The Prague dawn sky was an ashen smear of blue and gray as Shadow's team regrouped in a derelict monastery at the city's edge. Their mission now was clear: track Vladislav, the courier, to the arms drop where serum operatives and weapons merged. The sense of unease had settled deeper. Each clue uncovered a bigger nest of conspiracies.
Dragan tapped at encrypted coordinates on a rugged tablet. "Witnesses say Vladislav's meeting at the St. Ludvik airstrip tonight. He's transporting what he sold."
Shadow rubbed his temples. The strain of non-stop operations, of moral corners cut — it piled on. The monastery smelled of old stone and stale tea. Jovan poured coffee but his eyes were cold. "It's a trap," he muttered. "Forcing him into a sale means he wants to lead us to the boss."
Yara looked at Shadow. "You think they'd do that?"
He didn't answer. Possibly. If Malenkov or even higher-ups wanted them alive for bait or testing. But if they were careless...maybe not.
Either way, Shadow's portal sense tingled. Danger. They had to strike first.
"Preparations?" he asked, voice low.
"Heavy guards. Flamethrower turrets, armed drones," Liu confirmed. "Tricky environment: abandoned runway, plenty of cover."
"Got our own toys," Dragan grinned tensely, loading pocket-detonators.
Yara checked her gadgets. "Night vision, magma grenades, static bombs. Ready."
Shadow produced his portal gauntlets, flexing fingers. "And we have me."
He saw the question in Yara's eyes behind the map light. She knew his plan.
"I'm going in first," he said. "We follow signal. Full kill order if needed, Liz has intel." Vladislav's dead name felt wrong. They needed confirmation he carried the serum batch themselves.
The monastery clock chimed. It was hour.
Under moonlight, they advanced through tangled woods, the runway a shadowy scar in the ground. Broken planes and crates strewn.
Sentinel towers with marching searchlights stood silent guardians. In the distance, a twin-engine plane sat ready. Vladislav was supposed to deliver to it.
"Two miles to LZ," Jovan reported from tree cover, static hissing. "No response from shadow grid. Who's jamming now?"
Shadow ignored it, forward. The run-down hangar was lit by a single lantern inside. He signaled, motioning the team to flank quietly.
At the hangar, Vladislav emerged, a steel case in hand. Blue flame twisted behind where he'd come.
Suddenly, a voice boomed from loudspeakers. "Kabelo Ndlovu! Come out! They have hostages!"
Shadow's heart thundered. An old Russian accent. "Colonel Orlov?"
From around a corner, twenty operatives appeared, heavily armed. And, chained to stakes by the plane's wing, Dragan and Yara.
"Move out!" Orlov's voice echoed. "They were tailing you, comrade."
Shadow's chest tightened. His teammates lived and breathed. "You set a trap," Shadow called.
"Perhaps," Orlov shrugged. "But orders from higher. My apologies for damage."
"Let them go." Shadow's stance was rigid, cape of resolve.
Orlov laughed. "No, you'll come quietly — or die."
A grenade clanged on the tarmac. Shadow caught it midair with a small portal, dropping it back among the guards. The explosion knocked them aside, but Orlov was protected by an armored exosuit. Flashes of plasma sparks.
He threw Shadow's cover aside with a backhand of energy. Shadow hit the ground, sliding on loose gravel. Orlov advanced, a metallic roar.
Dragan grunted; Yara already freed her legs, sliding under the plane to whisper "We're fine."
Yara's pistol barked at Orlov. Bullets ricocheted off. Dragan released a net turret at Orlov; it ensnared nothing but air.
Shadow rolled behind a wing tip. Orlov's laughter mingled with sparks. "Bold. But why expect I'm alone?"
Behind Orlov stepped the slip of the man they chased all along: Drago Malenkov himself, flanked by two serum-enhanced guards. Vladislav stood to one side, trembling but unharmed.
Shadow's lungs burned. "Malenkov," he breathed. No time for fear. The man who sold war and serum was face to face.
Malenkov casually tapped a metal finger on his watch. "Your friends will drown in acid if you don't drop weapons."
The plane's wing groaned. Dragan and Yara had the nooses around their necks.
Shadow clenched a fist around a grenade. If detonated, acid barrels might kill his friends. He scowled.
Yara gave a small, fierce nod. She still drew aim.
"A choice?" Malenkov smiled. "Shoot me, and your friends become—" he made a pouring gesture, "souvenirs in a can."
Shadow did not back down. He realized fighting Orlov was not enough; he had to disable acid release. "What do you want?"
Malenkov feigned indifference. "Just seeing if the famed Shadowstrike could be swayed."
Stall. "Leave them. We can talk alternatives."
Malenkov snorted. "I'm not in the habit of trade."
Shadow took stock. Could he portal himself and friends out? Possibly. The plane blocked direct line. He measured the chain slack: Yara's coil wasn't far off the crates inside hangar.
The war was now.
He clenched a portal grenade. With Yara holding steady fire at Orlov to distract, Shadow lobbed it at the plane's wing joint.
The hangar door blasted open behind Malenkov. Jovan and Liu had raced up, net guns at the ready. Dragan kicked at Orlov's suit, trying to unbalance him.
The portal grenade opened a yawning tear in the wing. A second later, flames erupted as fuel ignited. The plane caught. Acid drums exploded violently—green fire smeared the hangar's interior.
Chaos: beams falling, acid spilling, alarms screeching.
Orlov stormed in, energy blades swung down — he was powerful, brute force of experiments. Shadow evaded behind wreckage. He tapped his glove — portals on the ground.
He saw Yara slashing through the chain with Petrov's serrated blade. Yara freed herself and Yara freed Dragan.
Outside, Malenkov stumbled back, vomit on his lips from overconfidence.
Shadow took a steady breath. Portal under Orlov's feet; he vanished. Reappeared amidst drones overhead.
The team moved as one; Dragan hurled smoke grenades. Shadow lunged through the ring of shrouded smoke and confronted Malenkov, fists raised.
Malenkov scurried to his feet. The fight was personal now: Shadow's rage collided with Malenkov's rage. They clashed in the ruins of violet and orange.
Acid vapor choked any clarity. Yara and Dragan realized Orlov turned to fight Jovan and Liu — but they held their ground, fending off drones with stunner grenades and heavy gunfire.
Shadow opened a portal under Malenkov as he ran, not to kill but to remove his advantage. Malenkov reappeared suddenly inside a chain-link tunnel in the hangar. He screamed in surprise. Shadow followed.
Steel girders twisted. A final push. Shadow summoned stillness inside and fired three rounds, each through darkspace. The man hit concrete, clutching his arm.
Shadow's eyes glowed with portal energy. He grabbed Malenkov's collar and lifted him by telekinetic force through a portal down to molten tar of the runway.
Malenkov splashed, caught in a burst of flames. His screams were cut by the wind. The acid-filled night was deathly quiet.
Shadow felt no happiness. He paused, ensuring his comrades were safe. Petrov had freed the man boy from acid—truly, nothing could dehumanize themselves as hellish as Prometheus did.
The team stood among wreckage and amber firelight. Yara lifted a half-burned cabinet to free Liu from debris. Jovan covered Yara as they worked.
Mercenary reinforcements were coming, sirens in distance. Shadow knew they must vanish.
He gently stepped out from the hangar, eyes burning orange. Mallenkov's body charred and still smoking. White bones glistened.
Shadow's vision blurred. Petrov's earlier words came back: they said he was a killer… this was justice, but he had become the executioner.
"Let's go," Shadow commanded gently. "No one else needs to see."
Yara nodded, blood on her cheek. Dragan threw a smoke grenade in retreat, covering them as they disappeared down alleys.
Back at base, Shadow confronted his reflection. The man in the mirror wore haunted eyes. He touched the scar on his palm from earlier battles, cold sweat drying.
Tonight, the conspiracy cracked open. Prometheus was exposed. But how many more layers remained?
He knew one undeniable truth: sometimes the shadows had to become wolves to end the sickness.
He found Yara in the dark of the safehouse's control room, monitors flickering. She looked up, tired but alive.
"We did it," she whispered. "Malenkov… Orlov… gone."
Shadow nodded, voice low. "For now."
Yara watched him. "Is it too dark in here?"
"No," he said, not unkind. Shadows adhered to him now, but he carried a spark. Maybe tomorrow, the burn would lighten.
And he held on to that: Dawn always came—though sometimes at a heavy price.