Author's Note:
They survived. But survival comes with silence—sometimes the kind that hurts more than the fight. This chapter slows down. Breathes. Bleeds a little. It's not action. It's what comes after.
📍[Location: Sera Marino's Apartment | Downtown Skyline, 43rd Floor]
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. No beeps. No security prompts. The entire building's digital infrastructure had been overridden hours ago.
They stepped into silence.
The apartment was vast, high-ceilinged, and lined with minimalist luxury—sleek surfaces, dim accent lights, panoramic glass looking over a city too clean for what they'd just left behind.
Two operatives entered first, sweeping with non-lethal optics.
Then Niv stepped in.
Sera followed beside him, silent, her heel clicking once on the marble before she took them off. Her white blouse was stiff with dried blood.
Jaime came last—half-limping, but steady. His shirt had been cut open, IV lines already in place. The medic trailing behind was no paramedic. Black gloves. Silver case. Patch on his back read: S42 | RESPONSE.
He didn't ask permission. Didn't say hello. Just knelt beside Jaime and got to work.
Field ultrasound. Biofoam sealant. Micro-suture rig with nanothread.
Jaime didn't flinch once. Just unholstered the sidearm from under his vest and set it quietly on the table beside him.
The team lead turned to Niv again.
"Do you require additional security here, sir?"
Niv didn't look at the strike leader.
Just said, steady and quiet:
"Give me the box. The small one. Pretty sure Mom had it packed. Even though I left it at home."
The leader didn't ask how he knew. He just nodded and moved.
From the secure side panel of the vehicle, he pulled a slim matte case—unmarked, plain, but held with both hands like it mattered.
He brought it over. Set it down.
Niv opened it.
Inside:
A full-black khukri, its curved edge sheathed in carbon polymer. Clean. Weighted. Used.
A pistol, sleek and heavy—full black, built like a Desert Eagle, but with sharper lines. No logos. Just two words engraved on the barrel: PINAKA V2
Four rows of ammo. Organized, ready. Each round stamped with a tiny symbol. No explanation needed.
Niv checked the pistol's slide. Then the balance. Flipped the khukri in his hand once, like muscle memory folding time.
He didn't smile. He just closed the box again.
"Don't need a team," he said. "This is enough."
"Anything else, sir?" the leader asked.
Niv's voice was soft.
"Nope. You can leave"
"Understood."
The strike team moved out as silently as they had arrived.
The door clicked shut behind the last medic.
Jaime was laid out on the couch, hooked to stabilizers far more advanced than anything civilian hospitals used—gear that said old friends in very high places. A faint antiseptic scent mixed with copper and wine.
Sera stood near the window, arms folded, her reflection fractured in the glass.
Niv leaned against the kitchen island, silent.
They didn't speak for a while.
The silence wasn't heavy. Just... processing.
Niv finally peeled off his blood-soaked overshirt. Dried wine and ash flaked off as he moved.
Sera glanced at her own reflection—hair wild, makeup ruined, blouse smeared with blood. Someone else's, mostly.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"You reek."
Niv looked up, deadpan. "You're not exactly citrus-fresh either."
They locked eyes.
Then—just for a moment—a tiny, shared smile.
It passed quickly, but it was real.
"I need a shower," she muttered, already walking away.
"Go ahead," he said, pulling open a drawer and finding… nothing usable. "I'll just burn these clothes."