Chapter 7 - "Shadows in the System"

The air was quiet. The fluorescent lights above pulsed faintly, casting an eerie glow in the dim corridor. Ashok moved forward with calculated strides. His cybernetic augmentations, dark and cold, reflected the light in thin silver streaks.

Then, as he was about to enter the gateway to Sentinel's underground chamber, a whisper crawled along his spine.

"You have come."

Ashok's steps stopped. His face was unreadable, cold as stone. Without turning, he sighed, already knowing who it was.

"Victor, I know you're there. Why do you have to be so creepy all the time?" His voice was laced with annoyance, but the familiarity in it betrayed a long-standing habit.

A chuckle. A shadow moved behind him, and from the dark corner Victor appeared—his wicked grin peeking through beneath the hood. "Come on, Phantom. Stealth is an art."

Phantom shifted, arms folded. "An art? With that form? You stepped in the same spot twice, breathed at the wrong rhythm, and your shadow gave you away before your whisper hit me. Amateur work. Sloppy. You'd be dead in a live op."

Victor clicked his tongue in amusement. "Even if I did make errors, how did you know it was me, exactly?" His fox-grinning lips spread a little wider. "Come on, Phantom—what betrayed me?"

For a moment, the corridor felt colder. Phantom's face grew darker as he took a slow step closer. His voice, lower now, had an unsettling edge.

"My heartbeat…" he whispered. "It beats a little strange whenever you're around."

A beat of silence. Then—

"One more sentence, and I swear, I might throw up." Victor recoiled dramatically, rolling his eyes as if physically repulsed. "Dude, you really need to work on your vocabulary, Phantom. That was straight-up romantic."

Before their banter escalates, Nia, the comms specialist, interrupts. "Did you guys start flirting again?"

Phantom pinched the bridge of his nose, irritated, as Victor groaned. "Nia, do you live to misread things?"

"I live to say what everyone's thinking anyway," she shot back with a teasing lilt.

Just as the argument was about to get out of hand, another voice sounded from the opposite corridor.

"Are you fighting, or are you standing around chatting?"

Zorath—the musclehead of the group. Towering, broad-shouldered, and hulking in there with energy he has absolutely no right being his size, cracking his knuckles as he took a step forward, fixating on Phantom and Victor.

"I say we fight," Zorath smirked, shrugging shoulders. "Winner gets to call the shots for today."

Victor flashes a smile. "Oh, you bet I am."

Nia bends forward and starts to stretch arms. "Might as well join in."

Phantom watches as Victor, Nia, and Zorath jump into a spontaneous fight. The Sentinel agents are all skilled fighters, each with their own strengths. Phantom is merely average compared to them, using more strategy than raw power.

Phantom possesses cybernetic upgrades—streamlined, high-tech alterations that fit perfectly with his Sentinel uniform, a black, armored suit meant for stealth and combat. But what nobody is aware of is that his cybernetics are all fake. He wears them as a disguise since, as Ashok, he is the sole known individual in the whole nation without cybernetic augmentations. The other agents, meanwhile, have genuine augmentations that are custom-fit to their particular roles, they have subtly tailored uniforms to ensure that their uniform does not hinder their work.

As the battle rages on, Phantom frontflips away from the chaos and lands smoothly. ""Do you guys even recall that the Chief summoned us?"

A pause. A glance. Then—

"Oh… yeah."

The team all turned to the big metal doors at the far end of the corridor—the entrance to Sentinel's command room.

Phantom let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Idiots, the lot of you.

And so they proceeded, marching into the center of Sentinel's territory—towards whatever fate lay beyond.

The chamber of Arcturus, the Chief of Sentinel, was one of power, surrounded by holographic projections displaying missions and classified data. The team marched in, their very presence demanding respect. Each one of them, the best in their field, the cream of the crop.

Victor grinned as he leaned against the doorframe. "So, Chief, what's wrong? You summoned all the top dogs of Sentinel. Must be something big."

Arcturus looked up from his desk, his piercing gaze sweeping the room before focusing on Phantom. "Our mercenary, Raven, has wiped out all five major crime syndicates."

Phantom, with arms crossed, continued without hesitation, "And eliminated the five killers from five different nations."

Nia and Zorath were surprised because it was information that they weren't aware of, and shocked because they weren't aware that Raven could deal with 5 different secret elite assassins of ORDER.

The Chief took a deep breath, a sign that things had just got out of hand. "So they want to complicate this."

Victor clicked his tongue. "And The Order wants to further complicate things by turning this into an international crisis, with five nations involved. That's not a power move—that's a declaration."

Arcturus nodded. "Phantom, you must locate the next organization or branch of The Order. You and Raven will be working together on this."

With those words, Phantom's focus became sharper. Sentinel's parent organization was unknown to everyone except the Chief—and, somehow, Raven. This wasn't just a mission. It was a test. A test to determine if Phantom and Raven were indeed the same individual.

The team looked at each other, and Nia raised an eyebrow. "So... why did we all get called here then?"

Victor, always perceptive, leaned in, his cunning smile turning serious. "We're following the trail of the killers, the countries, and The Order. We'll be traveling to various countries to find them. We'll catch up with Raven later."

"That's right. You are always quick to catch, Victor," smirked Arcturus, "You heard him, right? That's your mission."

Arcturus leaned back in his chair. "Before you go, I want your daily and weekly reports."

The squad handed over their reports, each of them outlining their done tasks and intelligence discoveries. Arcturus browsed through them before nodding in satisfaction.

As they turned to leave, the Chief's fingers hovered over his communicator. Once the door closed behind the squad, he pressed a button and spoke softly.

"Ma'am, your plan has been set into motion."

Silence followed. Then, a faint click as the call was cut.

The room remained quiet, but the weight of an unseen game loomed over Sentinel.

Ashok entered the same lift he had used to arrive, the whir of machinery filling the silence as he ascended. As soon as the doors opened, his attire changed subtly—his sharp Phantom uniform was replaced with the worn yet practical clothes of a simple technician. He walked to his repair shop, a small but efficient room filled with mechanical components, scattered tools, and half-disassembled robotic pets awaiting their repairs

He settled in, performing diagnostics on a tiny, cat-shaped robot, fine-tuning its servos with care. The dim light within the shop flickered slightly as an advertisement on a nearby holo-screen played through.

"Yet another challenger has fallen to the ruler of Veyrasha! The unbeaten sovereign sits on their throne, unopposed. Do you have the courage to enter the arena and challenge your strength?" The loud voice was paired with flashing visuals of a masked ruler defeating their latest opponent in a brutal display of skill.

His mind stayed on the work before him, but his thoughts wandered. The city's fascination with technological dominance and power never ceased. Was it strength if it was rooted in fear?

Having finished, he exited the shop and walked towards the station. The air had the scent of metal, oil, and weak hints of rain, the perpetual neon lights mirrored in the pools of water on the ground. He stood by the platform, observing faceless passengers walk in a clockwork manner, eyes set on where they were headed. The train pulled in with a hiss of steam and hydraulics, and he stepped in, blending into the background.

A few minutes later, he stepped off at his stop, his boots clicking against the wet pavement. His thoughts drifted, cycling through plans for the mission ahead when suddenly—

A firm hand dragged him into a side alley.

Despite being able to dodge it so easily, he didn't because he is aware of the extent to which this world is cruel. The world is progressing, but it's moving towards "SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST" way. And this scene, it was a daily occurrence. Sometimes, a mugger and sometimes, a killer and sometimes, a drug addict and so on.

The world tilted as he was pushed against the chilly metal wall. The faint light of flickering neon lit the mugger's scarred face, his breath smelling of cheap booze. Rain dripped from broken pipes overhead, seeping into the already wet ground. A trash fire spat at the entrance to the alley, casting wild shadows.

"Wallet. Now," the man snarled, a rusted knife glinting in the neon light.

Ashok sighed, shaking his head slightly. "Man, I literally forgot that the world is cruel. Good people might be ceasing to exist."

The mugger didn't understand him and charged at him, but Ashok dodged with ease, flipping the man over his shoulder, slamming his head into the wall. The knife hit the pavement.

"Tsk. Negligent," Ashok growled, placing a hand on the back of the man's head. Flicking a forefinger against the mugger's greasy hair, he pushed it back, revealing a small cybernetic chip embedded just outside the skull.

He pulled out a slim, black device from his jacket—a small, sophisticated gadget no larger than a credit card. A silent touch was all it took for the device to connect to the memory chip, a brief blue flash flashing across the man's temple.

"I'm so grateful that people are lazy enough to leave their memory chips exposed," Ashok mused. "Makes my job way too easy."

He accessed the latest event, his fingers moving over the screen as he rewrote it. The thug's final recollection of this moment was blanked out, replaced instead by something else.

Ashok rose, tucking the device into his pocket as he looked down at the unconscious man.

As he walked away, the thug moved, his breath hitching as he gasped awake. He scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with fear, and ran out of the alleyway, yelling about the day he met face-to-face with death itself.

It turned out that the memory he implanted was of—a fabricated encounter with Raven, the ghost-like assassin feared across nations. In this new memory, Raven had held him up against the same alley, blade against his throat and breathing a harsh, cold imperative: Steal again, and you'll see me for real.

The look on the mugger's face contorted into horror. "Raven… he said he never wanted me to steal again. I—I promise I won't!"

"Nowadays, fear is the best medicine."

Ashok smiled to himself. "And just like that, the city gains one less problem."

He adjusted his coat, disappearing once more into the neon-soaked streets, just another shadow in the crowd.

Ashok stepped into his apartment, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

After looking around cautiously, he pressed some random points in the random places of the house and then underground steps materialized, and then he went down to the secret lab—his sanctuary.

The lab was dim, one snap illuminated the gigantic lab. He relaxed the high collar of his attire and brushed his hair before grabbing the framed photo on the desk.

His fingers followed the borders of the photo—his father and his godfather, side by side, smiling. Two years have passed since Bhanumithra disappeared.

With a resolute tone, Ashok declared "Dada, I have a feeling that I am gonna make a great leap towards my—no, our goal through this mission. Once I pass this test given by sentinel, I will try my possible best to search for you."

Turning away, he focused on preparing for the mission. Checking his gear, fine-tuning the mechanisms of his false cybernetic enhancements, and ensuring his disguise as Phantom remained flawless. Each movement was mechanical, precise—but his mind wasn't here. It was wandering, lost in memories of the one person who had once made him feel like home.