Outside the inner sanctum, we met our guide, a square‑jawed kid with a shaved head, silent except for “yes,” “no,” and that single gesture: this way.
We followed him past stone doors. The deeper we went, the darker it became. Filth pooled underfoot. Every corner hosted its own stench. Each step kicked up soot, old sweat, broken tech, and desperation.
At the gatehouse, he came to a stop beside another bald, fit man, also silent. Behind them stood a couple more, bald, fit, calm and discreet. They introduced themselves as Guy One, Guy Two, Guy Three and Guy Four. Practical.
The hideout’s owner was away. They’d given us space.
Aedan rounded us in the main hall, a low-ceilinged, concrete room lit by single hanging bulb. Shadow and sweat draped the walls.
He began briefing them in quiet urgency. “Fira’s ping will be our green light. Watch the link.” They nodded, eyes on the floor. When he mentioned weapons, a couple nodded, their sniper rifles swung over shoulders, two stunners. No tech crew, aside from me. The guys looked uncertain when Aedan and Vex called me prince. They whispered Ashwarden.
Aedan laid out the plan without fanfare. We would breach, stun, lock, neutralize, quick, clean, surgical. Then scanned our faces. “Linking you all…” Encrypted neural link.
Then he pinged Fira.
# In position. Looking… sexy.
# Keep comms sparse, Aedan warned. # Avoid detection.
The cultists split duties. Two sparred, hand-to-hand forms that looped like water, others meditated, bare-chested, eyes closed, chanting in low hums. It looked prayerful. My presence drew reverent glances, expectant, patient. I cleared my throat.
Vex toyed with her stunner. “You sure they can hold? If things go sideways…”
Aedan clipped it: “They know martial postures. Level three, maybe four.”
Then came a crackle in my mind, then Fira’s voice.
# They just met.
We jumped to our feet.
Outside, the gutter stank of burning garbage and rot. Neon reflections on puddles. Sheets of corrugated tin patched walls here and there. This was Vult Rive territory: open trade in fear, whispers of bones in stew.
We skirted crowds, drugged-eyed kids, scabbed beggars, eyes burning with hunger or hate.
Aedan led, stride confident. Vex flanked him. I brought up the rear with the cult guys. Torch flickered on broken walls. A stray critter snarled, slunk away. No greetings. Just shadows watching.
We reached the silo compound, a giant rusted tower surrounded by corrugated barricades. At the western gate: two burly guards by a rusted arch. They didn’t notice us until the blade of silence dropped. We shot stunners. Both guards sagged, lights swimming out of their pupils. Cultists grabbed their stun guns. We slipped in.
Corridors reeked of damp metal. Doors lined the walls. We flanked the barracks, dropped neurostun grenades. Flash. Spore of blue gas. Shouts started, dull, panicked breath.
“Arvie,” I thought. “Doors. Now.”
She accessed the silo’s control nodes, bypassed the security so fast I did not see what happened, locked the doors with a hiss. Inside, goons scrambled, banging outer plates.
We looked around. At the back of the silo, upstairs, we spotted a wide window.
Behind glass, two figures: Jax, massive man, slab of meat and rage. He was lecturing, furious, arms gesturing hard. The Directorate rat stood stiff.
I signaled two cultists with sniper rifles. They set up, steady. “Now.”
The rat hunched, then wavered, down. Jax roared and lunged to the window, smashed it open. We opened fire, all the stunner at the same time. He staggered, tumbled out the window. Crash.
Chaos bloomed. Goon flurries; cult guys flowed like silent tides. Aedan and Vex carved paths with brutal efficiency. A knife at the throat, a stun strike. No qualifiers. I moved between them, senses storm-bright, agile and tuned. Gunfire, muffled yells. We swept lower corridors. Every corner held tense micro-skirmishes. Cultists yanked goons into lock‑down cells.
Upstairs, we grabbed the officer, two cultists hauled him out. Two stayed with us, to cover Jax’s old safehouse.
At ground floor, we bundled Jax’s limp form into a nearby closet and locked it on him.
Out we went, east exit this time, and found the safehouse, another corrugated shanty near the silos, rusted steel door, broken boards. Arvie slithered through lock code. The door clicked.
Inside, two guards dropped before they could reach grips. Larek lay on a makeshift slab, pale, ragged, breathing shallow.
I signaled cultists to lift the slab and hustled him to out.
Outside, Jax’s goons ambushed us. They thought they’d cornered us.
They were wrong.
Cultists twirled into motion: silent forms delivering strikes that echoed generations of discipline. Aedan and Vex slashed through shadow, disarm and concussion. I covered our rear, pulse pistol humming, senses tuned to threats.
We broke through. The rest of the goons flew inside the silo.
Before long, we stood at the threshold of the sanctum, the cultists closing ranks behind us.13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRj9pKGje62
My chest rattled, heart pacing. I closed my eyes. Larek coughed, alive. The officer groaned.
“Ten out of ten on drama, two on stealth. Classic extraction.”
ns216.73.216.254da2
and then Add to home screen.