The safehouse lay buried beneath the crumbling remains of an abandoned military installation on the outskirts of Albany—a forgotten scar from the Cold War, left to rot in silence. What once housed contingency plans for doomsday now served as a shelter for the unwanted, the unknown, and the uncontrollable.
The air grew colder as Dante descended a narrow staircase carved into old concrete, its edges frayed by time. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The man leading Dante—Agent Cole Hartman—moved with the precision of someone who hadn't shaken old habits. His back was straight, his pace brisk, and his eyes rarely wandered. The dim corridor opened into a reinforced chamber of steel and stone, and as the vault-like doors sealed shut behind Dante with a pneumatic hiss, he realised this place was never meant to be found.
Rows of outdated monitors flickered weakly to life, casting pale light against the concrete walls. Despite the old tech, the room radiated a sense of focus. It wasn't flashy, but it was functional. Purposeful. Secure.
"This is where the noise stops," Hartman said, his voice low but steady. "Welcome to the Echo Division."
Dante eyed him warily. "Echo Division?"
"Offshoots. Survivors. After the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. and STRIKE, some of us didn't go down with the ship," he explained as he led Dante through the dimly lit corridors. "We weren't HYDRA. We weren't loyalists either. We were something in between—soldiers left behind, trying to clean up the mess without drawing attention."
The hallway opened into a control center built into what must've once been a command bunker. Digital displays bathed the room in ghostly blue light. Feeds streamed from satellites, surveillance drones, energy trackers—you name it. Every screen pulsed with data, live and looping. At the center of it all stood a steel command table surrounded by modular displays and holographic projectors, outdated but still humming.
Dante stared, taking it all in. "This is a lot for a ghost crew."
"We're ghosts because we have to be," Hartman replied, gesturing toward the walls. "This place isn't on any map. No record. No oversight. That's how we survive. That's how we protect people like you."
Dante turned to face him directly. "Protect me from what?"
"From whoever comes looking," he said simply. "And they will."
Dante folded his arms, keeping his stance guarded. "So what is this, exactly? Witness protection for science experiments?"
Hartman didn't flinch. Instead, he tapped a screen, and a display projected a classified document—redacted heavily, but the title was clear: PROJECT REPEATER.
He began speaking with the clarity of someone who had rehearsed this briefing too many times.
"Project Repeater was a black-budget operation—technically under the Department of Energy but funded by a splinter group with ex-HYDRA roots. Their goal was singular: create a living template. A being who could not only mimic powers or abilities but evolve past them—become immune, superior, and self-adaptive. A human echo chamber. You were Subject 09. Their greatest success".
Dante felt something clench in his stomach. "So I'm not a person. I'm a prototype."
Hartman's gaze didn't waver. "You were a prototype. But prototypes don't escape by themselves. You did."
There was a moment of silence, heavy and lingering. Then, a new voice cut through the static of tension. Calm, commanding female.
"Not unless you want to go back."
Dante turned just as a tall woman stepped into the room. Clad in dark tactical gear, her presence filled the space with quiet authority. Her stride was confident, and her short-cropped hair matched the sharpness of her gaze. She didn't need to raise her voice to be heard.
"Commander Rayna Voss," she introduced herself with a curt nod. "Field operations. I handle the ones who get out. Like you."
Dante raised a brow. "So what happens now?"
"If you stay", she said, stepping closer, "we train you. Teach you to control what's in you before it turns against you—or someone else makes it theirs again. But understand this clearly: we're not in the business of building weapons. We build survivors."
"And if I walk out that door?" Dante asked.
Voss didn't blink. "Then we wipe your trail, burn any intel you've touched, and wish you the best. But if you're lucky, you might last a week before someone much worse than us finds you. And if they do, they won't train you. They'll dissect you."
The silence that followed wasn't meant to intimidate. It was true. Plain, unvarnished truth.
Dante looked between the two of them—Hartman, the weathered veteran with a soldier's soul, and Voss, the commanding presence who didn't need to prove anything. There was no malice in either of them. No pressure. Just the offer of a lifeline.
He exhaled slowly, the decision weighing on his tongue.
"...Fine. I'll stay. For now."
Hartman gave a single, solemn nod. "Then let's begin."