Disclaimer:

  This content contains graphic depictions of violence, including intense and disturbing scenes of death, injury, and psychological distress. The events described may be unsettling for some readers, as they explore themes of terrorism, the brutality of conflict, and the relentless nature of violence. This material is intended for mature audiences only and is not suitable for sensitive individuals. The narrative's portrayal of violent acts should not be interpreted as a glorification of terrorism or real-world violence, but rather as part of a fictional exploration of a harsh and dark world. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

  A pitch-black screen lingers in silence, a void of nothingness stretching into the unknown. Suddenly, a faint crackling sound breaks the stillness—an eerie static hum that distorts the darkness, creeping in like an intrusive whisper. The noise grows louder, sharper, as if reality itself is struggling to stabilize.

  Then—flicker.

  A single spark ignites the screen, followed by a rapid series of distorted flashes. Lines of static ripple across the void, splitting the darkness into jagged fractures of white noise. The screen stutters violently before finally snapping into focus, revealing two distinct halves.

  On the left, the screen remains an abyss of absolute black, like a bottomless void refusing to reveal what lies within. But then—text emerges, crisp and clinical:

  “Dr. Kepler”

  The name is cold and deliberate, glowing in a sterile white font that cuts through the darkness like a scalpel. The letters pulse faintly, synchronized with the low mechanical hum in the background, as if the name itself is alive—breathing. Despite the screen’s unyielding blackness, something feels present, lurking just beyond sight.

  The right half of the screen is different. Instead of pure darkness, it’s a grayish void, its surface corroded with shifting static and flickering distortions. The interference writhes like a living entity, never settling, constantly shifting between corrupted visuals and white noise. Then, amidst the chaos, a name—or perhaps a designation—forms in unstable, jittering text:

  “??1”

  The letters are jagged, glitching erratically, refusing to stay in place as if resisting being identified. Unlike the left side’s precision, this text is chaotic, unstable—an anomaly. The background continues to twist and flicker, struggling to maintain its form, as if the very presence of “??1” is disrupting reality itself.

  The sound of static intensifies.

  The screen trembles.

  Then—a voice cuts through the interference.

  A distorted hum lingers in the air, static crackling as the screen trembles with barely contained energy. The divided screen remains unchanged—on the left, the abyssal void of “Dr. Kepler”, and on the right, the flickering, unstable grayish static of “??1.”

  Then—a voice emerges.

  A thin white line suddenly appears beneath Dr. Kepler’s name, pulsating gently with each syllable spoken, mirroring the speaker’s cadence. The voice is hesitant, unsure, yet formal, as if the man behind it is stepping into territory he never expected to tread.

  Dr. Kepler’s Side:

  "Hello? Um... are you perhaps... Question Mark, Question Mark, um... One?"

  The static on the right side of the screen distorts slightly—an auditory shift, like someone adjusting an old microphone. Then, a new voice cuts through, sharper yet eerily smooth, its tone carrying a mix of amusement and impatience.

  ??1’s Side:

  "Yes, you are speaking to him at this moment... if it wasn’t obvious."

  The words hold a faint trace of mockery, as if the speaker is both intrigued and unimpressed at the same time. The static continues to shift behind the text, as if the very presence of ??1 disrupts whatever medium is carrying the conversation.

  There’s a slight, awkward silence—a hesitation.

  The voice from Dr. Kepler’s side returns, now slightly embarrassed, a nervous undertone creeping in.

  Dr. Kepler’s Side:

  "I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to have a conversation with you."

  A sigh emerges from ??1’s side, layered with static interference, as though the very sound itself is struggling to reach clarity.

  ??1’s Side:

  "I see. So, may I ask... who are you? I don’t recall Mr. Kepler to be... you."

  The emphasis on the last word carries subtle suspicion—a recognition that something is amiss.

  The man on Dr. Kepler’s side stammers slightly before clearing his throat, trying to maintain his composure.

  Dr. Kepler’s Side:

  "I’m sorry—my name is Gale Tain, and I’m... substituting Dr. Kepler’s position to speak with you, sir."

  Silence.

  Then—a quiet hum of interest from ??1’s side. Not disapproving, not entirely accepting—just… curious.

  ??1’s Side:

  "I see… Do you, perhaps, bring his work with you?"

  A faint rustling sound is heard—paper shifting against a hard surface.

  A deep breath. A pause. And then, the man on Dr. Kepler’s side exhales, as if gathering his resolve.

  Dr. Kepler’s Side (Gale Tain):

  "Yes, sir. It is kept inside the brown folder in front of me, sir."

  The screen trembles—a subtle distortion rippling through the right side, as if the mention of Kepler’s work has stirred something within ??1.

  A low, static-filled chuckle hums from the right side, layered with something almost imperceptible—a whisper beneath the noise, an unseen presence shifting in the void.

  Something is watching.

  A faint chuckle escapes from the right side of the screen. Unlike the static distortions before, this laugh is clear—calculated, confident, and brimming with satisfaction.

  ??1’s Side:

  "Perfect."

  His voice hums with delight, each syllable laced with barely contained excitement.

  "Could you perhaps tell me the fruits of his research? And the success of his experiments? Oh, boy!"

  His enthusiasm rises, his words filled with pride, hope, and eager anticipation.

  "I have high hopes for his ‘Mother to Mother Experiment’!"

  The way he says it—'Mother to Mother Experiment'—drips with admiration, as if he’s speaking about a long-awaited miracle rather than cold, clinical research. The static behind his name pulses wildly, mirroring his excitement.

  On the left side of the screen, the white line beneath Dr. Kepler’s name flickers unsteadily. A tense breath is heard—Gale Tain.

  He clears his throat—nervously.

  The folder sits before him, its brown cover almost too heavy in his hands, as if the very contents inside weigh upon him like an unseen force. He hesitates, his fingers gripping the edges just a little too tightly.

  But ??1 does not share his reluctance.

  ??1’s Side:

  "Oh my! I feel rather giddy already!"

  The voice practically shivers with anticipation.

  "Oh, could you be a dear and please read it out loud? I want to hear every syllable."

  The way he speaks makes it sound like a child awaiting a bedtime story. But there’s something… off. Something unsettling about his joy—like a predator excitedly waiting for the trap to snap shut.

  Gale swallows hard, his throat dry, but he nods. Even though ??1 cannot see him, he knows that silence would only stretch the tension further.

  Gale Tain:

  "I… I understand. I will begin reading."

  He exhales sharply—steadying himself.

  Then, carefully, he begins.

  "To the Management,"

  "We hereby announce that… um… all experiments and research will be placed on halt, as a new, brighter research path has emerged."

  A pause. Gale’s brows knit together—confusion flashing across his face. This wasn’t what he expected. But he pushes forward.

  "After locating and successfully extracting 25 kilos of Lead from the Gun Devil—"

  The voice hums again, but this time it’s different. Less playful—more focused.

  Gale forces himself to keep reading.

  "It has been found that we can utilize this lead to mimic forms and parts of modern-day weaponry. Several instances of High-Class Elite Devil Hunters and Combat Members have been given clearance to use these weapons in combat missions."

  "But… that is not the only bright thing."

  His voice catches. There’s something wrong with that sentence.

  "And with fear—"

  The static surges.

  "—it makes everything brighter."

  Gale’s grip tightens on the paper. He presses forward, though his heartbeat pounds louder in his ears.

  "The Heavens Gate Organization currently possesses only 27% of the extracted lead, while [REDACTED] holds an additional 6%."

  That name—The Heavens Gate Organization.

  It sits on his tongue like iron, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth.

  "However, if we can obtain at least 50–60% of the Gun Devil’s Lead, then hypothetically—"

  Gale’s breath catches again.

  The words before him do not feel real.

  "—we may possess the ability to create a massive and highly efficient weapon of destruction by forming and manipulating the Gun Devil’s own flesh into a weapon designed for the best possible outcome."

  The page trembles in his hands.

  Gale swallows down his unease.

  "Imagine—"

  He wishes he didn’t have to read this part.

  "—if we could snipe a target across another continent with a SNIPER…"

  The static crackles violently.

  "…or wipe out an entire country’s military force with a sub-machine gun."

  The screen distorts. The weight of the words themselves seems to shift the air.

  Finally, the last line.

  "This concludes my report."

  —By Dr. Kepler.

  A deep, oppressive silence follows.

  Then—laughter.

  Not light, not soft—but full, delighted laughter.

  It spills from ??1’s side, reverberating like a chorus of overlapping frequencies. It’s almost musical in its distortion, but beneath the sound is something deeply, profoundly wrong.

  And when ??1 finally speaks again—he is smiling.

  ??1’s Side:

  "Oh, Dr. Kepler… you magnificent genius."

  His words linger, reverent, filled with twisted admiration.

  "Tell me, Mr. Tain—"

  The static pulses.

  "—how does it feel? Knowing you are holding the blueprint to the brightest darkness this world has ever seen?"

  Gale’s chest tightened, his breath hitching as a suffocating weight settled over him. His trembling hand shot up to his mouth, fingers pressing against his lips as if trying to hold back the gasp that threatened to escape. His eyes widened, darting frantically across the scene before him, his mind struggling to process what he was witnessing.

  "U-Um... I’m not sure," he stammered, shifting uncomfortably as a cold bead of sweat trickled down his temple. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched the letter, the paper crinkling under his tightening grip. There was an unease in his voice, a wavering hesitation that betrayed the growing dread gnawing at his insides.

  "Look... I was just told to read this," he continued, swallowing hard. His pulse was hammering in his ears, a frantic drumbeat that refused to settle. His fingers twitched as if itching to toss the letter away, to disown the words written upon it, to pretend he had never seen them in the first place.

  "But..." He hesitated, his throat dry, his voice barely above a whisper. "They... they might have sent me the wrong letter because—" He let out a nervous chuckle, but it came out shaky, forced, unnatural. "This is... really confidential. Like, so confidential that I could literally get killed."

  A beat of silence followed Gale’s words. The static on ??1’s side crackled faintly, like distant radio interference.

  Then—a slow, deliberate chuckle.

  Then, from ??1’s side—a single, long, drawn-out breath.

  The static behind his name pulsed faintly.

  ??1’s Side:

  "Hmmm… is that so?"

  The hum was thoughtful—mocking.

  "Oh, Mr. Tain…"

  The amusement in his voice was still there, but now… there was something else.

  Something… colder.

  "Who, exactly, do you think would kill you?"

  The static flared sharply, crawling through the speakers like something alive.

  The room was suffocatingly silent. Gale’s breathing was shallow, uneven. His hands trembled as they clutched the folder, knuckles pale with tension.

  He felt trapped.

  His voice broke into a whimper, his composure rapidly crumbling.

  Gale Tain:

  "I… I’m not sure."

  His voice quivered—the kind of fear that settles deep in the bones.

  "I mean, I won’t tell anyone! I work for you guys… right?"

  It sounded more like a plea than a statement. A desperate grasp for reassurance.

  But on the other end of the call—only static.

  Until ??1 spoke again.

  "Oh, Mr. Tain… that’s the thing about secrets, you see."

  The static behind his voice deepened, vibrating through the speakers with a low, pulsing hum—like a living thing.

  "The best ones?"

  The static grew. The sound of it dug into the space between Gale’s ears—sharp, crawling, suffocating.

  Then—a whisper.

  "They’re never spoken at all."

  A wave of cold washed over Gale.

  His breath hitched. His heart pounded painfully against his ribs.

  He wasn’t stupid.

  That wasn’t a warning.

  It was a promise.

  Gale’s soft, shaking breaths were the only sounds accompanying the eerie static that now seemed to crawl through the speakers.

  Then—??1 spoke again.

  "Go ahead and read it."

  The words came smoothly, confidently—like he already knew what was inside.

  "I’m quite sure someone left a word just for you."

  Gale’s trembling fingers turned the page. His eyes widened. His throat tightened.

  From somewhere in the room, a muffled, soft crying could be heard.

  His voice barely held together as he began reading.

  Gale Tain:

  "To the Management and by Dr. Elias Montclair, Senior Weapons Researcher, H.G.O. Experimental Armaments Division… I also want to re-remind you about him being in Japan…"

  He swallowed hard. A cold weight settled in his stomach.

  "It is rumored that the Death Devil might be in Japan, so in response…"

  The words blurred. His pulse was thundering in his ears.

  "…The Death Hunter—"

  THUD.

  The sound was sudden. Heavy.

  For a moment, everything went silent.

  Not even static.

  Just…nothing.

  And then—the screen flickered.

  The left side of the screen—Dr. Kepler’s side—vanished.

  The only thing remaining was the gray static background.

  The static swelled.

  It grew louder.

  And louder.

  And louder.

  Until—

  CUT TO BLACK.

  A new sound fades in.

  The hum of jet engines.

  The rolling of suitcases against sleek airport floors.

  The murmur of distant conversations.

  The camera pans up, revealing a sleek black luxury car pulling up to the airport entrance.

  Its engine purrs smoothly, contrasting the chaotic but routine atmosphere of the terminal.

  A driver steps out from the front seat, dressed in a crisp black suit.

  With precise, deliberate movements, he strides to the other side of the vehicle and opens the back door.

  A pair of black leather heels step out first, clicking softly against the pavement.

  The camera tilts upward, revealing—

  Makima.

  She stands with calm elegance, wrapped in a long black coat that drapes over her office uniform—a pristine white button-up shirt and a slim black tie.

  Her yellow eyes, ringed with crimson circles, scan the airport terminal with quiet intent.

  She wasn’t here for sightseeing.

  She was here to meet someone.

  Makima stepped forward with calm precision, her movements as fluid and composed as ever.

  With a subtle motion, she straightened the collar of her long black coat, smoothing out any imperfections before continuing her walk through the immaculate airport terminal.

  The air was crisp, filled with the subtle hum of announcements, the occasional roll of suitcase wheels, and the distant murmur of conversations.

  Yet, beneath the ordinary atmosphere—a quiet tension loomed.

  Combat members—dressed in high-grade tactical gear—were stationed across the terminal, their piercing eyes scanning every passerby. Some stood rigid at designated posts, rifles slung across their chests, while others patrolled the airport floor with the sharp discipline of a well-trained force.

  Makima, unfazed by their presence, continued walking.

  At her side, her assistant followed, keeping a respectful distance.

  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, baked pastries, and warm meals lingered in the air—pleasant, yet entirely unimportant to her.

  Then—a man approached.

  He was tall, dressed in a well-fitted navy blue suit, his ID badge pinned neatly to his chest, displaying both his name and rank within the Heavens Gate Organization (H.G.O.)

  At his sides, two private combat members followed closely—silent, alert.

  As he neared, he offered a polite smile.

  Sam Edman:

  "Good afternoon. You must be Miss Makima."

  Makima’s golden eyes lifted to meet his.

  Unblinking. Observant.

  Her gaze flickered briefly to his ID—confirming his identity—before she spoke, her tone gentle yet deliberate.

  Makima:

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Edman. I’m quite glad I made it in time."

  Edman chuckled lightly, his voice carrying a sense of casual warmth.

  Sam Edman:

  "Oh, don’t worry. In fact, you’re actually pretty early—well ahead of the scheduled flight."

  Makima tilted her head ever so slightly.

  Makima:

  "Well, it’s an important matter, after all. I didn’t expect to meet with any of the higher-ups of the H.G.O. outside of Japan, so I couldn’t help but be… prepared."

  Edman’s smile remained, his posture relaxed yet composed.

  Sam Edman:

  "That’s understandable. It’s rare for us to have such meetings outside of Japan."

  He gestured toward the nearby dining area, where a refined airport restaurant sat among the more casual eateries.

  Sam Edman:

  "Since you’re actually early, how about we grab something to eat? Might help ease you up a bit before we get into business."

  Makima glanced toward the restaurant for a brief moment before turning back to him.

  A polite smile formed on her lips.

  Makima:

  "That sounds like a wonderful idea."

  Without hesitation, she followed Edman as he led the way, the combat members subtly adjusting their positions, keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings.

  Sam Edman strode forward with unshakable confidence, his steps measured and effortless, the kind of walk that commanded attention without a single word.

  As he and Makima neared the restaurant, a well-dressed service man—clean-pressed uniform, neatly combed hair, and a professional demeanor—immediately stepped forward, greeting them with a polite nod.

  Service Man:

  "Good evening, sir, madam. Are you looking for a table for two?"

  His voice was pleasant and controlled, exuding the kind of refinement expected in an establishment of this caliber.

  Edman adjusted his cuffs, then casually lifted a hand to adjust the glasses resting on his nose.

  With an effortless charismatic smile, he responded.

  Sam Edman:

  "Yes, I’m quite interested in dining at your fine establishment with my acquaintance here."

  He spoke with an air of certainty, his tone smooth and inviting.

  The service man bowed slightly, gesturing for them to follow.

  Service Man:

  "Of course, sir. Right this way."

  They were guided inside, where the atmosphere shifted into something more exclusive—the quiet murmur of conversations, the faint clinking of silverware against porcelain, and the soft hum of classical music playing overhead.

  As for the Private Combat Members stood outside guarding the entrance

  As the lighting was perfectly dimmed, accentuating the rich mahogany furniture and lavish chandeliers that adorned the ceiling.

  As they walked past, several patrons stole subtle glances at them—perhaps recognizing Makima’s distinct presence, or simply intrigued by the high-class energy exuding from Edman.

  The waitstaff, trained to perfection, moved with grace and efficiency, ensuring the dining experience was as seamless as possible.

  As the restaurant’s interior was a stark contrast to the airport’s usual hustle and bustle.

  It was elegantly designed—a blend of modern sophistication and quiet luxury.

  Soft golden lighting illuminated the space, casting a warm glow over the neatly arranged tables. The scent of fine cuisine lingered in the air—grilled meats, fragrant spices, and freshly baked bread.

  The seating arrangement was designed for privacy, with tall-backed chairs and subtle dividers ensuring that conversations remained intimate.

  The service attendant guided them to a window-side table, offering a panoramic view of the runway where planes slowly taxied under the fading orange sky.

  With a practiced motion, he pulled out a chair for Makima before stepping aside.

  Edman, always the gentleman, gestured for her to take her seat first.

  Sam Edman:

  "After you, Miss Makima."

  Service Man:

  "Your menus, sir, madam. Your server will be with you shortly."

  Makima accepted the menu gracefully, placing it down without looking at it.

  Edman, however, casually flipped through the pages, eyes scanning over the selections.

  Then, with a smirk, he leaned back slightly.

  Sam Edman:

  "I must admit, I was expecting more tension in our meeting. Since i've heard a lot about you thru words."

  His eyes gleamed, testing the waters of conversation.

  Makima, as always, remained composed.

  Makima’s expression remained unreadable, her golden eyes steady as she met Edman’s gaze. The dim lighting reflected off her irises, giving them an almost unnatural glow—calm, yet subtly piercing.

  She rested her hands gently on the table, fingers lightly overlapping, exuding a poised elegance.

  Makima:

  "Words can only convey so much, Mr. Edman."

  Her tone was soft, measured, carrying a quiet authority that needed no effort to assert itself.

  The air between them seemed to tighten, not with hostility, but with an unspoken weight—like an invisible force pressing ever so lightly against the skin.

  Edman’s smirk lingered, though there was a brief pause, a flicker of something behind his sharp gaze—curiosity, perhaps? Or something else entirely?

  Outside, the Private Combat Members remained stationed, their silhouettes visible through the large glass panes of the restaurant’s entrance. They were watchful, disciplined, their postures rigid despite the setting’s luxurious calm.

  A waiter approached with practiced elegance, setting down a bottle of imported wine along with two glasses.

  Waiter:

  "A selection from our finest collection, compliments of the house."

  He uncorked the bottle with a smooth, silent motion, pouring a precise amount into each glass before stepping away, leaving them to their conversation.

  Edman lifted his glass, inspecting the deep crimson liquid under the warm glow of the chandelier.

  Sam Edman:

  "Then perhaps I should rely less on words, and more on experience."

  His tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper, something deliberate.

  Makima, still unreadable, lifted her own glass—not in a toast, but merely acknowledging the act.

  She took a small sip, savoring the taste before gently setting the glass down.

  Then, she spoke, her voice carrying the same soft yet undeniable weight as before.

  Makima:

  "That would be wise."

  For a brief moment, silence settled—not uncomfortable, but laden with meaning.

  The faint sound of an airplane taking off rumbled in the distance, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across the restaurant’s pristine floors.

  Edman’s smirk widened just a fraction, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his wine glass as he leaned back against the plush seat. The way he held himself was calculated—casual, yet unmistakably aware of the gravity of this meeting.

  Sam Edman:

  "Well, that’s because it is."

  His voice was smooth, almost playful, yet beneath it lurked something far sharper—an edge concealed beneath layers of practiced charm.

  Makima remained composed, unmoving, save for the subtle shift of her gaze, which bore into Edman like a quiet force of nature.

  Outside, beyond the tall glass windows, the airport was alive with movement—planes rolling across the tarmac, passengers weaving through terminals, security personnel monitoring every corner. A world that moved unaware of the conversation taking place within this quiet enclave of luxury.

  The Private Combat Members outside the restaurant stood firm, their postures unwavering, eyes scanning the surroundings with disciplined precision. Armed, trained, and ready.

  Edman finally took a sip of his wine, setting the glass down with an almost theatrical slowness, allowing the silence to linger for just a moment longer before speaking again.

  Sam Edman:

  "I must say, Miss Makima, it’s rare to see you outside of Japan. A woman of your… caliber doesn't often step beyond her own hunting grounds."

  His words were deliberate, laced with a curiosity that was neither forced nor idle.

  Makima, as always, remained unfazed. She tilted her head ever so slightly, studying him, as if peeling back layers unseen by the ordinary eye.

  Makima:

  "Some matters require a personal touch."

  Her voice was as soft as ever, but there was something about the way she said it that made it feel absolute—an immutable truth that left no room for questioning.

  Edman chuckled lightly, but there was a flicker of understanding in his gaze, as if he recognized that whatever reason had brought Makima here, in person, was no small matter.

  Then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned forward just a little, resting his elbows lightly against the table.

  Sam Edman:

  "Then I suppose I should feel honored."

  He smiled, but the air between them remained tense, like two predators sizing each other up in a battlefield disguised as fine dining.

  And outside, in the darkening sky, a plane took off, its engines roaring against the wind.

  The two Private Combat Members stationed at the entrance of the Pinewood Restaurant stood with sharp, trained postures, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. The dim, elegant lighting of the restaurant cast subtle reflections off their earpieces and holstered firearms—standard-issue gear for their high-security detail.

  Their gaze briefly flickered toward the two elevators positioned not far from their post. One was operational, its polished doors sliding open and shut as travelers and staff exited with the typical casualness of an everyday airport scene. The other, however, was marked as “Under Maintenance”, its digital panel displaying a static red error message.

  Near this inactive elevator, two mechanics in navy-blue uniforms and company-branded caps stood side by side, their toolkits open on the floor. One of them tapped the metal paneling, while the other carefully examined the control panel, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  Something was off.

  Despite its "Out of Order" sign, the elevator was fully operational—mechanically, nothing was wrong. The diagnostics showed no electrical faults, no jammed doors, no power fluctuations. And yet, for some unknown reason, the elevator would not move.

  One of the mechanics, an older man with a graying mustache, scratched his head and let out a deep sigh.

  Elevator Mechanic #1:

  "This damn thing is frozen in place, but there's nothing wrong with it. Circuits are fine, cables are fine—hell, even the emergency brakes aren’t engaged."

  His younger colleague, who had been pressing the “Up” button repeatedly, nodded with a look of frustration.

  Elevator Mechanic #2:

  "It’s just... stuck. Like something’s keeping it from moving, but the system isn’t registering an issue."

  As they deliberated, two patrolling Combat Members—both in standard H.G.O. security attire—took notice of the mechanics' unusual concern. One of them, a sharp-eyed operative named Kane, adjusted his earpiece and motioned toward the mechanics with a small nod.

  The other, a taller man with the callsign "Artic," approached the scene directly, his boots making a firm, deliberate sound against the tiled floor.

  Artic:

  "Hey, is there a problem with the elevator?"

  The older mechanic turned, his expression a mixture of confusion and mild concern.

  Elevator Mechanic #1:

  "Yeah… this damn thing isn’t working. Everything looks fine, but it’s not responding. It won’t go up or down—it’s just… stuck."

  To demonstrate, the younger mechanic pressed the “Going Up” button again. The button lit up, but nothing happened. No mechanical hum, no movement. The doors remained sealed shut, the interior frozen in time.

  Artic narrowed his eyes slightly, glancing at his partner before shifting his gaze toward the security camera positioned at the top corner of the elevator frame.

  Something about this felt… wrong.

  After a brief pause, he gave a small nod of understanding before reaching for his radio transmitter.

  Artic (into radio):

  "I see. Well, let’s call security and check the internal cameras."

  His partner, Kane, immediately responded, lifting his walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  Kane (into radio):

  "Control, this is Kane. We need eyes on—"

  He glanced at their surroundings, taking note of their exact location before continuing.

  "—the elevator near Pinewood Restaurant. Possible mechanical issue. Requesting a feed on the internal cams."

  A moment of static silence filled the frequency before a voice on the other end responded.

  Security Control:

  "Copy that. Patching you into the elevator’s camera feed now. Stand by."

  As they waited for the security team to pull the footage, the tension in the air subtly shifted.

  The operational elevator nearby continued its routine—passengers stepping in and out, completely unaware of the unease settling over the Combat Members. But in stark contrast, the “broken” elevator remained eerily motionless, its digital panel displaying an unwavering red light.

  It was as if the elevator wasn’t just broken.

  It was being held in place.

  And somewhere, within its sealed interior, something was watching.

  A faint crackle came through Kane’s earpiece as the security control room processed the camera feed. He kept his stance firm, his sharp eyes scanning the inactive elevator’s doors while Artic stood beside him, arms crossed in quiet observation. The mechanics had stepped back now, looking on with growing unease, their tools still scattered on the floor.

  Then, the radio transmission came through.

  Security Control (Over Radio):

  "Kane, I see nothing inside the elevator. Over."

  The response sent a cold, unsettling wave through the two Combat Members.

  Kane’s brow furrowed slightly. He tapped his earpiece to ensure the connection was clear.

  Kane (Into Radio):

  "Repeat that, Control. You’re saying the camera feed is empty?"

  There was a slight pause before the voice responded, maintaining its professional calm.

  Security Control (Over Radio):

  "Affirmative. The interior is completely empty. No obstructions, no occupants. It’s just… there."

  A silent exchange passed between Kane and Artic.

  The mechanics, still within earshot, visibly tensed.

  The older one, the graying man who had first reported the issue, shifted uncomfortably before speaking up.

  Elevator Mechanic #1:

  "That can’t be right. If there’s nothing inside, then this thing should be moving. I’ve seen plenty of jammed elevators, but this isn’t a jam—it’s like something is holding it in place."

  Artic slowly turned his gaze back to the elevator, his instincts kicking in. Something about this situation was off—not in a technical sense, but in a way that felt wrong on a fundamental level.

  Then, as if on cue, the hallway lights overhead flickered.

  Just once.

  A single, almost imperceptible dip in power.

  It was so minor that most passersby in the busy airport terminal didn’t even notice—but for those watching the elevator, it was enough to make the hair on the back of their necks stand on end.

  Artic tightened his grip on his radio. His tone hardened.

  Artic (Into Radio):

  "Control, can you verify the previous footage from that camera? I need to know the last time someone entered or exited the elevator. Over."

  Another pause.

  Then, a response—one that made the air feel just a little colder.

  Security Control (Over Radio):

  "Checking now. Stand by."

  Kane exhaled slowly, keeping his expression neutral, but the tension was unmistakable.

  The mechanics exchanged nervous glances.

  The younger one, who had remained mostly silent, finally spoke, his voice quieter than before.

  Elevator Mechanic #2:

  "You don’t think there’s something… inside, do you?"

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  His words hung in the air, unanswered.

  Because for the first time in their routine patrol, the Combat Members weren’t just dealing with a broken elevator.

  They were dealing with something they didn’t understand.

  The tense silence between the Combat Members, the mechanics, and the unseen security personnel over the radio stretched for an uncomfortable few seconds. The elevator doors remained shut, its exterior pristine—no signs of forced entry, no visible damage. It was perfectly still. Too still.

  Kane’s fingers tightened over the grip of his rifle, the weight of it grounding him as he fought off the unsettling feeling crawling up his spine. He had dealt with all sorts of security threats before—smugglers, assassins, armed radicals—but this?

  This felt different.

  Then, the radio crackled back to life.

  Security Control (Over Radio):

  "Combat Team, we have reviewed the security footage."

  Another pause.

  "Last recorded entry: 14 minutes ago. Two individuals entered the elevator at Level 3."

  Kane sharpened his focus.

  Kane (Into Radio):

  "Two individuals. Do we have a visual confirmation on their identities?"

  There was a brief silence, followed by an audible sigh from the security officer on the other end.

  Security Control (Over Radio):

  "Negative. The footage is… distorted."

  That made Artic turn his head slightly.

  Artic (Into Radio):

  "Distorted how?"

  Another pause. Then, the security officer’s voice dropped to a more controlled, serious tone.

  Security Control (Over Radio):

  "The moment the two figures stepped into the elevator, the feed glitched. Their silhouettes are visible for about two frames before the camera feed goes completely black for exactly 0.9 seconds."

  Artic’s jaw tightened.

  Kane (Into Radio):

  "And after those 0.9 seconds?"

  The security officer hesitated.

  Security Control (Over Radio):

  "The feed resumes, showing an empty elevator."

  The air in the corridor felt noticeably colder.

  Elevator Mechanic #1 (Muttering):

  "That’s impossible…"

  The younger mechanic took a step back, swallowing nervously.

  The combat members were trained professionals—high-ranking, seasoned operatives—but even they weren’t immune to the way their instincts screamed at them now.

  The elevator wasn’t broken.

  It wasn’t stuck.

  Something had been inside it.

  A low mechanical hum filled the steel confines of the elevator, the air thick with tension as the four mercenaries moved with the precision of seasoned killers. Each motion was practiced, methodical—silent. The flickering emergency light overhead cast eerie, shifting shadows on the cold metal walls, illuminating glimpses of their faceless masks as they armed themselves for slaughter.

  Above them, embedded in the ceiling, the small, unblinking lens of the security camera observed their every movement. But the mercenaries knew—knew that the moment they had stepped inside, the footage had already been tampered with. Their benefactor had seen to that.

  Then, the speakers crackled.

  A voice—low, artificial, its tone an emotionless void—spoke from the unseen source.

  Unidentified Voice (Through Speakers):

  "Securing your entry with your equipment wasn’t easy. But I expect efficiency… not excuses."

  None of the mercenaries reacted, continuing their respective tasks without so much as a flinch. Ammunition was counted. Magazines were secured. Kevlar straps were tightened.

  The voice continued, edged with cold finality.

  "Your primary objective is simple: eliminate Makima of Public Safety. She is currently dining in Pinewood Restaurant. As for everyone else…"

  A pause.

  Then, the voice dropped an octave lower, carrying something far worse than mere orders—something like a death sentence.

  "Kill them all."

  The speakers clicked off, plunging the room into heavy silence.

  And then, with a low clunk, the elevator suddenly shuddered as the once-dead system lurched back to life. The floor indicator above flickered erratically before stabilizing—

  Descending.

  The Four Killers

  They moved like phantoms, their presence cold, calculated, and utterly without fear. Each of them was a veteran of death, a specialist in their craft.

  The Enforcer

  A towering man, his frame thick with muscle, stood at the head of the group. His long bulletproof vest, layered beneath a tailored black suit, barely concealed the sheer bulk of his form. Over it, he draped a long black trench coat, its hem swaying with each measured step. A sleek, black fedora rested atop his head, casting his masked face into deeper obscurity.

  In his hands, he inspected a heavily modified Thompson submachine gun—its barrel sleek, its drum magazine fully loaded. Every groove, every inch of its frame gleamed under the dim light. A Magnum revolver, its cylinder spinning idly, rested snugly in a shoulder holster beneath his coat.

  With a single snap, he slammed the drum magazine into place and slung the Tommy gun across his chest.

  The Specter

  Standing just behind him, another mercenary adjusted the straps of his stolen uniform—an Elite Combat Member’s armor, battered and stained, stripped from its previous owner’s corpse. The dark blue insignia was faded, almost unrecognizable, but its stolen presence only added to the mockery.

  A bulletproof helmet covered his head, concealing any trace of his features, while a respiratory mask hid the lower half of his face. A pair of night-vision goggles rested atop his helmet, their green lenses lifeless—for now.

  With practiced ease, he secured his AWP sniper rifle, locking in a magazine before pulling a combat knife from a duffle bag. Without hesitation, he attached a bayonet to the barrel, running a gloved hand along its sharpened edge.

  The Specter was not here to be seen. Only to kill.

  The Beret

  The third figure stood slightly apart, silent in his preparation. A black tactical uniform clung to his athletic frame, reinforced with tactical pouches packed with extra ammunition. His presence was unsettling, amplified by the long black veil cascading down his back—an ominous contrast against the steel walls.

  A black gas mask covered his face, its glass eye-lenses lifeless and empty. His fingers, gloved and precise, worked efficiently as he fed a fresh chain of bullets into his M249 light machine gun. The weapon’s weight didn’t seem to bother him; in fact, he seemed to relish the heft of it.

  To him, death was best delivered in overwhelming force.

  The Macifist

  The last of the four was the most unnerving of them all. Draped in a flowing black cloak, he carried the air of a twisted executioner. His bulletproof vest was strapped tight, yet it was his mask that stood out the most—a ceramic nun’s face, eerily smooth and expressionless, with hollow eye sockets that stared into nothingness.

  He moved with unsettling calm, pouring gasoline into a series of glass bottles, his hands steady despite the pungent fumes. One by one, he stuffed cloth wicks into the openings, ensuring each Molotov cocktail was ready to be lit at a moment’s notice.

  Slung across his back, a modified double-barrel shotgun gleamed under the dim lighting, its sawed-off barrels promising nothing short of devastation.

  He wasn’t here for clean kills.

  He was here to burn.

  The Descent Begins

  A soft ding echoed through the elevator as the indicator ticked down—

  Level 5…

  Level 4…

  The four mercenaries made their final adjustments, silent yet synchronized. No words needed to be exchanged.

  Level 3…

  The Gunner secured his M249, locking his final belt of ammunition.

  Level 2…

  The Ghost raised his AWP, testing the weight in his hands.

  Ground floor…

  The Enforcer adjusted his fedora, rolling his shoulders.

  The soft hum of the elevator ceased.

  A mechanical chime rang out.

  "Hey, did you hear the elevator just move—?"

  Ding.

  The doors slid open.

  The world outside barely had time to react.

  The mechanic’s voice barely left his lips before a thunderous roar ripped through the corridor.

  BBBRRRRHHHHH!!!

  A hurricane of bullets erupted from the Enforcer’s Thompson submachine gun. The air filled with the deafening chatter of gunfire, the drum magazine vomiting a relentless storm of .45-caliber rounds. Kane and Artic barely had time to lift their rifles before they were shredded by the sheer volume of bullets.

  The first shots ripped through Artic’s chest, his body jerking violently as blood sprayed from fresh bullet holes. His rifle clattered uselessly to the ground before he collapsed, lifeless. Kane took a step back, trying to react, but a round tore through his shoulder, spinning him around before another split his skull apart.

  The two mechanics standing by the elevator were caught in the hailstorm. One’s throat was torn open, gurgling as he collapsed in a twitching heap. The other took two steps backward, his face frozen in terror—before a final burst stitched a line of holes across his gut, sending him crumpling to the floor.

  Screams.

  Chaos erupted instantly.

  The civilians near the elevator had no time to flee before the crossfire cut them down. A businessman’s chest exploded as he was hit point-blank, his body crashing through a food stall. A young woman, paralyzed with fear, had half her head blown off as a stray round struck her temple.

  Macifist moved like a specter of death. His hands worked with eerie precision, pulling out two Molotov cocktails from his satchel. With a flick of his lighter, the rag ignited. Without hesitation, he hurled the first bottle—

  CRASH!

  Flames erupted near the reception desk. The fire spread instantly, licking up the marble walls as smoke began to coil toward the ceiling. The second Molotov was sent spiraling into a group of fleeing civilians. The glass shattered, and in an instant—

  WHOOSH!

  A family of three was engulfed in flames, their agonized screams piercing through the pandemonium.

  Macifist discarded the satchel, reaching for the sawed-off double-barrel shotgun strapped to his back.

  BOOM!

  A blast tore through a security guard’s torso, flinging him backward against a pillar. Blood and shredded flesh painted the floor.

  BOOM!

  Another shot obliterated a woman’s spine, her body folding in half before hitting the ground.

  The sound of alarms blaring through the airport mixed with the chaotic orchestra of gunfire and terror. Security radios crackled with frantic voices, calls for reinforcements screaming over the static.

  Meanwhile, at the entrance of Pinewood Restaurant, two armed combat members immediately recognized the unfolding slaughter.

  "GO GO GO!"

  One of them tossed a smoke grenade, its canister clinking against the polished floor before spewing out a thick, blinding white fog. The second soldier followed up with a fragmentation grenade, hurling it near the entrance of the restaurant.

  CLINK.

  The grenade rolled to a stop among the overturned tables and scattered silverware.

  Then—

  BOOOOOM!!!

  The explosion sent chairs, bodies, and shards of glass flying in all directions. The once-pristine fine-dining establishment was instantly transformed into a war zone.

  The thick white smoke was instantly blown apart as the grenade detonated, its shockwave sending chairs, broken plates, and bodies flying across the restaurant. The once-quiet hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware had been replaced by piercing screams, the sharp cracks of gunfire, and the chaos of war.

  Specter moved like a ghost in the fog, his form blending into the chaos as he surged forward. CRASH! He smashed through a shattered glass pane, shards cutting into his stolen combat armor as he landed with predatory grace.

  His AWP sniper rifle snapped up, the massive barrel locking onto the overturned dining table shielding one of the Combat Members. BOOM!

  A single, deafening shot obliterated the wood, sending splinters flying like shrapnel. But the soldier was fast—he had already rolled to the other side, narrowly avoiding the shot.

  Specter, unfazed, worked the bolt of his rifle with practiced ease.

  CH-CHAK.

  A new round slid into the chamber as he swung his scope towards the moving target. But the Combat Member was already reacting, his rifle flashing as a burst of bullets screamed toward Specter.

  THWAP! THWAP! THWAP!

  Splinters and glass burst around him as the rounds narrowly missed, forcing him to lunge behind an overturned bar cart for cover. The smell of spilled wine mixed with blood in the air.

  Then—his eyes caught something.

  A turkey—perfectly roasted, still glistening from its juices—had been knocked off a broken dining table, its massive carving knife sticking out of its side.

  Without hesitation, Specter lunged forward. His gloved hand ripped the knife free, flipping it expertly into an underhand grip before launching it with lethal precision.

  THWIP!

  The blade sank deep into the Combat Member’s hand, piercing straight through his fingers.

  "AGHHH!!"

  The soldier jerked back in agony, his assault rifle clattering from his grip as his bloody hand convulsed from the sudden impalement. His breath came in sharp gasps, his fingers twitching as he clenched his teeth.

  He never got the chance to recover.

  Specter exploded forward, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat. The Combat Member, despite the pain, attempted to react—grabbing his rifle with his good hand and squeezing the trigger wildly.

  "RAAGH—"

  But Specter was faster.

  His hand ripped the carving knife from the man’s fingers, blood spraying into the air as the soldier’s grip faltered. With ruthless efficiency, Specter drove the knife straight into the soldier’s throat, burying it to the hilt.

  The Combat Member gurgled, choking on his own blood, his body convulsing violently. His good hand instinctively reached up, grasping at the blade, his eyes wide with horror.

  Specter didn't hesitate.

  With his free hand, he pressed the massive barrel of his AWP sniper rifle directly under the soldier’s chin—

  BOOM.

  The bullet ripped through the man’s skull, sending a geyser of blood, shattered bone, and chunks of brain matter exploding upwards. The headless corpse slumped forward, crashing onto the floor in a twitching heap.

  Specter took a step back, pulling his blood-splattered sniper rifle away, its suppressor steaming from the sheer force of the kill. His breathing was calm—unbothered.

  Outside the restaurant, the gunfire only intensified. The screams of dying civilians and panicked survivors filled the air, their footsteps frantic as they desperately tried to escape the slaughter.

  But Specter’s gaze flicked to something closer.

  A woman—one of the restaurant’s patrons—stood frozen just a few feet away. Her face was paralyzed in horror, her eyes wide, her mouth trembling but unable to scream.

  She had witnessed everything.

  Specter said nothing.

  He simply reached for his Desert Eagle.

  The massive pistol rose effortlessly.

  BOOM.

  The gunshot obliterated her forehead, the sheer force of the .50 AE round snapping her head back violently before she collapsed onto the floor, her lifeless eyes still frozen in terror.

  Fire. Blood. Smoke. Screams.

  The air inside the airport was thick with the stench of burning flesh and gunpowder, a chaotic blend of elements that turned the once-bustling terminal into a war zone. Flames licked at the ceiling, blackening the steel beams as explosions shattered glass and sent debris raining onto the blood-slicked floors. The sound of wailing sirens mixed with the sharp staccato of gunfire, creating a nightmarish orchestra of destruction.

  From the remaining, half-destroyed speakers, the emergency system desperately looped its evacuation message—

  "Please evacuate to the nearest exit—"

  But then—STATIC.

  A new voice cut through the chaos, eerily calm yet inhumanly omnipresent as it hijacked the airport's PA system, its mechanical tone reverberating through the terminal like the voice of a god.

  ???:

  "Head to the Eastern Checkpoint near the baggage claim. Your route is clear—for now."

  The four mercenaries didn't hesitate.

  CLICK-CLACK.

  Weapons were loaded and primed. Fresh magazines snapped into place, chambers were racked, and explosives were secured.

  Then—more movement.

  From the terminal’s shattered walkways and flaming corridors, a wave of armed Combat Members surged forward, their tactical gear gleaming under the infernal glow. They moved with practiced efficiency, their rifles instantly locking onto the attackers.

  "CONTACT!"

  A deafening BANG-BANG-BANG! tore through the air.

  Beret—his expression hidden behind his gas mask—hurled a drum magazine towards Enforcer with expert precision.

  The Enforcer snatched it mid-air, his massive hands slamming it into his Thompson submachine gun. With a mechanical roar, he raised the weapon, unleashing a brutal hailstorm of .45 caliber rounds.

  BBBBRRRHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

  Bullets ripped into flesh and shattered bone, sending Combat Members crumpling onto the blood-drenched tiles. Some were thrown backward, gurgling as their bodies twitched, while others collapsed where they stood, their armor useless against the sheer firepower.

  But the massacre was far from over.

  Macifist and Specter surged forward, a blur of calculated destruction.

  Specter, ever the ghost, moved with lethal efficiency. His Desert Eagle bucked in his hands, every shot tearing fist-sized holes through skulls and torsos alike. One unlucky Combat Member’s head exploded on impact, his body slumping lifelessly against the remains of a burning check-in counter.

  Meanwhile, Macifist was chaos incarnate.

  With a swift motion, he lit a Molotov and hurled it into a cluster of screaming civilians and soldiers.

  WHOOOOSH—

  The bottle shattered, and in an instant, fire consumed them.

  A father—his face twisted in horror—grabbed his young son and sprinted towards the nearest exit, the child's terrified voice barely piercing through the gunfire.

  "MOMMY! MOMMY!"

  But there was no safety left to find.

  Macifist’s grenades followed seconds later, their explosions tearing limbs apart, turning entire groups of fleeing passengers into mangled piles of charred meat.

  "SHOOT THEM DOWN!" a Combat Member screamed, his voice cracking with desperation as his comrades fell around him.

  Too late.

  The mercenaries pushed forward, relentless, unstoppable. The few remaining soldiers fired wildly, their bullets sparking against the bloodied floors and burning wreckage, but it was nothing more than a futile attempt at resistance.

  One soldier tried to flee.

  Specter snapped his AWP up, the massive sniper rifle kicking back as the trigger was pulled.

  BOOM.

  A single shot.

  The Combat Member’s head disintegrated, his lifeless body slamming face-first into the airport floor.

  Above them, the voice returned—colder. More urgent.

  ???:

  "DON’T LET THEM ESCAPE!"

  A deep, mechanical rumbling echoed through the terminal.

  THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.

  The massive steel security doors at every exit began to slam shut, sealing off any remaining escape routes.

  The mercenaries didn't stop.

  The air was thick with the acrid stench of burning fuel, blood, and molten metal. Every step the mercenaries took was accompanied by the distant wails of the dying, the flickering glow of raging fires casting grotesque shadows along the ruined terminal walls. The airport—once a place of bustling movement and life—was now nothing more than a smoldering battlefield, a graveyard of charred bodies and shattered glass.

  Then—the low, rhythmic thumping of rotor blades.

  A new sound cut through the carnage, growing louder, more menacing. The unmistakable whump-whump-whump of helicopters echoed across the airport, their presence sending a fresh chill through the group.

  THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.

  The ceiling above shattered violently, enormous panels of reinforced glass exploding downward in a deadly rain of jagged shards. Sunlight once bathed the airport in a golden glow, but now, only the harsh glare of rotor-mounted floodlights poured through the gaping wounds in the ceiling.

  Then—dark figures descended.

  From the gaping hole above, fast ropes unraveled, slicing through the air like hunting snakes. The figures that slid down them did so with trained precision, their bodies sleek in familiar combat uniforms. The moment their boots hit the debris-covered ground, they moved in perfect synchronization, rifles raised, helmets glinting in the fiery backdrop.

  H.G.O. ELITE COMBAT MEMBERS.

  Even the hardened mercenaries felt the weight of this new, overwhelming presence.

  These weren’t ordinary combatants.

  The H.G.O. Elites were a different breed—battle-hardened killers, trained to exterminate threats with extreme efficiency. Their movements were too precise, too coordinated. Each step was deliberate, every glance through their high-tech visors calculating, scanning, identifying targets with ruthless efficiency.

  And then—more helicopters arrived.

  The air trembled as additional gunships hovered above, their searchlights sweeping over the battlefield. More figures dropped from the shattered ceiling, their numbers growing, their formation tightening.

  The mercenaries knew what this meant.

  They couldn't afford a prolonged fight—not against an entire army of elite killers.

  "Move!" Macifist barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip.

  Without hesitation, the group pivoted, abandoning their current path. There was no point in engaging—this wasn’t a fight they could win.

  As if on cue, the airport lights suddenly died.

  Darkness swallowed the battlefield.

  The blinding chaos of fire and destruction was instantly replaced by a suffocating void, leaving only the distant flicker of dying flames to cast weak, trembling silhouettes.

  Then—a pulse of light.

  Amid the encroaching blackness, a single row of bright white lights flickered to life, illuminating a new path. The glow was stark, clinical, a guiding hand amid the ruins.

  And then—the voice returned, whispering through the airport's speaker system, now eerily calm.

  ???:

  "Follow the light."

  There was no time to question.

  They darted into the corridor, weaving through the labyrinthine wreckage.

  Shattered windows reflected the dim glow, their jagged edges like teeth in the darkness. Civilians and remaining combat members huddled in fear within the ruined kiosks and check-in counters, their wide, terrified eyes barely registering the passing mercenaries.

  But the group paid them no mind.

  There was only the mission now.

  Each turn led them deeper into the shadows, the glow of the guiding lights the only certainty in a battlefield that had turned into a deathtrap.

  Behind them, the Elites moved.

  Their helmets gleamed under the dim firelight, their tactical boots crushing glass and bone alike. The hunt had begun.

  Gunfire roared through the ruined airport, a symphony of death echoing across the shattered halls.

  The mercenaries ran, boots pounding against the bloodstained tile, dodging debris and the bodies of the fallen. Bullets whizzed past their heads, shattering glass and tearing through abandoned luggage. The Elite Combat Members were in relentless pursuit, their movements precise, their weapons barking with deadly efficiency.

  "Keep moving!" Macifist snarled, pumping his shotgun as they darted around a sharp corner.

  RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  More bullets screamed through the air, splintering a fallen baggage cart just inches behind them. One misstep, one moment of hesitation, and they’d be torn apart.

  Ducking into the next hallway, Macifist twisted his body mid-run, bracing against the wall as he fired his shotgun back at the approaching elites.

  BOOM!

  A deafening blast sent chunks of concrete flying, but the leading Elite Combat Member was already moving.

  With inhuman reflexes, the soldier twisted out of the way, his body swaying with unnatural grace. The pellets shredded through a nearby sign instead, scattering fragments of metal and plastic into the air.

  Macifist cursed under his breath—these guys weren’t just highly trained. They were monsters.

  Before he could react, the elite soldier lunged forward, closing the distance with terrifying speed.

  Macifist yanked his shotgun up for another shot—

  Too slow.

  The Elite swatted the barrel aside with brutal efficiency, redirecting it away from his body. The shotgun fired into a wall, tearing a massive hole in the already ruined structure.

  THWIP!

  Macifist didn’t hesitate. The moment his shotgun was knocked aside, he drew his knife in one swift motion, slashing upward with brutal force.

  But the Elite was faster.

  The moment the blade came near, the soldier twisted his head back just enough to avoid the lethal strike. Then—

  CRACK!

  A crushing punch slammed into Macifist’s ribs, sending him staggering back. Pain exploded across his torso, but he gritted his teeth and held his ground.

  Then—the sound of multiple rifles being aimed at him.

  His eyes flickered to the side—more Elite Combat Members had arrived.

  A synchronized click echoed through the hallway.

  They were about to light him up.

  Before they could squeeze the triggers—gunfire erupted from Macifist’s team.

  BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

  Bullets screamed through the darkness, forcing the Elites to break formation. The soldier fighting Macifist darted into cover, his visor flashing red as he reloaded his assault rifle.

  Despite the chaos, he remained eerily calm, methodical.

  The hallway was lit with muzzle flashes, shadows twisting and shifting as the fight raged on.

  Despite the darkness, the Elites never stopped firing. Their visors cut through the shadows, tracking every movement, every breath.

  Macifist jump over and ducked behind a luggage carousel, panting, adrenaline surging through his veins.

  The gunfight had descended into pure chaos—a nightmare of broken steel, shattered glass, and the acrid stench of burning bodies. Smoke choked the air, thick and suffocating, while emergency lights flickered weakly against the bullet-riddled walls, casting eerie shadows over the carnage. The baggage carousel where Macifist crouched reeked of oil, blood, and something far worse—the inevitability of death.

  And then—silence.

  The Elite Combat Members had stopped shooting. No more rapid gunfire, no more shouting, no rush of boots storming his position.

  They weren’t coming. They were waiting.

  Macifist could feel them—cold, disciplined, watching from the darkness with an unshaken patience that sent a chill through his bones. These weren’t ordinary soldiers. They didn’t break under pressure, didn’t panic, didn’t make mistakes.

  They were hunting him like an animal.

  His grip tightened around his shotgun. The metal was still searing from earlier shots, the scent of gunpowder thick in his nose. But he knew—it wouldn’t be enough.

  From behind cover, Beret, Specter, and Enforcer lay low near a row of toppled luggage carts. They had a chance to escape, but instead, they hesitated—eyes locked on him, unwilling to leave him behind.

  Macifist shook his head, silently telling them to move.

  They didn’t budge.

  Enforcer, his mask smeared with soot and blood, clenched his jaw and shook his head in refusal.

  Macifist didn’t hesitate.

  He lifted his hand from cover—

  BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

  Before he could even fully raise it, the Elites opened fire with merciless precision. Bullets ripped through the air, shredding metal, tearing into his glove—then his hand.

  A spray of blood splattered against the carousel as Macifist staggered back, staring in silent shock. His hand—gone.

  Through the pain, his eyes found his team’s beneath their masks.

  A quiet, knowing look passed between them.

  They couldn’t save him.

  Enforcer gave him a nod.

  Macifist nodded back.

  Then—they ran.

  No hesitation. No words. Just the raw instinct to survive.

  Macifist exhaled sharply, his breath shuddering as he ripped open his vest with his remaining hand. Inside—everything.

  Every last grenade. Every Molotov. Every ounce of destruction he had left.

  Pins clattered to the floor. Flames flickered in his grip.

  The Elites didn’t fire. They were waiting for movement.

  Macifist’s fingers twitched around the bottle in his hand, the fire’s glow reflecting off the glass, illuminating his bloodied, ruined fingers.

  His vision blurred, pain pulsing in rhythmic waves through his severed wrist, but his heart remained steady.

  He knew what this meant.

  There was no getting out.

  If they were going to take him—

  He was taking them with him.

  A feral grin curled beneath his mask as he lit the Molotov.

  Far ahead, his team was still running.

  The emergency light flickered one last time, casting their silhouettes against the ruined airport. They reached the red exit door.

  Macifist stood up.

  And with a final, defiant roar—he threw everything.

  Grenades. Molotovs. Death.

  The baggage carousel erupted in hellfire.

  BOOM!

  The blast shattered the remains of the airport’s structure, sending a tidal wave of heat and destruction through the terminal. Flames rushed outward, consuming metal, glass, and bone alike.

  Macifist’s vision blurred, the sheer force of the explosion ripping through his body.

  And yet—through the roaring inferno—they came.

  The Elite Combat Members.

  Their armor—charred. Their weapons—drawn. Their movements—unfazed.

  One of them, a figure clad in blackened steel, charged through the flames like a demon out of hell.

  A knife gleamed in his hand.

  Before Macifist could react, the combatant slammed him to the ground.

  And then—the blade came down.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  The fire raged. The alarms screamed.

  But for Macifist—

  There was only pain.

  Then—

  Nothing.

  As the "RRRRRRRRKKKKKK!!!!" heavy old door groaned like a dying beast, the metal hinges screaming in protest as it sealed behind them.

  Inside, the darkness swallowed them whole—only the pulsing glow of an old, red emergency light bathed the narrow corridor in a hellish glow. Shadows stretched unnaturally along the walls, twisting and writhing with each flicker.

  Their boots slammed against the cold concrete floor, guns raised, breaths sharp and controlled. They had no time to hesitate—their target was close.

  Then—

  RRRRKKK…

  The same slow, guttural scrape of metal tore through the silence.

  They turned.

  Three Elite Combat Members stood in the doorway.

  Their armor was scorched and blackened, smoke curling from the cracks like breath from a beast’s lungs. The flames from Macifist’s last stand had burned through their plating, exposing raw metal and shattered composites. Yet despite the damage—despite the carnage—they still moved.

  Their hunt wasn’t over.

  They raised their weapons.

  The barrels—**melted, warped, ruined—**still pointed forward.

  Then—they fired.

  BRRRRRRRRRRTTT!

  Specter barely had time to move before his body jerked violently, bullets riddling his torso and limbs. His breath caught in his throat as he stumbled back, his rifle slipping from his grasp—his eyes still wide as he crumpled.

  Dead before he hit the floor.

  “Shit—!” Beret didn’t hesitate—he grabbed Specter’s limp corpse and hoisted it up as a human shield.

  Bullets slammed into the body like hammers on meat, sending bloody mist spraying into the air. The rounds tore through the shredded remains of Specter’s armor, their force slowing just enough for Beret to withstand them.

  Enforcer ducked behind Beret’s cover, raising his rifle—

  BANG!

  A flashbang clattered against the ground.

  White light. A deafening shockwave.

  Their world vanished into a void of searing agony.

  Beret and Enforcer staggered back, ears ringing, vision swimming. Their instincts forced them to react, their fingers squeezing the triggers, but—

  Their aim was wild.

  The Elite Combat Members pressed forward. Their weapons—**damaged beyond proper function—**spat out inaccurate rounds, but even their stray bullets was deadly as it tore into shoulders and torsos.

  Beret felt the crushing force of a round slamming into his vest, the impact nearly knocking him off his feet. The pain burned deep, even though the armor held.

  He barely had time to recover before—

  An Elite Combat Member lunged.

  A combat knife with blackened steel gleamed in the red light, streaked with blood.

  Beret twisted, just in time—he caught the soldier’s wrist, locking it in place before the blade could find his throat.

  The Elite moved fast.

  His free hand shot out—gripping Beret’s wrist in return.

  SMASH!

  With sheer force, he slammed Beret’s hand into his own opposite wrist, forcing his revolver loose.

  The gun clattered to the floor.

  Beret barely had time to react before—BAM!

  A brutal shove sent him slamming into the concrete wall.

  Then the punch came.

  The Elite Combat Member’s fist—**a hammer wrapped in steel—**crashed into Beret’s face.

  CRACK!

  Glass shards exploded outward.

  His gas mask fractured—blood splattered the inside.

  Beret’s head snapped back, vision blurring, pain ringing through his skull—but he retaliated immediately.

  His fist lashed out.

  SMACK!

  A counter-blow to the Elite’s helmeted face.

  The soldier barely flinched—but he stepped back.

  An opening.

  Beret took it.

  With a roar, he kicked forward—his boot hammering into the soldier’s chest.

  The Elite staggered, rolling with the impact.

  Beret didn’t wait—his knife was in his hand in a flash.

  He lunged, slashing—

  The Elite dodged.

  The knife whistled past his throat.

  Beret swung again—a feint.

  The Elite **blocked—**but it was a trap.

  Beret shifted his grip, twisting the soldier’s wrist—trying to pry the knife free.

  But—he underestimated his strength.

  BAM!

  The Elite Combat Member punched him again.

  Blood splattered against the wall.

  Beret stumbled, but didn’t fall.

  Meanwhile, Enforcer had his hands full.

  Two Elite Combat Members were pressing him—they moved like ghosts in the dark, their motions precise, ruthless, calculated.

  Enforcer raised his Glock, snapping off shots—point-blank.

  They dodged.

  At point-blank range.

  Impossible speed.

  They twisted, moving in sync—one ducking low, the other sidestepping just out of range.

  **Then—**they struck.

  A boot hammered into Enforcer’s wrist—his Glock was knocked from his grip.

  The second Elite Combat Member swung—a knife slashing toward his throat.

  Enforcer barely dodged, feeling the blade’s edge graze his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

  Enforcer took a step back, his breath ragged, eyes locked onto his fallen Glock.

  It had slid across the cold concrete floor—stopping right in front of the Elite Combat Member.

  The bastard didn’t even hesitate.

  He picked up the pistol.

  Then, with calm, practiced precision, he ejected the magazine, racked the slide, and cleared the chamber. The last round clinked against the floor, rolling to a stop between Enforcer’s boots.

  Then—

  CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

  The Elite Combat Member’s fingers moved like a machine.

  The slide was stripped. The barrel twisted free. The recoil spring popped loose.

  Within seconds, Enforcer’s trusted Glock was nothing more than a pile of useless parts scattered across the floor.

  The soldier didn’t even look up.

  He simply tossed the dismantled frame aside.

  It was an insult.

  A message.

  "You don’t need this, do you?"

  Enforcer’s jaw tightened. They were toying with him.

  He barely had time to react—the two Elite Combat Members were already moving.

  They charged.

  Their boots slammed against the ground, their movements sharp, synchronized—

  A pincer attack.

  The first came in low, his combat knife flashing in the crimson light.

  The second swung high, a brutal overhead strike aimed straight for Enforcer’s skull.

  Enforcer had nowhere to dodge.

  So—he went forward.

  At the last second, he lunged between them, twisting his body mid-dive.

  The first soldier’s knife slashed empty air.

  The second soldier’s fist whistled past his head.

  Enforcer hit the ground, rolled—

  And went straight for his backup.

  A serrated blade, strapped to his vest.

  His fingers closed around the grip.

  He ripped it free, spun—

  And slashed.

  SCHK!

  The knife cut deep, carving through the armor on the first Elite Combat Member’s thigh.

  The soldier **grunted—**more in irritation than pain—but it slowed him down.

  Enforcer didn’t stop—he pressed the attack.

  He went for the throat—

  But the second Elite was already there.

  BAM!

  A knee smashed into Enforcer’s ribs.

  Pain exploded through his chest.

  His grip faltered—the knife slipped.

  The second Elite Combat Member snatched his wrist, twisted—

  SNAP.

  A dislocation.

  Enforcer barely had time to scream before—

  WHAM!

  A brutal punch to the stomach.

  His body folded in on itself, air ripping from his lungs.

  Before he could recover—they had him.

  The first Elite, still bleeding from his leg, grabbed Enforcer’s arm—locking it behind his back in a bone-crushing hold.

  The second yanked his head back, forcing him to stare into his visor.

  Their grip was unshakable.

  Unyielding.

  They weren’t just fighting him.

  They were capturing him.

  —

  Meanwhile—

  Beret was barely holding on.

  His gas mask was cracked, blood leaking through the broken seals. His breath came in sharp, wheezing bursts.

  The Elite Combat Member in front of him was relentless.

  Beret’s knife strikes were dodged.

  His punches deflected.

  Every move he made was met with calculated, efficient brutality.

  Then—

  The soldier stopped playing.

  He feinted a left hook—Beret moved to block—

  But it was a trap.

  A blade shot forward, slicing across his forearm.

  SCHK!

  Beret hissed—but he didn’t back down.

  Instead, he stepped in.

  Close.

  Too close.

  If his knife couldn’t land a hit—his fists would.

  He grabbed the Elite Combat Member’s wrist, trapping the knife-hand.

  Then, with a guttural growl—he slammed his forehead into the soldier’s visor.

  CRACK!

  The reinforced glass spidered with cracks.

  The Elite stumbled back.

  Beret didn’t let up.

  He swung—a brutal, unrestrained haymaker.

  But—

  The soldier caught his fist mid-swing.

  And then—he twisted.

  Beret’s arm was yanked downward—

  Leaving his ribs wide open.

  BAM!

  A savage kick slammed into his side.

  His vision blurred.

  His body hit the floor.

  His fingers **scrambled for anything—**but found only cold concrete.

  Above him, the Elite Combat Member raised his knife—

  The blade gleamed—aimed straight for his throat.

  Beret’s gloved palm caught the blade mid-strike.

  It didn’t stop it.

  The knife sank through the fabric like wet paper—

  And kept going.

  It sliced through flesh.

  Tore through muscle.

  Steel met **bone—**and stopped, grinding against his palm’s skeletal structure.

  Pain flooded his nerves.

  His vision blurred—his heartbeat pounded in his skull.

  But he didn’t let go.

  He couldn’t.

  If he did, the blade would finish the job.

  The Elite Combat Member pressed down harder, trying to drive the knife further in—

  Beret gritted his teeth.

  Then—he retaliated.

  He swung his head forward.

  A second brutal headbutt.

  CRACK!

  The weakened visor shattered completely.

  Glass shards sprayed out, embedding into the soldier’s face—but he didn’t scream.

  Elite Combat Members weren’t trained to scream.

  Beret could still see his expression beneath the fragments of his mask—

  Cold. Calculated. Unshaken.

  Even as blood leaked from his forehead.

  Even as shards stuck into his cheek.

  He simply adjusted his stance, pressing down harder.

  Beret felt his grip weakening.

  His muscles trembled.

  The knife **inched lower—**towards his throat.

  Too close.

  He had to act now.

  So—he let go.

  Not completely—but just enough to let the blade slide slightly.

  Then—he twisted.

  The movement was fast—sudden.

  It was risky.

  But—it worked.

  The knife shifted off course—

  Missing his throat.

  Instead, it skewered his shoulder.

  SCHK!

  Beret grunted.

  The pain was **blinding—**but not fatal.

  And now—the soldier’s knife was stuck.

  Beret didn’t waste the opening.

  His free hand shot forward.

  Fingers closed around the soldier’s exposed throat.

  And he squeezed.

  Hard.

  The Elite Combat Member’s eyes widened slightly—

  Then—he reacted.

  His hands flew to Beret’s wrist, trying to pry it off.

  But Beret’s grip was like a vice.

  He squeezed harder.

  The soldier’s movements slowed.

  His grip weakened.

  Beret’s vision was swimming from blood loss, but he could feel it—

  Beret’s mind raced.

  But—there was no time to rest.

  His body screamed in protest.

  But he forced himself forward.

  He grabbed his revolver from the ground.

  Even as his shoulder throbbed with agony.

  Even as warm blood seeped down his arm, soaking into his uniform.

  The Elite Combat Member’s struggles grew weaker.

  His body twitched, convulsed—

  His gloved fingers scratched weakly at Beret’s wrist, desperate for air.

  But Beret didn’t let go.

  Not until he was sure.

  Not until the soldier’s grip went limp.

  Only then did he release his hold, letting the lifeless body collapse beside him.

  Thud.

  Beret’s vision blurred.

  The world tilted.

  He was losing too much blood.

  No time.

  He gritted his teeth, forcing his trembling fingers to move—

  His hand shot out, scraping against the cold floor until it found his revolver.

  A large-caliber, single-action hand cannon.

  Heavy. Reliable.

  Lethal.

  Beret grasped the grip tightly, his knuckles turning white.

  His breaths came in ragged bursts, each one tasting like iron and smoke.

  But he pushed through.

  He forced himself to move.

  —

  Enforcer was still trapped.

  His arm was wrenched behind his back, pain flaring through his shoulder.

  His head was pulled back—the Elite Combat Member’s grip iron-clad.

  He could feel their breath against his ear, steady and measured.

  No exhaustion. No struggle.

  They weren’t even breaking a sweat.

  Enforcer gritted his teeth.

  His free hand scraped against his belt.

  Fingertips brushed against metal.

  A flashbang.

  His last one.

  One chance.

  His fingers wrapped around the pin.

  And—

  He yanked it free.

  —

  BOOM!

  A blinding white light flooded the hall.

  The Elite Combat Members recoiled, disoriented.

  Their visors cracked under the intensity.

  Enforcer acted instantly.

  He slammed his head backward, striking the soldier behind him.

  The impact snapped their grip.

  Without hesitation, he spun around—

  And drove his elbow into their throat.

  The soldier staggered back.

  But Enforcer wasn’t done.

  He lunged forward, ripping a combat knife from his belt.

  Then—

  SCHK!

  He buried it in their stomach.

  Deep.

  A choked gasp escaped the soldier’s lips.

  Their body jerked, spasmed.

  Enforcer twisted the blade.

  The soldier slumped forward—

  And Enforcer kicked them off.

  As Beret saw the opening.

  The second Elite Combat Member—the one still stunned from the flashbang—

  Was exposed.

  His revolver was already raised.

  No hesitation.

  BANG!

  The first shot tore through their shoulder, sending them staggering back.

  BANG!

  The second shattered their visor, sending shards flying.

  The soldier **tried to react—**but Beret was already moving.

  He lunged.

  His boot slammed into the soldier’s chest, sending them sprawling onto the floor.

  Before they could recover—

  BANG!

  A final shot.

  Point blank.

  The soldier stopped moving.

  —

  Silence.

  Beret’s chest heaved.

  His fingers trembled around the revolver’s grip.

  His entire body **ached—**but he was still standing.

  He turned to Enforcer—their eyes met.

  Both men were battered.

  Bloodied.

  But alive.

  And they still had a mission.

  Beret holstered his revolver, gripping his bleeding shoulder.

  Enforcer wiped sweat from his brow, panting.

  They didn’t need words.

  Only action.

  With one last look at the fallen bodies—

  They pressed on.

  The atmosphere thickened with each step they took into the impenetrable darkness. The hallway that had once seemed oppressive, now felt as though it had swallowed them whole. Every breath they took reverberated through the void, the sound of their blood dripping down to the floor like a constant reminder of their weariness. Beret’s pulse throbbed in his neck, each beat sending pain shooting through his veins, but the worst was the silence that enveloped them.

  Nothing.

  Not even the faintest echo.

  They were surrounded by pure, consuming blackness.

  The old emergency doors had led them here, and now they were unsure whether they were still within the same building or if they had entered something altogether foreign. The walls, once familiar, felt different, as if they too had shifted, contorted in a way that made them feel unnatural.

  Enforcer, his arm still wrapped around Beret’s bruised and bleeding shoulders, tried to keep his senses sharp. But nothing worked. His vision, blinded by the darkness, betrayed him. His sense of hearing, usually so attuned, couldn’t even pick up the softest shift in the air. The smells, the warmth, the presence of his environment, all were swallowed in this unseen void.

  He stumbled forward, a hand reaching out instinctively to feel for something—anything.

  His fingers scraped against cold, rough concrete. He felt it, but there was no texture, no relief.

  His hand moved along the wall, deeper, searching for a bend or a turn.

  Nothing.

  Just a continuous, impossibly smooth surface.

  Beret stopped. The pain from his wounds was starting to set in more intensely. His own blood felt like it was burning him from the inside, but he knew there was no time to rest. He could feel the weight of Enforcer’s hand steadying him, urging him forward. They didn’t know how much time they had.

  "What is this place?" Beret whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling.

  Enforcer didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took another slow, deliberate step forward, his boots soundless on the floor. The walls were too smooth, their texture like something from a different dimension. His mind couldn't process it. He touched the wall again, the surface cold, but not freezing. He pressed harder this time, as if trying to break through, to discover some hidden seam.

  Nothing.

  The space around them seemed to stretch as if the hallway had extended into an infinite void, pulling them further into its unyielding grip. The darkness closed in on all sides. Every instinct that Enforcer had honed in his years of combat was useless here.

  Their footsteps, muted and slow, seemed to amplify in the oppressive quiet. Beret’s breath was labored, the sound of each ragged inhale echoing like an intrusion into the suffocating stillness. His chest ached from exertion, his body on the brink of shutting down from the loss of blood and the strain of their journey.

  They couldn't stop. Not now.

  The walls were closing in, warping around them. The once-straight corridor was now shifting, undulating in a way that suggested they were moving through something much larger—and much more alive—than any building they had encountered before.

  Enforcer's hand shot out again, feeling the endless expanse, and this time, something moved.

  The wall vibrated beneath his palm—slightly, but enough for him to feel it. The air seemed to thrum, vibrating like the air before a storm. It was subtle, but it felt wrong. The very essence of this place was off.

  "Beret," Enforcer’s voice came low, tense. "Stay sharp."

  Beret nodded silently. His face was pale, blood dripping steadily from the wound in his shoulder, leaving a trail behind them. He wanted to say something, to reassure Enforcer, but the words caught in his throat. He didn’t even know if they’d get out of this.

  Enforcer's senses flicked on edge as he shifted his weight and cautiously advanced into the void. His steps grew more deliberate, calculated. He couldn’t explain it, but something was pressing in on them from all sides, something hungry.

  The darkness wasn’t simply absence; it felt like it was alive, breathing with them.

  A faint whisper seemed to travel through the air—a fleeting, echoing sound that couldn’t be fully grasped. Enforcer paused, looking at Beret, his brow furrowing.

  "Did you hear that?" he asked quietly, his voice barely a whisper.

  Beret’s head turned sharply, scanning the blackness around them with his one functioning eye. He heard the whisper too—though it was fleeting, distorted.

  The air suddenly felt too still.

  Enforcer adjusted his grip, trying to focus his mind. The faintest creak echoed through the space. He stepped forward again, but this time, the ground beneath him shifted. The air pressed in tighter, as if the walls were pushing in on them.

  Suddenly, a faint light flickered—then died.

  Enforcer froze.

  Something—someone—was out there.

  Beret tensed beside him, his body recoiling at the sensation of eyes on him, unseen but there. He heard the sounds of movement—soft, almost inaudible—from somewhere far ahead. It was faint, like a whisper, a soft echo that faded into the depths of the void.

  The feeling of being watched, of being hunted, intensified with each passing second.

  Enforcer’s hand shot to his sidearm—just as he heard it: the unmistakable click of something shifting in the dark.

  It was coming.

  It was time to fight back.

  The darkness around them seemed to constrict, a palpable force that squeezed the air from Enforcer's lungs, making each breath feel more labored than the last. The world itself felt as though it was closing in on them, and the familiar, sharp sting of pain that had kept him grounded for so long began to dissipate, replaced by a strange numbness that washed over his body.

  His vision flickered. The edges of his sight began to blur into the void, but it was more than just physical fatigue. It was as though his body itself had begun to reject reality. His skin felt like it was made of lead, and his heart thudded slower, more erratically. The ringing in his ears grew louder and louder until it seemed to drown out everything else—his heartbeat, Beret’s desperate calls, the pounding of his own blood in his veins.

  The world shifted.

  No.

  Not just the world—the very fabric of space around him seemed to warp, twisting in unnatural ways. His fingers felt sluggish, and his grip on his tommy gun—his most trusted weapon, the extension of his own body—tightened and loosened without his command.

  "Enforcer!" Beret’s voice cut through the thick air, but even his voice was distorted, as though it came from a far-off distance.

  “Enforcer!” Beret screamed again, his voice desperate, rising in pitch as he gripped Enforcer's shoulders, shaking him violently. Blood seeped from Beret’s cracked gas mask as he clung to his teammate with raw, frantic fear. His hand slipped down Enforcer’s armored suit as his blood continued to seep out, dark crimson staining his fingers, but Enforcer could barely feel it. His body was heavy, numb, like it was no longer his own.

  The ringing in his ears intensified until it was all-consuming. His lungs burned with the effort to draw in air, but it wasn’t enough. Each breath was ragged, forced—a suffocating wheeze—and his chest felt like it was collapsing under the weight of it. It wasn’t just exhaustion; something deeper, darker, was happening. His mind was beginning to lose its grip on the situation. His senses dulled one by one, slipping through his fingers like sand.

  And then—she appeared.

  A flash in the corner of his vision—a movement, fast, like a shadow breaking through the dark. He saw her eyes before anything else—those vivid orange and red-ringed eyes that burned with a cold, unyielding malice. The intensity of her gaze pierced through the blackness like a predator watching its prey, unmoving, unrelenting.

  She stood there in the dark, watching them. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

  Her eyes were the only thing that mattered. They seemed to pierce into him, freezing him from the inside out. He couldn’t see her form, only her eyes, glowing with an almost supernatural radiance. There was no remorse in her gaze, no emotion—just the simple, inescapable truth of their impending death.

  Enforcer’s pulse quickened, and his hand jerked toward his weapon in a final instinctual move. His fingers found the cold, familiar steel of his tommy gun, but the weight of it seemed too much for him. He couldn’t raise his arm high enough. His fingers—once so quick, so precise—refused to move, locked in place like they had turned to stone.

  The ringing in his ears became a deafening roar, drowning out everything else—the voice of his partner, the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.

  Beret’s voice faded as his panic escalated.

  "I can’t see... Enforcer? I... I can’t see!" Beret's words were breaking apart, desperation cutting through his breathless gasps. His hand clutched at Enforcer's shoulder tighter, but even the contact didn’t seem to anchor him. His body was crumbling.

  Enforcer’s vision wavered. His weapon felt too heavy in his hands, his arms too weak to hold it. He tried—he tried to squeeze the trigger—to make the gun spit fire at her, to stop whatever was happening to them, but his fingers wouldn’t respond. It was as if the control had slipped away completely, as if the darkness had stolen it from him.

  His hands trembled, and for the first time in his life—he could not move.

  The weight of his own body became unbearable, and as Beret's frantic calls continued to echo around him, Enforcer collapsed. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground with a sickening thud, his weapon slipping from his grip and falling uselessly at his side. Blood began to seep from beneath his mask, his black armor damp with it, soaking into the fabric.

  He was helpless. He was failing.

  Enforcer’s vision blurred completely now, the edges of his sight turning to pitch black. His world, his senses, his very body had betrayed him. The last thing he saw—before everything went dark—was the faint glint of the woman’s eyes, still watching, still waiting.

  There was nothing left to do.

  He had fallen.

  As Beret's body crumpled against the unfeeling ground, the weight of his own failing form pressing down on him like a crushing vice. His broken gas mask, shattered from the brutal impact, scraped against the cold, merciless floor—jagged fragments digging into his bloodied skin. Every breath was a struggle, every movement a torment. His limbs, once swift and steady, now felt like leaden anchors dragging him into oblivion.

  And then—blackness.

  His sight was gone.

  Not just blurred, not just failing—completely, utterly stolen.

  His world was now an endless abyss, an infinite void of nothingness, swallowing him whole. Panic clawed at his chest as his mind screamed for light, for something—anything—but all that greeted him was the suffocating grasp of the unknown.

  His trembling fingers stretched outward, weakly flailing against the unseen. Desperation guided his hand through the consuming darkness, and then—contact.

  Enforcer.

  The realization struck like a knife to the gut. The cold, lifeless form beneath his palm made his breath hitch, his stomach coil in dread. He already knew, but he needed to confirm it.

  "Enforcer?"

  A whisper. Barely a sound. His voice, raw and broken, wavered on the edge of denial.

  Nothing.

  His shaking hands slid over the corpse—his partner’s armor torn open, his flesh unrecognizable, his body as still as the grave. Beret's fingers brushed against the stump of what had once been Enforcer’s arm, but now it was just a severed limb. No warmth, no pulse—only the cold, unyielding grip of death.

  His mind felt clouded, his thoughts sluggish as blood dripped from his battered form. His very life force seeped out of him in steady, quiet rivulets, soaking into the floor, leaving a crimson trail behind every twitching movement. His breathing grew shallower, the pain burrowing into his bones, gnawing at his resolve.

  He needed to move.

  With monumental effort, he pushed himself forward, dragging his ruined body across the icy surface. The agony was relentless, a blinding fire scorching through his limbs. His palm met something solid—a wall. Cold concrete beneath his touch. He leaned against it, his back sliding down the unfeeling surface, his legs trembling beneath the weight of his failing strength.

  His bloodied hands searched—groping through the empty air, desperate for anything that could keep him tethered to life. His fingers found pockets he had memorized long ago, instincts guiding him even in his blinded state. He fumbled through the supplies, slipping past bullets and spent gear, until—

  Fabric.

  The smooth texture of a bandage. His last hope.

  Beret clutched it like a lifeline, his body trembling from both blood loss and sheer exhaustion. His slick, bloodied gloves struggled to unwrap the cloth, his motions sluggish, failing. Every attempt to bind his wounds was an agonizing endeavor, the fabric slipping through his numbed fingers. He wasn’t fast enough.

  And then—

  A presence.

  It hit him before he could even register it—a paralyzing chill creeping up his spine. The air turned dense, thick with an almost tangible malice, curling around him like an unseen predator. It was the weight of inevitability, of something far beyond survival.

  A click.

  It echoed in the silence, louder than the alarms, louder than the screaming red lights.

  The barrel of a shotgun pressed against his worn, bullet-riddled helmet. Cold steel met bloodied flesh. He couldn’t see it, but he knew.

  Death.

  Here.

  His breath hitched, his heartbeat pounding in his ears like a war drum. His body froze, his limbs refusing to move.

  There was no escape.

  No time to beg.

  No time to think.

  The trigger pulled.

  BANG!

  The explosion of sound shattered the void. The force sent Beret’s body jerking violently, his skull rupturing in a grotesque display.

  The blast tore through his helmet, blowing the top of his head apart, bone fragments splintering in every direction. His exposed brain matter splattered against the wall, a sickening mosaic of shattered life painted in blood and viscera.

  For a moment, his body twitched—one last, broken attempt at movement. A dying nerve impulse.

  Then—nothing.

  His corpse slumped forward, landing in a mangled, blood-drenched heap against the cold concrete. The remnants of his skull, now a gaping, hollow ruin, spilled out what little remained of his mind onto the sterile floor.

  A pool of red expanded beneath him, thick and warm, the metallic scent of fresh blood filling the stagnant air. It mixed with the rot, the death, the sterile emptiness of the room.

  And still—the alarm blared.

  Red lights flashed in erratic, strobe-like patterns, casting grotesque shadows across the walls. The same crimson glow that had illuminated the battlefield moments ago, before this nightmare began.

  But now—

  Now it was different.

  The bodies of the Elite Combat Members they had slain remained. Unmoving. Lifeless. Frozen. The fight had not progressed, the mission had not moved forward.

  Time itself had stopped.

  The horror was endless.

  And in the thick silence that followed, she stood there.

  Watching.

  Unmoving.

  Cold.

  Her glowing eyes, the only source of life in the abyss, radiated an unholy, ruthless intent. Those same merciless eyes had stared at them before, had watched them fall—and they still had not changed.

  She had waited.

  She had known.

  And now, with Beret’s ruined corpse sprawled before her, his shattered skull still leaking its contents onto the cold floor—

  They truly understood.

  There was no victory.

  There was no escape.