Jack reached his safe house through a hidden tunnel beneath the decaying floorboards, sweat slicking his brow. He moved fast, grabbing weapons, documents, burner phones, and a battered photo of Serah—all while his instincts screamed. Something was off.
Then—footsteps. Dozens of them.
A chill raced down Jack's spine.
He slid silently to the corner and peered through a crack in the boarded window.
At least ten Extraction operatives surrounded the house. Four at the corners, two at the front gate, another pair moving through the treeline—and three more fast-roping down from a black unmarked chopper hovering above. These weren't just assassins. These were kill teams. Trained, armed, and ready to terminate without hesitation.
He crouched low, heart steady, mind calculating. The thick canopy outside cloaked the forest in darkness, but the agents moved with infrared vision and military precision. They weren't here to capture. They were here to erase.
A shadow moved at the front door. Silent. Lethal. Familiar.
EX-12.
One of the best. Once a brother-in-arms. Now the tip of the spear aimed at Jack's throat.
The door creaked open. Jack slid into the darkness of the hallway, machete in one hand, suppressed pistol in the other. He could hear the rhythmic breathing of EX-12, slow and controlled.
Like a ghost, Jack struck—one brutal, precise motion. The machete came down. EX-12 dropped without a sound, eyes wide with recognition and betrayal.
Jack hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.
Another mistake.
Crack. Glass shattered. Bullets tore through the kitchen wall, forcing Jack to dive for cover.
"MOVE IN!" barked a voice through comms. More agents swarmed in—through the back door, through the ceiling, through the freaking chimney vent.
They wanted him that bad.
Jack flipped the table for cover and opened fire. Two went down. He lunged into the hallway, grabbing a flashbang from EX-12's vest and hurling it through the living room.
BOOM. White light. Screams.
He charged forward—slamming one agent into the wall, disarming another with a twist of the wrist, flipping him over his back and into the windowpane. Blood sprayed. Glass exploded.
A knife grazed his ribs. A knee smashed into his stomach.
He fought like a man possessed.
Every punch was personal now. Every bullet a question unanswered.
He tackled a third operative down the stairs. They crashed into the basement. Another fight. A brick. A steel pipe. Bone crunched.
Jack climbed back up, gasping.
Suddenly—floodlights. The forest outside lit up like daylight. Drones. Thermal scopes.
No time.
He spotted the drainage pipe by the sink—an old exit route he'd mapped years ago. Bleeding, coughing, he forced himself through, crawling beneath the foundation just as bullets ripped through the house behind him.
He burst out into the woods, adrenaline overriding pain.
Then—
Buzz.
His burner phone lit up with a new message.
"Well managed, Jack. I will be seeing you soon."
No name. Just shadows on the screen.
They weren't just following him.
They were orchestrating every move he made.