The woods were still. Too still.A cold film of sweat coated Walker’s brow as he crept along the uneven, leaf-blanketed trail behind his second hideout. His boots barely brushed the ground, his breathing shallow, almost silent. Each step was calculated, toes first, then heel, pressing into the soft decay of old pine needles and mud. His hoodie clung to his back, damp with adrenaline. His eyes flicked upward toward the treetops, then sideways to the thickets and bramble-choked underbrush.Riven had limped off in this direction—he was wounded, bleeding, but not broken. The silence was oppressive, the kind that seemed to lean in on him from all sides. No birdsong. No insects. Not even the distant rustle of a squirrel. Just the faint creak of tree limbs swaying, groaning under their own weight. It wasn’t natural. It was the silence of something waiting.Walker knew this terrain—had studied it, mapped it, walked it under moonlight and fog. He was the ghost here. Riven was the intruder. An

Walker coughed as he stirred awake, his throat dry like sandpaper. A dull ache throbbed in the back of his head. He blinked hard. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of earth, mold, and stale sweat. Shadows clung to the curved stone walls around him—he was in a cave. A deep, natural hollow reinforced with old steel beams, their rust flaking like dried blood. A faint dripping sound echoed from somewhere deep in the dark, rhythmic and eternal, like time itself was leaking.He tried to turn his head, but couldn’t. His wrists were strapped tightly to the arms of a metal chair, thick nylon ropes digging into his skin. His legs were bound to the legs of the chair too. Every inch of his body ached from the tension and the cold.Beside him, slumped in another chair, was Riven. His head hung forward, blood drying across his temple. The kid was barely conscious. A thin groan escaped his lips like a weak breath through cracked porcelain.Walker winced and struggled against the ropes. Pain sho

Two matte-black, low-profile buses jerked to a coordinated halt, their tires hissing against cracked asphalt. No sirens. No screech. Just presence—imposing and silent.The doors hissed open in perfect sync.From both sides, men in black poured out—tactical suits, bulletproof vests, combat boots absorbing their steps. Their faces were hidden behind matte black masks with no insignia. Some carried short-barreled SMGs, others gripped silenced AR-15s or shotguns modified for breach-and-clear operations. No chatter. No hand signals yet. Only Dax’s icy stare.Dax dropped down last, landing light on his toes like a predator. His jaw locked tight. He scanned the building: the old apartment, bruised by time and shadows. Curtains drawn. Lights dead. But he knew better than to trust appearances—especially after what happened last time.No one coughed.Last time, they coughed—twice. One of his men cleared his throat inside the hallway. Another sneezed in the vents. That was all it took. Walker di

The cave was dim—like a forgotten hole carved into the ribs of the earth.The air hung heavy, thick with sweat, dust, and a silence that felt like a threat waiting to exhale. Only the faintest drip… drip… from a crack in the ceiling dared to make a sound.Jett stood near the narrow entrance, lit faintly by the dull orange of a dying lantern. His silhouette cut sharply through the gloom—broad shoulders, jacket half-zipped, jaw locked tight. One hand rested on his belt, the other loosely holding a burner phone by his side.Walker sat slouched against the jagged wall, wrists bound with thick, scratchy rope that had already bruised the skin raw. His knuckles were scraped, lips cracked. Dirt clung to his shirt like old guilt. His eyes didn’t blink often—he was watching Jett. Measuring him.Nearby, Riven lay limp on a folded jacket. The kid was barely conscious, blood drying along his temple. His breath shallow, lips trembling now and then with unconscious murmurs. Jett hadn't said a word a

The sunlight outside barely touched the cracked edges of the window blinds. It filtered in like it was unsure whether it belonged in the room with Ramirez—whether it had permission to warm a man whose world had grown so cold.Ramirez sat still, almost like a statue.The prison uniform was gone, but the weight it left behind still clung to him—across his shoulders, in his posture, behind his dark, tired eyes. He had grown leaner, quieter, and the way he ran his hand across his jaw now—slow, distracted, the tips of his fingers tracing the roughness of a barely-shaved beard—was the same way he'd learned to move in confinement.Carefully. Slowly. Intentionally.His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone.Oscar. That name alone pulled something sharp from deep inside his chest. The phone vibrated gently on the wooden table, and the sound echoed through the hollow silence like a ticking bomb.He didn’t want to answer. Not yet. Not now.Ever since he walked out of that damned prison gate