The Trap Springs

The moment Nightblade saw the glint of steel and the shift in the officers' stances, he knew he had seconds to react. He shoved Ethan Cross forward, sending him stumbling into one of his own men, just as the room erupted into chaos.

Gunfire barked in the enclosed space, the muzzle flashes momentarily lighting up the shadows. Nightblade was already moving, his instincts sharper than ever. He dropped low, rolling behind a steel desk as bullets shredded the air where he had just been.

"Lock the exits!" Cross barked, regaining his footing. "He doesn't leave this room alive."

Nightblade smirked under his mask. We'll see about that.

He exhaled slowly, channeling his power. The overhead lights flickered—then died completely. Darkness swallowed the room.

A second later, he struck.

The first officer barely had time to react before a solid knee crashed into his ribs, sending him sprawling. Another turned, swinging wildly in the pitch-black, but Nightblade caught his wrist and twisted, disarming him in one smooth motion. A sharp elbow to the temple knocked him unconscious.

Cross wasn't so easy. Even in the dark, he moved like a man who had fought worse. Nightblade barely avoided a swift blade aimed for his ribs. He retaliated, sweeping Cross's legs, but the man twisted, rolling back to his feet with surprising agility.

"You think you're the only one who thrives in the dark?" Cross taunted, his voice calm.

Nightblade could hear the smirk in his voice. Then, suddenly, red emergency lights flared to life, bathing the room in a dim, crimson glow.

Not good.

Shadows didn't work as well in red light. Cross had planned for this.

"Your tricks won't save you." Cross lunged forward, his knife a silver blur. Nightblade blocked, catching the blade between his armored forearm guards. But Cross was relentless, pressing the attack with practiced precision. This wasn't some common thug—this was a trained killer.

Nightblade pivoted, using Cross's momentum against him. He twisted the knife from the man's grip, tossing it aside. But Cross wasn't done. He slammed a fist into Nightblade's stomach, forcing him back.

The remaining officers had regrouped, weapons raised. There were too many now. The advantage was gone.

Nightblade calculated his odds. Fighting here was suicide.

Then he spotted it—a ventilation shaft above. His only exit.

With a burst of speed, he leaped, gripping the edge of the vent. Gunfire followed as he disappeared inside, crawling through the narrow passage. He heard Cross curse below.

"He won't get far," Cross growled. "Seal the building. Hunt him down."

Nightblade smirked as he moved deeper into the vents. They'll try.

But Blackreach was his city. And the shadows belonged to him.