September 12, 18:45 hrs — Southern Corridor, Near the Border. POV: DanielThe road ahead burned orange in the last light of day, the sky bleeding into dusk. Dust hung over the Southern Corridor like a shroud, stirred by distant gunfire. To any other man it looked like a war zone — fire, smoke, soldiers crouched and firing into chaos. But to Daniel, it looked like theater.His augmented sight stripped the illusions away. He tracked the timing of rifle bursts — identical. The recoil of one man’s weapon didn’t match the arc of the muzzle flash. When another soldier fell, Daniel clocked a half-second pause, as if waiting for a cue.“This isn’t combat,” he muttered, scanning the stage in front of them. “It’s choreography.”Colonel Harrington sat across from him, posture rigid against the jolts of the armored transport. The Colonel’s face was carved from years of command — lines of grit, eyes that had buried too many truths. He didn’t argue. He didn’t need to.“Manufactured conflict,” Harri

The facility was gone—nothing left but twisted metal and concrete dust scattered across the African night.Salvatore Buscetta crouched behind the ridge and watched the last flames die in what had been their most secure stronghold. The explosion had been surgical. Too precise for amateurs. His weathered hands gripped the binoculars as he catalogued the ruin below. Thirty years in the Sicilian network had taught him to read destruction like scripture, and this verse spelled betrayal.The wind carried smoke and the sting of burned electronics. Their digital infrastructure—networks, contacts, safe houses—had vanished in minutes. Years of careful construction reduced to ash.“Professional job,” Dimitri Volkov muttered beside him. The Russian’s scarred face was lit by firelight; his military bearing never fully left him. “Military-grade charges, timed to perfection. Look at the blast pattern—placed for maximum structural damage.”Salvatore nodded. The building hadn’t so much collapsed as be

The forest swallowed them whole, and for the first time in hours, Harrington could breathe.Ancient baobab trees rose like cathedral pillars around their concealed vehicle, their massive trunks scarred by centuries of survival. Some measured forty feet around, their bark etched by claws of predators and burn scars from lightning that would have felled lesser trees. The canopy filtered the dying sunlight into golden shafts that danced across the ground, creating a camouflage no satellite could pierce.The air felt different here—thick, heavy with moisture and the earthy tang of decay. This was one of Africa’s last untouched wildernesses, a place where evolution had marched on without human interference.“Pursuit lost visual contact forty minutes ago,” Daniel reported, his enhanced hearing tuned across multiple frequencies. Neural modifications let him process radio chatter, satellite relays, even faint tower emissions that would overwhelm an ordinary brain. “They’ve pulled back to set

Daniel’s world fractured on a single word: “Brother.”The voice rose from the shadowed treeline, matching his own cadence, carrying memories he had never lived. Through his enhanced sight, Daniel fixed on a figure emerging into the clearing—his twin in every cut and scar, everything identical except for the cold vacancy in that man’s eyes and a thin pale scar along his left temple.“Impossible,” Daniel breathed, weapon raised. Every instinct told him this was a mirror, but his tactical mind catalogued minute differences: a stiffer gait, a predatory roll to the shoulders, pupils that reflected light like a night hunter’s. “I’m the prototype. I’m the only one.”The duplicate stepped forward with mechanical ease, smile calibrated for assurance, not warmth. “You were the first successful field operative,” he said. “Not the first attempt. I am Daniel-Seven. Eleven more of us are active worldwide—refined versions, carrying out missions you never knew existed.”Harrington’s face drained of c

Location: Syndicate Command Bunker, Swiss AlpsTime: 2:47 PM, Central European Time POV: Third Person Limited - Salvatore BuscettaThe video call from his grandson shattered Salvatore's world in thirty seconds."Nonno, they have me." Ten-year-old Marco's voice trembled through the encrypted connection, his small face bruised and tear-streaked on the secure monitor. Behind him, concrete walls and harsh fluorescent lighting suggested an industrial facility—anonymous, sterile, designed for activities that left no witnesses.Salvatore's hands clenched into fists as he studied the image, his sixty-two years of criminal experience cataloguing every detail. The boy's captors had been professional—no identifying marks, no background elements that could reveal location. Expert work, but the message was unmistakable: comply or watch your family suffer."Marco, listen to me carefully," Salvatore said, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the rage building in his chest. "Are you hurt? Have