The rain fell in rhythmic patterns against the reinforced glass of Nexeon Tower, each droplet catching the neon glow of the city below. I watched them race down the window, forty-seven floors above the streets that had once been my hunting grounds. From this height, people were reduced to colorful specks, moving with the predictable patterns of prey. My reflection stared back at me in the glass—a ghost with hollow eyes, dressed in tactical black that absorbed the ambient light.
The weight of my rifle pressed against my spine, a constant reminder of my purpose.
I am Jax. I am a weapon. At least, that's what they made me.
The encrypted file had arrived three days ago, bypassing seven layers of security protocols to materialize on my private server. A single red folder labeled "Operation Blackout," containing everything about my target: Derek Alvarez, CEO of Nexeon Tech. The file was meticulous—his daily routines, security vulnerabilities, even his preference for Ethiopian pour-over coffee at precisely 8:15 each morning. Standard procedure for a high-profile elimination.
But something felt wrong. Not in the data itself, but in the spaces between information. Invisible threads that didn't quite connect.
I sat now in my observation post, a rented apartment across from Nexeon's headquarters, the air heavy with the chemical smell of my recently cleaned equipment. My tactical visor highlighted structural weaknesses and security measures in translucent blue outlines overlaid on the actual building. Through my scope, I could see the edge of Alvarez's office—empty for now, the lights automatically dimmed to sixty percent as the evening protocols engaged.
My comms unit buzzed against my wrist. The Iron Accord's handler—a woman whose actual name I'd never learned—spoke in clipped, measured tones.
"Status report, Operative Jax."
"On schedule," I replied, my voice betraying none of the unease that had been gnawing at me since receiving the assignment. "Infiltration in ninety minutes."
A pause, barely perceptible. "The window is narrowing. Alvarez has added an unscheduled meeting to his evening agenda."
My finger traced the edge of my scope, feeling the microscopic texture of the metal. "With whom?"
Another pause. "That's not relevant to your assignment."
But it was. Every deviation mattered. Every unexpected variable increased risk.
"I'll adjust accordingly," I said, ending the conversation with practiced efficiency.
As I returned to my observation, something caught my attention. A flash of movement in Alvarez's office—not the man himself, but a shadow that moved with familiar precision. I adjusted my scope, focusing through the rain-streaked glass.
My heart rate spiked to 97 BPM. A face I recognized instantly appeared in my crosshairs—angular features, a scar that traced from left eyebrow to cheekbone. It was impossible, yet undeniable.
Zane. My brother in arms. My mentor. The man who had taught me everything about this business before disappearing on an extraction gone wrong three years ago. The man I had mourned. The man whose ghost I had carried.
And yet there he stood, very much alive, just forty meters away across the rain-soaked void between buildings.
The rain intensified as I made my approach. Water hammered against my tactical hood, running in rivulets down my neck and between my shoulder blades. Nexeon Tower loomed before me, a behemoth of glass and steel that pierced the city's skyline like a surgeon's scalpel. I moved through the maintenance alley behind the building, where the scent of wet concrete mingled with the acrid smell of industrial waste
.
Security cameras swiveled above me, their red recording lights blinking in synchronized patterns. My visor highlighted them in crimson outlines, tracking their movement arcs and blind spots. I timed my advancement to their rhythms, sliding between detection zones with practiced efficiency. The EMP drone in my hand—no larger than a hummingbird—hummed with nearly imperceptible vibration, its carbon-fiber wings ready for deployment.
I released it at precisely the right moment. The drone shot upward, a dark speck against the darker sky, following its programmed path toward the building's main power junction. Twenty-three seconds later, a localized blackout rippled through the eastern quadrant of the building. Emergency systems would engage in less than a minute, but I needed only forty-five seconds.
The service entrance door—now temporarily disengaged from the security grid—yielded to my specialized keycard. I slipped inside, immediately pressing my back against the wall beside the door. Water dripped from my tactical gear onto the polished concrete floor. To my left: a maintenance corridor stretching thirty meters, ending at a service elevator. To my right: a security checkpoint, temporarily unmanned as guards responded to the power disruption. Directly ahead: a staff locker room where employees stored personal belongings.
I moved toward the locker room, each footstep silent despite the standing water I tracked in. The space smelled of commercial disinfectant and the faint musk of cologne. My visor's thermal scan showed no heat signatures. Clear
.
From my pack, I withdrew a maintenance uniform—appropriated from the building's laundry service three days prior. The fabric felt rough against my skin as I pulled it over my tactical gear, the material stretching to accommodate my concealed weapons. The disguise wouldn't hold under close scrutiny, but it would get me past the cursory glances of distracted security personnel.
As emergency lighting flickered on—casting the room in an eerie amber glow—I caught my reflection in the wall of mirrors above the sinks. For a moment, I barely recognized myself. The face that stared back seemed hollow, eyes dark with something beyond focus. Purpose, perhaps. Or doubt.
I shook the thought away. Doubt was a luxury I couldn't afford. Not now. Not with Zane somehow alive and present in the same building as my target.
The service elevator hummed as it carried me upward. My ears popped at the thirty-fifth floor, where I disembarked. The corridor ahead stretched like a sterile artery through the building's heart—white walls, recessed lighting, and polished floors that reflected my distorted image as I moved. Security cameras tracked my movement, but with my head tilted down and the maintenance cap pulled low, I was just another anonymous worker.
Three security guards stood at the intersection ahead, their postures tense as they discussed the power fluctuation. Their weapons—standard-issue Heckler & Koch sidearms—remained holstered but ready. I could hear fragments of their conversation as I approached
.
"—third time this month—" "—told Alvarez we need to upgrade the—" "—someone coming."
They turned toward me, their conversation halting. The one closest to me—a broad-shouldered man with a freshly shaved head that gleamed under the emergency lights—stepped forward, hand resting casually on his holster.
"ID," he demanded, voice clipped and professional.
I produced the forged maintenance badge, keeping my eyes down. "Power junction on forty-six is showing anomalies," I explained, my voice modulated to sound bored, slightly annoyed at the extra work. "Supervisor wants it checked before the executive meeting."
The guard's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. Such maintenance requests were common in a building this size. "Make it quick," he said, stepping aside.
I continued past them, feeling their eyes on my back until I rounded the corner. The moment I was out of sight, I ducked into a utility closet. Inside, the space was cramped—barely two meters by one, filled with cleaning supplies that released chemical scents into the confined air. I pulled out my tablet, accessing the building's internal network through the backdoor I'd planted weeks ago
.
Alvarez's schedule appeared before me—a series of meetings, calls, and appointments. My target was currently in his office, along with two other heat signatures. One of them, I knew with inexplicable certainty, was Zane.
I needed answers before I took the shot. I needed to understand why my dead brother was meeting with my target.
The ventilation system ran in a complex network throughout the building. According to the schematics on my tablet, there was an access point three doors down that would allow me to move undetected to Alvarez's office. I synchronized my visor with the building's security feed, creating a real-time overlay of guard positions and camera sweeps.
As I stepped back into the corridor, a subtle vibration ran through the floor beneath my feet. It wasn't the building's normal mechanical rhythm—this was something else. Something deliberate. I froze, scanning for the source, but found nothing. The sensation passed, leaving only a lingering sense of wrongness that settled between my shoulder blades like a physical weight.
The vent access point was behind a decorative panel in what appeared to be a small conference room. I slipped inside, locking the door behind me. The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows to my right. The space smelled of leather chairs and the faint metallic tang of the air conditioning system.
I moved to the far wall, my fingers finding the almost imperceptible seam in the paneling. The cover came away silently, revealing the dark rectangular mouth of the ventilation shaft. Cool air rushed against my face as I pulled myself into the narrow space, replacing the panel behind me.
The shaft was a tight fit—barely wide enough for my shoulders. I moved on my elbows, using my knees for leverage, careful to distribute my weight to avoid creating telltale sounds. The metal was cold beneath me, conducting the chill through my uniform and into my skin. My breath seemed unnaturally loud in the confined space, echoing slightly with each exhalation.
After fifteen meters of careful advancement, I reached a junction. According to my mental map, Alvarez's office was directly beneath me. I could hear the murmur of voices rising through the vent—too indistinct to make out words, but clear enough to confirm multiple speakers.
I positioned myself above the vent grate, extracting a fiber-optic camera from my belt. The flexible cable slid between the grate slats, its feed appearing in my visor's display. The image clarified, showing a wide view of Alvarez's office from above.
The room was expansive—at least sixty square meters of premium floor space dominated by a massive desk carved from a single piece of black marble. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, offering a panoramic view of the rain-lashed cityscape. Three figures occupied the space: Alvarez behind his desk, his posture rigid with tension; an unknown woman in a charcoal suit standing near the door; and Zane, positioned by the windows, his back half-turned toward my vantage point
.
I adjusted the audio settings on my visor, filtering out background noise to isolate their conversation.
"—can't keep this quiet much longer," Alvarez was saying, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "The board is asking questions. The missing funds, the redirected research..."
"The board is not your concern," the woman replied, her tone so cold it seemed to lower the temperature in the room. "Your only concern is completing the transfer tonight."
Zane shifted his position, moving into my full view. He looked different from my memories—harder, more angular, with a new scar tracing from his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone. But it was undeniably him. My pulse quickened, a mixture of confusion and long-buried grief rising in my chest.
"And what about the operative?" Zane asked, his voice exactly as I remembered it—deep, measured, careful. "They'll have dispatched someone by now."
The woman's lips curved into a smile that never reached her eyes. "That's already been addressed. The Iron Accord doesn't leave loose ends.
"
A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold metal pressed against my body. The pieces began to align in my mind—not with the satisfying click of a completed puzzle, but with the sickening lurch of a trap springing closed.
I was the loose end. I always had been.
Share this post