Concrete Veins

Chapter 3: The Warehouse at Ridgepoint

7:18 PM – Hudson Industrial Strip, Ridgepoint Sector

The Ridgepoint district wasn’t the kind of place that showed up on tourist maps. It was a no-man’s land of hollowed-out factories and broken promises, where the air tasted like rust and secrets. Even the streetlights didn’t bother staying lit out here.

Dorian stood across the street from a squat, silent warehouse surrounded by chain-link fence topped with lazy coils of barbed wire. The windows were boarded. A single surveillance camera rotated every ten seconds. No obvious guards—but he could feel eyes.

He crouched behind the rusted-out frame of an old sedan, sliding a burner earpiece into place.

“Jay, you copy?” he murmured.

A buzz, then Jay’s voice: “Loud and clear. I’m watching from the north lot. Nothing moving yet—just a lot of creepy vibes and a dumpster raccoon that looks like it sells drugs.”

“Stay sharp. If I don’t check in five minutes after entry, you pull Quinn’s crew and breach.”

“Copy. But just for the record—this is a terrible plan.”

“All my best ones are.”

He moved fast.

Under the cover of dusk, Dorian hopped the fence and rolled into the shadows. Every muscle remembered the dance. He slipped along the warehouse wall and reached a side entrance—a metal door rusted around the hinges. He tested the handle.

Locked.

He pulled a tool from his jacket and worked fast. Thirty seconds. Click.

He slid inside.

Dim emergency lights flickered along the ceiling. The place smelled like bleach, metal, and something he couldn’t name—something wrong. Stacks of sealed crates lined the walls. In the center was a large glass chamber surrounded by cables and monitors.

And inside that chamber—

Malik.

Unconscious. Strapped to a vertical frame, IVs running into his arms. Electrodes on his temples. He looked older. Gaunter. But alive.

Dorian’s breath caught.

He barely heard the footstep behind him.

Instincts screamed.

He ducked, twisted, and drove his elbow into the attacker’s ribs. A grunt, a stumble. Another figure came at him from the side. Dorian spun low, kicked the leg out, and followed with a punch to the throat.

Both dropped.

Security. Not amateurs—but not Ghost Unit caliber either.

Dorian moved to the chamber. Locked tight. He scanned the console—keys, biometric pad, encrypted access.

Then a voice echoed from above.

“I wondered when you’d come crawling back, Cross.”

Dorian looked up.

A catwalk. A man stepped out from the shadows.

Sharp suit. Crooked smile. Grease-slicked hair pulled into a tie. And eyes like knives.

Kellan Voss.

The name hit like a hammer. Former Ghost Unit intel officer. Burned after the fire. Presumed dead—just like Malik.

“Didn’t think you had the spine,” Voss said, voice amplified through the intercom. “But I knew you’d come once you got the bait.”

Dorian’s voice was cold steel. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Evolution,” Voss replied. “Ghost Unit was a failed prototype. We were never meant to protect the city—we were meant to perfect it.”

“You used us.”

“No. I freed us. You just didn’t realize it.”

Dorian glanced at Malik. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing he didn’t volunteer for. You should’ve seen him beg to stay alive. He’s the key, you know. His blood reacts to the compound. The serum adapts. Self-replicates. He’s a walking generator of the next stage.”

“Stage of what?”

“Control.”

The word echoed too long in Dorian’s chest.

Jay’s voice crackled in his ear. “Yo, I just saw movement—three vans pulling up fast. Blacked-out windows, no plates. Looks like company’s coming.”

Dorian swore.

“I’ve got Malik,” he replied. “Initiate Plan B.”

“You sure?”

“Do it.”

“Copy. Five-minute countdown. Don’t get shot.”

Dorian looked back at the console. He couldn’t override the lock in time. But maybe—

He ripped two wires from the wall and jammed them into the chamber’s access port. Sparks flew. A siren blared. The glass hissed open.

Malik slumped forward.

Dorian caught him. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Malik’s eyes fluttered. “...D?”

Dorian’s throat tightened. “Yeah. It’s me, bro. I’m here.”

Malik gave a weak smile. “Took you long enough.”

Then his eyes rolled back.

More footsteps—this time armored. Reinforcements poured in from the south corridor.

Dorian hoisted Malik over his shoulder and sprinted for the emergency exit.

Behind him, Voss yelled, “Let him go, Dorian! He belongs to us!”

Dorian didn’t answer.

He blew through the door into open night. Gunfire rang out behind him. Jay’s van screeched around the corner like a bat out of hell.

“GO!” Dorian shouted.

Jay swung the side door open. Dorian dove in, cradling Malik. The van peeled away as bullets sparked off the pavement behind them.

Inside, Jay was pale. “Yo! You got him?”

“Yeah,” Dorian panted. “He’s alive. But he needs help.”

Jay threw a glance in the mirror. “We’re not outta this yet. That convoy’s chasing us.”

Dorian grabbed the rear latch and kicked open the back doors.

He grabbed the flashbangs from the stash crate.

“One, two… now!”

He threw them hard.

Explosions of light and sound filled the alley.

The black vans swerved, blinded.

Jay cut a sharp turn and vanished down a service road.

Sirens grew distant.

Heartbeats steadied.

And in Dorian’s arms, Malik stirred again.

“Don’t let them… take me…” he whispered.

Dorian held him tighter.

“Never again.”