While Aldrin stared down a ghost in the warehouse, Marek and his team moved with silent precision through the skeletal remains of what locals called The Shell—a derelict compound on the city's outer rim. The place had once been an old data relay hub, long since gutted by fire and left to rot.
Three operatives flanked Marek, geared for a breach-and-clear maneuver. They'd entered through the east wall where the perimeter was weakest. Iris's intel had indicated activity here—subtle traces: encrypted messages, signal bounces, an unspoken pattern.
It had the feeling of bait.
Marek hated bait.
"Eyes open," he murmured, his voice low through comms. "Movement's too clean. Too easy."
"Copy," came the reply from Durant, his second.
They moved through the first level without resistance. The smell of burnt circuitry and mold filled the air. Somewhere deeper, a faint hum—like machines asleep but dreaming.
Marek's eyes flicked to the corner—scorch marks. Recent.
He signaled for a halt.
Then a sound.
Click.
Then silence.
"Durant—"
Before he could finish, a wall exploded behind them in a burst of white phosphorus and concussion.
The hallway lit in chaos—gunfire tore through the fog of smoke, bodies crashing against rusted steel and shattered cables. Operatives fell—Marek's HUD flashing red as names blinked out.
The trap had been sprung.
In the chaos, figures moved—shadows in advanced gear, armed with suppressed weapons, trained and precise. These weren't scavengers.
These were professionals.
Marek spun, his sidearm barking two clean shots. One figure dropped. Another advanced from behind—but he pivoted, catching them with a brutal shoulder slam and shot through the chest.
He hit the floor, scrambling for cover behind a data rack.
Durant's voice crackled over comms—distorted, panicked.
"Marek—they knew. They were waiting for us—!"
And then silence.
Marek's heart thudded in his chest. He tried to reconnect—nothing.
A flashbang went off two rooms away. Someone was breaching from the rear.
He moved.
Fast, fluid—adrenaline making the space blur. He fired two more shots, covering retreat toward the server core where the fallback point had been.
That's when he saw it.
Painted across the wall in sweeping black ink, beneath a hollow security camera that stared directly at him:
"The King's Sword Shall Be Broken."
He froze.
That phrase.
Not just a warning—it was a declaration. The timing was too perfect.
He tried his comm again—finally, a flicker of life.
"…Aldrin, we've got a problem. Shell was a decoy. Full ambush. Hostiles are trained. Durant's down—I'm extracting solo."
Static.
Marek clenched his jaw and bolted through the service passage.
Alone.
And the Sword—
—was already breaking.
Smoke burned his lungs as Marek pressed himself against the fractured wall of the data core. Debris littered the ground, cables swung like nooses from the ceiling, sparking with stray voltage. Somewhere behind him, one of the operatives choked on his final breath before fading into silence. He didn't turn. There wasn't time.
He had two mags left. One already in the weapon. Nine rounds per.
Nine lives.
He breathed in through his nose, out through clenched teeth, the comms hissing static like whispers behind his ears.
"Come on, come on..." he muttered, hoping Aldrin would answer. Nothing.
He peered around the edge of the wall. A figure moved—quick, methodical. Tactical gear. Visor. Rifle raised.
Not amateur.
Marek fired. Three sharp pops. The figure staggered and dropped. No time to confirm. Another shadow flanked the side hallway. He ducked just as a burst of suppressed gunfire tore chunks from the wall above his head. He rolled, slammed into a server cabinet, and returned fire in blind arcs.
The silence that followed wasn't comfort. It was recalibration.
They were testing him. Feeling him out.
"Smart bastards," he growled, rising.
He ran.
Boots pounding broken tile and burnt laminate. The emergency lights flickered overhead—red strobes like heartbeats. A back stairwell opened to a maintenance corridor. His memory of the blueprint told him it might lead to a half-collapsed fire escape.
If it hadn't been rigged.
"Betting it is," he muttered, but headed that way anyway.
He reached the stairwell—and froze.
A tripwire.
So subtle it would've caught anyone moving faster than a crawl. He crouched, sweat dripping from his brow as he carefully cut the wire with the edge of his blade.
Footsteps.
They were coming.
He didn't think. He moved.
Down the stairs two at a time, twisting through concrete and rust, the stairwell tight and echoing. At the second landing, he skidded into a hallway—and came face to face with one of the ghosts.
For a heartbeat, they stared at one another. Both surprised. Both killers.
The man raised his rifle—Marek was faster.
One shot. Right through the visor.
The figure collapsed.
He grabbed the rifle as it fell, slung it over his shoulder, checked the mag.
Full.
Now we're talking.
He kicked through the rusted emergency exit and emerged into a collapsed storage yard outside The Shell. Graffiti-covered walls, burned-out delivery trucks. Still no comms. Still no backup.
But wind.
Sky.
Space to breathe.
Then—
A shot clipped past his head.
"Still on me," he hissed, diving behind the remains of a vehicle.
They were fanning out. Four left. Maybe more. He counted three advancing from the building and another flanking from the side.
A flurry of thoughts sparked behind his eyes.
He fired controlled bursts—tagged one in the chest. Another clipped his shoulder.
He gritted his teeth and kept moving, low and erratic, ducking through the maze of concrete and twisted metal.
A grenade landed near his boots.
No time to think.
He dove.
It exploded mid-air, caught on debris—shrapnel rained down but didn't catch him clean. His ears rang. His side stung. He'd be bleeding. Not enough to stop.
He stumbled into the last corner of the yard, saw the broken fence line—and bolted.
Bullets whipped past. The chain-link tore, caught his arm, ripped his sleeve—but he made it through.
He was in the alley behind the complex now. Disoriented, hurting. But alive.
He didn't stop.
He ran until the sound of boots behind him faded. Until his lungs burned. Until the shadows became just shadows.
He collapsed behind a dumpster in an alley three blocks from the compound. Blood dripped from his arm, his temple, his pride.
He keyed his comm.
Marek sat with his back pressed to the cold brick, the alley still and empty now. The city around him continued, oblivious. Sirens in the distance. Neon signs blinking down from steel towers. But in this sliver of shadow and rust, he was alone.
His hands trembled slightly—just from the adrenaline, he told himself. Not fear. Not loss.
He opened a pouch on his belt with one hand, biting the pain as he tore a clotting patch and pressed it against his bleeding shoulder. His face winced for just a moment before locking down again, stoic and furious.
His team was gone. Every damn one.
They'd walked into a trap with eyes open and no idea the door was going to slam so fast. The worst part?
The Revenant knew.
The King's Sword Shall Be Broken.
The phrase echoed in his mind—not just poetic, but strategic. Symbolic. Deliberate. The Chairman was the King.
And he, Marek, was his sword.
A shiver ran through his spine that had nothing to do with blood loss.
He blinked the sweat from his eyes, tapped his comm unit again. Aldrin's signal was still live—but faint, scattered.
Engaged.
That meant one thing: firefight.
Marek cursed under his breath.
"Of course you're busy," he muttered, spitting blood to the side. "Would be too convenient if you were picking up."
He leaned his head back, tapped a different frequency—one not meant for field command, but for internal clearance-based relay.
Iris.
Her voice was the next closest thing to a tether. And maybe, just maybe, she'd answer.
He waited, breathing shallowly, eyes locked on the crumbling bricks across from him as the comms connected.
A soft tone chimed—then static—then a click.
"Iris here," her voice came through, crisp but cautious.
Marek exhaled, laughing quietly under his breath.
"Hey, Ghost Girl."
A pause.
"Marek? Are you—where the hell are you?"
"Alive. For now," he murmured. "The Shell was a setup. They hit us hard. Royce, Durant, , Cole… all gone."
Another silence.
"Oh my god. Aldrin—"
"In the middle of something," he cut in gently. "Didn't want to break protocol, but I figured if anyone could get him the message…"
Another wheeze, another shaky breath.
"Let him know I made it out."
"You're hurt?"
"Not my first dance." He smiled faintly. "Just didn't know the Revenant could choreograph this well."
He coughed, grimaced. "Look, Iris… keep your eyes on the patterns. Whatever Aldrin's dealing with, it's not just revenge. This thing's too layered, too timed."
"I will," she said softly. "We'll get him back. And you. Just—stay alive."
"I'll try."
A flicker of static came through again. Distant gunfire. Aldrin's line briefly jumped, flared, then went silent again.
Marek's jaw clenched.
"Iris… if he goes dark, don't wait. Don't hope. Move."
"He won't," she said quietly. "He's the King, remember?"
Marek closed his eyes.
"And I'm the broken sword," he muttered.
Then, softer—
"But sometimes, you can still kill with broken steel."
He cut the comm.
And bled quietly into the dark.