1:02 PM – Somewhere on the Cross Bronx ExpresswayThe van rattled like a dying drumline, windows groaning in their sockets, dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree of ignored warnings. Jay drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a half-eaten empanada he insisted on calling “emergency fuel.”Dorian sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed on the skyline ahead, jaw tight, fists tighter.“You’re sure it said he’s alive?” Jay asked for the fifth time.“Yes.”“And we’re talking Malik Malik? As in, your baby bro, presumed dead, memorial mural in his honor, rest in peace, amen?”“Yes.”Jay whistled low. “Damn. Okay. Just checking. 'Cause the last time we took a spontaneous trip to the Bronx, you punched a drug lord, and I almost got hit with a crowbar shaped like Jesus.”Dorian didn’t answer. His thoughts were ricocheting too fast.Malik had been gone seven years. Fire. Screams. A warehouse burned down by people trying to erase something—or someone. Dorian never found the body. Only

9:42 PM – East End Safehouse, Hidden Flat Above Guerra’s JunkyardThe safehouse wasn’t much to look at—cracked linoleum floors, a sink that moaned every time it spat out water, and a couch that had seen better centuries. But it was safe. Off-grid. Forgotten.Jay had rigged the place with half a dozen motion detectors and a modified drone parked on the roof that he swore had been built using parts from a stolen government surveillance bot and an old gaming console. Dorian didn’t ask questions. He just needed Malik stable.Malik lay stretched out on the couch, a thermal blanket draped over him, his breathing shallow but steady. The IV Jay had set up was connected to a medbag they kept for emergencies—a leftover from Dorian’s old Ghost Unit days. Antivirals, hydration fluids, synthetic protein drips.“You sure he doesn’t need a hospital?” Jay asked, pacing in a circle and chewing on the sleeve of his hoodie.“He can’t go to a hospital,” Dorian said without looking up. He was sitting at t

12:07 AM – Dockside District, West Hangar 17The stale air inside Hangar 17 was thick with the smell of rust, oil, and something metallic—like blood lingering on steel. Dorian’s boots thudded softly against the cracked concrete floor, every step echoing too loudly in the cavernous space. He held the girl in his arms with a tenderness that felt out of place in this brutal world, but necessary nonetheless.Her name was Rhea.Her head lolled slightly, eyes fluttering open and closing again like a fragile bird caught in a storm. Tubes and wires still hung from her pale, shaven scalp, and the faint, eerie blue glow in her eyes flickered dimly—like a dying star struggling not to fade away.Dorian could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his chest, shallow and weak. She was more machine than girl now, a victim of the Legacy Protocol’s ruthless experiments.And yet, she was alive.A sudden crackle of static shattered the heavy silence. The overhead intercom came alive, the voice cold, c

1:10 AM – Dorian’s Hideout, East DocksideThe sirens’ distant wail was swallowed by the thick concrete walls of the safehouse, but their urgency clung to the stale air inside like a thick fog. The dim neon lamp overhead flickered unevenly, casting erratic shadows that danced on peeling paint and scarred metal surfaces. Outside, the city breathed with a restless, dangerous rhythm — a pulse of unrest, secrecy, and shadows moving just beyond sight.Dorian sat at the battered metal table, fingers tracing the folded map Lana had produced moments earlier. His dark eyes reflected a storm of frustration and resolve. Beside him, Rhea leaned back against the cracked wall, her gaze distant but sharp, the small cut on her forearm wrapped tightly by Jay’s rough hands.“So,” Dorian began, voice low and steady, “you say the Archive’s building a biological weapon — programmable soldiers like Rhea and the others. What exactly are we dealing with?”Lana exhaled slowly, folding her arms as her sharp eye

The morning light seeped weakly through the grimy windows of the safehouse, casting pale slashes across the cluttered room. Dorian lay sprawled on the threadbare couch, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a lead blanket. Sleep had been a stranger last night—his mind replaying every step of the mission, every narrow escape, every calculated risk.His phone buzzed suddenly, sharp and insistent, snapping him back from the edge of unconsciousness. The screen flashed an unknown number, a message: They know.His breath caught. Slowly, he sat up, the message burning a hole through the calm of dawn. He showed it to Lana, who was at the small kitchen table, eyes tired but alert.“Voss’s network is tighter than we thought,” she said, voice low, brows knitting. “They’re already onto us. The Archive doesn’t miss a beat.”Jay, leaning against the wall with a grimace, slammed a fist on the table. “That means they’ve probably planted eyes here, too. We’re compromised.”Rhea, ever the