fight in here. I'll fight out there."
He stood, his joints protesting from tension and fatigue. He bent and kissed her forehead gently, avoiding the bruises. Then he turned and walked out of the room without looking back. Looking back was for men who had a choice.
The hospital corridor felt like a gauntlet. Every glance from a nurse, every orderly pushing a cart, felt loaded. Are you watching me? Are you reporting to Miller? He kept his head down, his pace brisk but not hurried. He took the stairs again, emerging into the chilly night air of the parking lot. His truck was still in the fire lane, a ticket tucked under the wiper. He crumpled it and let it fall.
He drove not to his compromised house, but to the self-storage unit on the industrial edge of town. It was a place of ghosts and forgotten things. His unit was at the far end, isolated. He used a key he hadn't touched in months. The metal door rolled up with a shriek that echoed in the concrete canyon.
He didn't turn on the light. He didn't need to. He navigated by memory and touch. The space smelled of dust, oil, and the faint, lingering scent of gunpowder. His footlockers were stacked neatly. He bypassed the one labeled 'Dress Uniform - Formal.' That man was dead. He went to the heavy, reinforced case at the back.
He entered the combination, the clicks loud in the silence. The latches released with a pressurized thump. He opened the lid.
Inside, nestled in custom-cut foam, wasn't just a weapon. It was a toolkit from his old life. His tactical vest, his black multicam uniform, his combat boots. Night-vision goggles. A compact breaching tool. Lockpicks. A medical kit more advanced than anything in the hospital. And a secure, hardened laptop.
He ran his hands over the familiar gear. The fabric of the vest was stiff. It felt like a skin he'd shed, one he'd hoped to never wear again. I'm sorry, he thought, though he didn't know who he was apologizing to. Himself? Harper? The idea of a peaceful life?
He changed right there in the cold, dusty unit. The civilian clothes jeans, jacket, the shirt he'd flown home in felt like a disguise he was finally shedding. The tactical gear settled onto his shoulders with a familiar, sobering weight. It wasn't comforting; it was an admission of failure. The failure of peace. The failure of the world to be just.
He didn't take a rifle. This wasn't that kind of mission. Not yet. He loaded the vest with non-lethal tools: the breaching tool, flashbangs, smoke grenades, zip-ties, the burner phone, and a high-intensity tactical flashlight. He slid a combat knife into a sheath on his belt. A last resort.
He closed the case, locked the unit, and stood for a moment in the darkness. He was no longer Adrien Moore, grieving father. He was a weapon that had been re-calibrated. A scalpel aimed at the tumor in his town.
He drove toward the ridge, the lights of the Oliver estate blazing like a beacon of corruption against the dark hillside. He parked a mile down the winding road, deep in the tree line, and continued on foot.
Moving through the woods was like coming home. The crunch of frost underfoot, the rustle of dead leaves, the clear, cold air it was a different kind of wilderness, but his body knew the language. He moved silently, a shadow among shadows, his senses expanded to take in every sound, every shift in the wind.
He reached the tree line at the edge of the estate's vast, manicured grounds. The mansion was a monstrosity of stone and glass, lit up like a birthday cake. Music and laughter floated down the hill. Valets in red jackets scrambled. He could see figures in tuxedos and glittering gowns moving past the tall windows.
Through a pair of compact binoculars, he scanned. Security. Two at the main gate, bored. A roving patrol of two more, walking a predictable circuit. Cameras at the corners of the house, their red LEDs glowing like malevolent eyes. Amateur hour. This was security for show, to keep the honest people out and make the guests feel important. It wasn't designed to stop a determined intruder. It certainly wasn't designed to stop him.
His original plan had been simple infiltration: get in, plant the video on their network, get out. A ghost mission. But as he watched a sleek black car disgorge its passengers the men in crisp tuxedos, the women laughing, their jewels catching the light a new, darker plan crystallized.
Why be a ghost when he could be a specter? Why hide in the shadows when he could walk into the light and show them the monster they'd created?
He watched as a familiar blond head emerged from a sports car, adjusting his bow tie. Leo. Laughing, slapping a friend on the back. No guilt. No shame. Just a prince arriving at his castle.
The cold fury inside Adrien, kept on a tight leash, strained. He's here. Breathing. Smiling. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to lower the binoculars. The mission. The objective. Don't let emotion compromise the op.
He spent another thirty minutes completing his reconnaissance, mapping blind spots in the camera coverage, timing the patrols, identifying a service entrance on the east side that was poorly lit. The plan was set. But the method had changed.
He wouldn't sneak in the back. He would use the service entrance to bypass the initial perimeter, yes. But his objective was no longer a server room.
It was the ballroom.
He checked his gear one final time. The burner phone was secure. The flashbangs were within easy reach. His knife was snug in its sheath.
He looked up at the glowing mansion, at the silhouette of Leo Oliver walking through the grand front doors as if he owned the world. In a way, he did.
But Adrien was about to serve an eviction notice. He melted back into the trees, not to retreat, but to circle toward the estate's eastern flank. The stage was set, the players were in place, and the real Veterans Day ceremony was about to begin.