Chapter 15: Threads in the Dark
The Agency's Gravemarch HQ was always cold at night.
Mike's boots echoed against the tiled floor as he passed the deactivated security scanners. Most staff had gone home, leaving only a skeleton crew of half-bored officers sipping instant coffee in the front hall. He moved quietly, nodding at the lone guard by the sublevel elevator. The man barely looked up.
Perfect.
He descended into the belly of the Agency.
Sublevel 3 wasn't open to regular agents, not without an override code—which Mike had recently "borrowed" from a corrupt tech officer's discarded keypad. The elevator hummed, numbers blinking red as he passed lower than he'd ever been allowed.
The door slid open into a dim hallway of polished black walls and whispering fluorescents. Every step echoed like a challenge.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Talia and Lucas weren't either.
Earlier that day, they had received a sudden field call. Something about a potential cult sighting near Eastgate Market. It sounded urgent… and suspiciously convenient.
Mike had convinced them to handle it alone.
Talia had stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowed.
"You sure you'll be okay?"
"I'm just logging the artifact," he'd lied. "I'll catch up after."
Lucas didn't trust it. Mike could see it behind his fake-smile nod. The guy was too sharp to be fooled forever.
Still, they'd left.
And now Mike stood before the glass doors of the Restricted Archives.
Inside, the silence was near absolute.
The room was a mix of physical and digital archives—rows of data columns stretching into the dark, each glowing faintly with ID numbers. Holographic projectors hovered on standby, and the faint hum of cooling systems vibrated through the metal floor.
Mike tapped into the system using the false credentials he'd rigged earlier that week.
Search query: Flame. Cult. Ancient Seal. Hive.
A few entries appeared. Most were redacted beyond usefulness.
Except one.
Video File: LV-714—Field Op Debrief. Year: 2283. Status: Obsolete/Unclassified – SYSTEM ERROR
The file trembled as it opened.
The Hologram Fizzled to Life
A soldier stood in a war-torn forest, helmet dented, visor cracked. His voice was hoarse.
"If anyone finds this… they lied to us. The Hive isn't gone. It's just sleeping."
Behind him, fire raged. Shadows moved like liquid among broken trees.
"We lost the southern wall. Captain Vyre gave his life to seal it again… but I saw it. His chest—glowing. Like he was burning from the inside. The flame didn't kill him. It turned him into something else."
The hologram flickered violently.
"He said it wasn't over. That it would come back... through blood."
The feed died.
Mike stared at the screen, his throat dry.
Vyre.
The name from his vision.
The face that looked like his.
He was still frozen in place when he heard it.
A soft click—barely audible.
He turned fast, eyes sweeping the archive's entrance. Nothing.
But someone had been there.
Watching.
Later That Night
Mike returned to his apartment in the outer Gravemarch zone, the slums not far beyond his windows. The thin walls muffled shouting and clanking from nearby alley fires.
He placed the relic on his desk.
It had been quiet since the ruins. Dormant.
Until now.
It pulsed.
Once.
Then again.
He reached for it—and the surface rippled like liquid mercury.
The top cracked open, unfurling into a folded lattice of metal and light. It projected a map—ancient, fragmented—and highlighted a location far north of Gravemarch.
In the center of the projection, etched in brilliant red letters, was one word:
"VYRE."
And beneath it… a symbol.
The same one that had burned into his skin during the vision.
Triangle within a spiral