Storm of Shadows

Location: Tavara – Blackgate District, Safehouse Bravo

The night was unnaturally still, a strange hush cloaking the Blackgate district. Moonlight slithered through cracks in the boarded windows of Safehouse Bravo, landing on the table where blueprints and encrypted files were sprawled. Damien stood at the head of the table, his eyes locked onto the real-time surveillance feed flickering on the portable monitor.

His jaw clenched. "We've got movement near Sector Nine. That's the third drone pass tonight. Someone's tracking us."

Nora, seated beside him with a sidearm holstered at her thigh, leaned forward. "It's too precise to be coincidence. They know we're here—or at least, they suspect."

Across from them, Ashford tapped rapidly on his tablet, pulling up the facial recognition overlay. "And it's not just random scouts. That's Carrow's insignia on the tactical gear—black phoenix on crimson. He's pulling his elite."

Damien's gaze darkened. "Then he knows we've reopened the Falcon Protocol files."

Nora's fingers curled into a fist. "Which means Harold's betrayal is no longer just a family disgrace. It's an invitation to war."

The room fell into a cold silence.

Suddenly, the encrypted comm buzzed to life. Logan's voice cut through the static. "We've got a breach. South entrance. Five hostiles. Armed. They're using jammers—we're blind on the east side."

Damien moved instantly. "Evac plan Bravo. Nora, secure the intel. Ashford, blow the local drives. No traces."

As the lights flickered—interference from the jammers—Nora opened the hidden compartment beneath the table, extracting the titanium briefcase containing the decrypted Falcon files. Her eyes met Damien's, fierce and unyielding. "This can't fall into their hands."

Ashford was already typing furiously, the countdown to detonation blinking on his screen—forty-five seconds.

Damien clicked the safety off his custom Glock. "They want a shadow war? Let's show them who owns the dark."

The moment they stepped out of the safehouse, the silence shattered—gunfire tore through the night like a scream, lighting up the alleys of Blackgate. Nora ducked behind the armored SUV, returning fire with precision. Damien moved like a phantom—fast, lethal, surgical.

Behind them, the safehouse erupted in flames—Ashford's digital funeral pyre for every secret they couldn't carry.

But they weren't running. They were repositioning.

And as Damien locked eyes with the approaching mercenary commander through the smoke, a cold smile touched his lips.

"Checkmate's coming," he whispered.