Chapter 5 “Shadows of the Past”

The gray wash of early dawn crept across the battered floorboards, painting the warehouse in cold, reluctant light. The cracked windows did little to keep out the city's morning breath—distant engines, the faint hiss of tires over damp streets, the occasional bark of a street vendor

already shouting prices. But inside, everything remained still.

Silas slowly rose from the crate he'd collapsed on just hours before, every joint protesting with the weight of the night behind them. His vision blurred briefly before adjusting to the dim warehouse, where shadows still clung to the corners like smoke. By the doorway, Ayla stood still, arms

hugged tightly around her body, as if bracing against something only she could feel.

She hadn't slept. He could tell. Her silhouette was rigid, unmoving. She might have stayed like that all night.

"You're still up," he said, his voice raspy.

She turned her head slightly, not fully. "Didn't feel right to sleep."

He scrubbed a hand across his face and rose slowly, his shoulders stiff from sleep. "If you don't get some rest soon, it's going to catch up with you.

Ayla gave a slight shake of her head. "I've already burned out."

There was no bite in her voice—only exhaustion. She looked over her shoulder finally, her eyes rimmed with fatigue, her hair tangled from the wind and worry. She walked toward him and sat down on the opposite end of the crate. A beat passed.

"I keep thinking about the drive," she murmured. "What if it's nothing? What if we risked our lives for... a dead end?"

"It's not nothing," Silas said firmly. "We wouldn't be hunted if it was."

Ayla gave a small nod, though uncertainty lingered in her eyes. Her fingers drummed lightly against her thigh—a subtle tic he was beginning to notice when her mind raced.

"Who's Ashur?" she asked.

"A friend. From another life," Silas said. "He doesn't trust anyone easily. But if he sent that message last night, it means he's willing to help. And that's rare."

"What kind of help?"

"He's a ghost in the digital world. Encryptions, firewalls, blacklists—he can break them all. If anyone can pull the data out of that flash drive and survive it, it's him."

Ayla stared at the cracked floor, her voice softening. "My father had files I was never allowed to see. He always told me they were 'above my clearance.' But I remember one name showing up more than once—Project Vanir."

Silas glanced over, his brow furrowing. "That was on Kallos's folder directory too. You're saying your father was involved?"

"I don't know." Her voice trembled for the first time. "But I think he died trying to keep me from finding out."

The silence that followed was different. Not awkward. Heavy. Charged.

Silas sat forward, elbows on his knees. "Then we don't stop. Not now."

She looked at him. "And if Ashur finds something that makes us targets again?"

"We're already targets."

Ayla opened her mouth to reply, but a sharp buzz broke through the moment. Silas fished his phone from his pocket, eyes scanning the encrypted message. One line lit the screen: Midnight. Alone. Come through Dock.

"He's in," Silas muttered. "Wants to meet tonight."

"Alone?"

"Standard protocol for him. Doesn't mean we'll follow it exactly."

Ayla stood. "Then we have the day to prepare. Rest. Map the route. And pray no one finds us before then."

Silas nodded. He watched her walk toward her backpack near the wall, digging through it for a change of clothes. There was something about

her—still composed despite the fraying edges.

He moved to the corner where he'd stashed the drive inside a hollowed-out flashlight. Pulling it out, he turned it in his hand, the weight of it suddenly heavier than before. If this drive really contained what they both feared… there would be no safe place left to run.

Ayla approached quietly. "You think it's worth it?"

He looked up at her. "You said it yourself—your father may have died for this. I think you already know the answer."

She exhaled slowly. "Then let's not waste what's left of the morning."

Together, they began readying for the hours ahead—not knowing who would find them first: answers or enemies.

And somewhere beneath the hum of the city, in a black SUV parked two blocks away, a man watched the warehouse through a camera feed. He smiled faintly, speaking into his earpiece.

"They'll move tonight. Let them. We follow."