Without hesitation, Adam pulled the trigger.The gunshot tore through the air, deafening inside the confined apartment. Nathan reacted on pure instinct. He didn’t retreat. Instead, he surged forward, shortening the distance in a heartbeat. The bullet tore past where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier.Nathan slammed into Adam, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest.Both of them crashed into the living room, furniture scraping violently across the floor as their bodies rolled. The rifle clattered away, spinning uselessly across the tiles.Adam snarled and twisted, trying to break free.Nathan struck first, elbow crashing into Adam’s ribs. Adam grunted but forced himself upright, lunging for the fallen weapon. Before his fingers could touch it, Nathan kicked hard, sending the rifle skidding far across the room.Adam recovered fast.He surged forward and smashed his fist into Nathan’s face. Pain exploded across Nathan’s cheekbone, his vision flashing white as he stagger

Nathan’s fingers dug into Adam’s collar as he dragged the taller man across the trembling floor.Adam’s head hung low, breath ragged, eyes unfocused. Failure had hollowed him out more brutally than any wound. The beeping echo from below ground pounded inside his skull, counting down the seconds he believed he had already lost.Nathan stopped.Without hesitation, he struck Adam hard across the cheek.The sound snapped through the lobby, sharp and unforgiving.“Wake up,” Nathan said, voice low but fierce. “You don’t get to give up.”Adam staggered, nearly falling. His eyes widened, rage flaring for an instant—then shame, then clarity. He sucked in a harsh breath, steadying himself.“My mother,” he whispered.“She’s still breathing,” Nathan replied. “And that means we’re still moving.”The building shuddered again, more violently this time. Cracks spread across the marble floor like veins beneath skin. Somewhere deep within the structure, metal screamed under unbearable pressure.Adam cl

A full week had passed since Apartment Boulevard vanished beneath fire, steel, and dust.Yet for Nathan, time had not moved forward—it circled.Every morning began with the same questions, every night ended with the same unease. The explosion had erased a building, but it had exposed something far more unsettling: a purpose he still did not understand.The underground chamber.The sealed corridor.And the vehicle.Nathan stood in the center of his private workspace, staring at the wide table covered with sketches, handwritten notes, arrows, fragments of recollection, and torn photocopies of Alistair’s old journals. The paper edges curled from constant handling, ink smudged from repeated tracing.At the heart of the map lay one object circled in red.The armored vehicle.It was not merely military-grade.That much had already been confirmed.Nathan had spent days consulting quietly with defense analysts, aerospace engineers, retired strategic advisers—men who had spent their lives stud

Nathan sat alone inside his office, the city skyline stretching beyond the glass wall like a frozen battlefield of steel and light. Papers lay spread across his desk, not financial reports this time, but sketches, handwritten notes, fragments of memory he could not yet assemble into a complete picture.A soft knock sounded.“Come in,” Nathan said.Adam entered, posture straight, eyes alert as always. Since the incident at Boulevard, Adam had moved with a quiet sense of duty that went beyond simple employment.“I have updates,” Adam said, closing the door behind him.Nathan gestured for him to continue.“The armored vehicle wasn’t a coincidence,” Adam began. “Our team confirmed it originated from a concealed access route beneath the old apartment complex. That corridor wasn’t built as an escape tunnel—it was a controlled pathway.”Nathan leaned forward. “A pathway to where?”“To something deeper,” Adam replied. “We traced it further underground. The passage extends far beyond the origi

One full week had passed since the small café quietly opened its doors in Summervile. The sign above the entrance was simple, almost understated—Coffe—a name that drew curiosity rather than spectacle. There was no grand opening, no press, no social media campaign. Yet every afternoon, the seats filled, and by dusk, the place hummed with warmth, conversation, and the steady aroma of roasted beans and baked sugar.Nathan stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron tied neatly at his waist. He worked as both owner and chef, his movements precise but unhurried. Most customers believed he was merely a talented cook who had decided to change careers. None of them suspected that the café itself was a carefully constructed bridge.Profit was never the objective.Sophia Hart arrived almost every evening at the same hour.At first, she had only come out of curiosity, drawn by the quiet atmosphere and the absence of ostentation so rare in Summervile. Then she stayed for the coffee. After