A TRAIL OF BLOOD

Chapter 8

A Trail of Blood

The city felt hollow after the fight. The adrenaline had long since faded, replaced by a gnawing exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. His side ached with every breath, the wound from the assassin's blade still fresh, but the pain was a distant whisper compared to the storm raging in his mind. The words the assassin had spoken lingered like a curse. "You were never supposed to wake up."

What did that even mean? Who had sent them? And why was he—he—the target?

He had no answers, but he wasn't about to stop looking for them. If there was one thing he knew, it was that the truth had a way of emerging from the darkest places. And that's where he was headed—into the darkness.

The assassin's belongings had given him the lead he needed. There had been something in the figure's coat, something small but vital—a folder containing several pieces of paper, a series of cryptic notes, and a map with coordinates. The coordinates led to a place on the outskirts of the city, an area known for its abandoned warehouses and industrial decay.

It wasn't much to go on, but it was enough.

The man moved swiftly through the streets, his body still aching from the brutal encounter. The night felt heavy, as though the city itself was watching him, judging him for the blood on his hands. But he didn't have time to dwell on guilt. Not now. Not when there were answers to be found. He followed the map, his mind focused solely on the task ahead.

After what felt like an eternity of walking, he arrived at the location—a dilapidated building on the edge of the city. The rusted iron gates were locked, but that didn't stop him. He slipped through the cracks, his mind already working through his options. The building was old, its exterior worn by time and neglect. The windows were boarded up, and the door was reinforced with chains.

This was it.

He moved quietly, his body moving with practiced precision. Every sense was heightened, every step calculated. The assassin's belongings had given him the faintest trace of a connection to something bigger—a network, perhaps. And now, he was about to uncover just how deep this web of shadows ran.

The door creaked as he forced it open, and he winced at the sound. He had learned long ago that silence was essential, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain as the weight of the night pressed in on him. His pulse quickened as he stepped inside, the air heavy with dust and decay.

The building smelled of metal and oil, of things long forgotten. He moved through the narrow halls, the silence around him oppressive. His footsteps echoed against the concrete floors, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. His fingers brushed the walls as he moved, feeling for any sign of movement, any clue that would lead him to what he sought.

And then, he found it.

Behind a rusted door, he uncovered a narrow staircase that led underground. His instincts told him this was no coincidence. This was where they had hidden whatever—or whoever—was waiting for him. He descended, the air growing colder with each step. His breath came out in a mist, his heart pounding in his chest as he reached the bottom.

The underground facility was far more expansive than he had expected. The hallways were lined with rows of steel doors, each one locked and labeled with numbers and codes. The flickering overhead lights cast long, eerie shadows that danced along the walls. The place was abandoned, but the stillness felt wrong, like a graveyard that had been disturbed.

He moved cautiously, his every step bringing him closer to the heart of the mystery. His thoughts raced as he wondered what he would find down here. Evidence? Answers? Or was this just another trap, another layer in the maze that had been built to confuse him, to keep him in the dark?

As he rounded a corner, he came to a small room. The door was slightly ajar, and a faint light leaked from the crack. He didn't hesitate. He pushed the door open, his body tensing as he prepared for whatever was on the other side.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

Rows of glass tanks, each containing a figure suspended in liquid. The figures were humanoid, their features obscured by the murky substance. Their bodies were thin, their limbs unnaturally long, but there was something about them that felt... familiar. The man stepped closer, his heart racing. What kind of place was this?

He turned to the nearest tank, his eyes scanning the figure within. The face was unrecognizable, but the shape of the body, the way the muscles were formed... It was almost like looking at himself in a distorted mirror. His stomach churned, and he took a step back, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing.

The glass hissed as he placed his palm against it. Something about this felt wrong. He had to know more.

He moved to the next tank, and this time, the figure inside was more distinct. The features were clearer, and the face... It wasn't just familiar—it was identical. The same eyes. The same jawline. The same cold expression. It was him.

He stepped back, stumbling, as the reality of what he was seeing began to sink in. These were people—no, not people—experiments. Operatives like him, stripped of their identities, erased from existence. He was part of a long line of agents, each one designed for a specific purpose, each one molded into the perfect weapon.

The pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place. He wasn't the first. He wasn't even special. He was just one of many. This underground facility was more than just a place for training; it was a factory for creating operatives. It was a place where identities were erased, memories were wiped, and soldiers were born.

The man's mind raced. How many of them were there? How many others like him were out there?

He wasn't alone in this war.

He turned away from the tanks, his mind reeling as he tried to absorb the enormity of what he had uncovered. This wasn't just about him anymore. This was about something much bigger. And whatever the agency was hiding down here—whatever experiments they were conducting—it wasn't going to end with him.

His eyes locked on a small terminal in the corner of the room. He moved toward it, desperate to find answers. His hands shook as he accessed the system, navigating through layers of security. It was a long shot, but it was all he had.

As the screen flickered to life, his breath caught in his throat. The terminal displayed a list of names—dozens of them. Each one was followed by a series of codes, redacted files, and dates. The names were all familiar, faces he had seen during his training. Each one had been erased, erased as if they had never existed.

He felt the walls closing in. He had never been meant to remember any of this. He wasn't meant to know the truth. But now that he did, there was no going back.

The cold, empty tanks seemed to stare at him with hollow eyes, and for the first time in his life, he felt the weight of the truth press down on him. He wasn't just an agent. He was a product. An experiment.

And they weren't done with him yet.