Ravenport – 2:47 A.M. | Abandoned Underground Rail Line
The tunnels groaned with age. Damp stone. Rusted rails. Air heavy with mildew and memory.
Damien's footsteps echoed softly, his movements a whisper in the dark. Tactical boots. Black gloves. Pistol in hand, breath steady—a shadow hunting another shadow.
But this time, it wasn't a corrupt politician or cartel kingpin.
It was a ghost.
Someone who should've been buried along with the past Damien tried so hard to silence.
The sniper who killed Marcus had left a message colder than the bullet:
Nyx is obsolete.
Damien's eyes scanned the tunnel walls—graffiti, gang tags, old protest signs.
Then he saw it.
A crude symbol in red spray paint.
A circle. An X carved through its center.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Not street art. Not random.
A calling card.
The Veil.
His pulse spiked.
That sigil belonged to an organization he dismantled—or so he thought.
Now it was back.
And it wanted him.
---
Meanwhile – Safehouse
Elara sat alone in the half-light, hunched over the laptop Damien had left her. Her hands trembled as she decrypted file after file.
Photos. Transaction records. Government seals. Hidden black sites.
Maps of trafficking routes.
Each more damning than the last.
Then—her brother's name.
> Marcus Vance – Status: Embedded operative.
Codename: Helix.
Affiliation: Unknown.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He wasn't just a journalist.
He was undercover.
He was playing both sides.
One more file opened. A video.
Damien—younger, bloodied, seated under interrogation lights.
Cold. Controlled. Unapologetic.
> "I don't regret killing them.
They deserved to die."
Elara's vision blurred. She slammed the laptop shut.
Then her fingers curled into fists.
And she broke.
---
Back Underground
A whisper of movement.
Then a shot.
A bullet sliced the air past Damien's ear. He ducked behind a concrete pillar, exhaled slow, and returned fire.
The precision. The cadence.
He knew it too well.
"Archer," he muttered, lips tight.
Another figure dropped from above—tall, masked, all muscle and malice.
"Still slow, Damien. I thought you'd improved."
They crashed together like thunder—fists, blades, knees to ribs. Years of shared training now turned into mortal combat.
Brotherhood shattered.
Archer slammed Damien against the rail, his pistol jammed between Damien's eyes.
"The Veil has risen, Nyx.
And you're first on our list."
The barrel clicked.
Then—
Crack!
A shot echoed in the tunnel.
Archer screamed, spinning back, blood spraying from his shoulder.
Damien rolled free, grabbing his fallen knife.
And turned.
Elara.
She stood on the rusted tracks above. Rain dripping from her coat. His own rifle in her shaking hands.
Eyes wide with grief. Anger.
Be
trayal.
"I don't know who to believe anymore," she whispered.
"But for tonight…
You don't get to die."
---
To be continued…
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