The call came in just after noon.
"Multiple children, ages between 7 and 10. Last seen entering an abandoned construction building in Zone 4. No response from inside. Possible kidnapping and human trafficking."
Teji froze mid-bite, his spoon hanging in the air. The rice in his bowl had already gone a little cold, but he hadn't finished eating. He sat cross-legged on the floor of his old house, sunlight slanting in through the slatted blinds, casting sharp stripes across the faded carpet and the unfinished meal. Outside, the city hummed with distant engines and sirens. Normal noise for a place that was anything but.
Teji frowned. The report was messy—too vague, too sudden. But the part that stuck out wasn't just the lack of clarity.
Children.
Boizano didn't send agents out for minor civilian alerts. And they never got it wrong when kids were involved. If they'd flagged this, then something was seriously off.
He stood slowly, chewing the last bite out of habit rather than hunger. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tossing the bowl aside with a soft clink. Then he reached for the black jacket draped over his chair—scuffed, scarred at the sleeve, but familiar—and slipped it on like armor.
He crossed the room in three quick steps. His sidearm sat on the counter, gleaming slightly under the light. He picked it up, checked the mag with practiced fingers, and holstered it without a word.
Then he grabbed his comm device from the desk, pressing it into his ear.
"Agent 4 en route," he said. His voice was calm. Controlled. But inside, something itched—a feeling he couldn't name.
He stepped out into the daylight, boots hitting the pavement like they meant something.
This wasn't just another mission.
Something about this felt wrong.
And Teji had learned to trust his instincts.
The building stood like a corpse—hollow, gray, and broken by time. Concrete peeled like dead skin, rebar jutted out like bones snapped through flesh. The wind whispered through shattered windows, carrying the stale scent of rust, dust, and something older—abandonment.
Rusted warning signs flapped loosely on chains: DANGER. KEEP OUT.
But Teji didn't even slow down.
He stepped through the yawning entrance, boots crunching glass and gravel beneath him like brittle bones. Shadows clung to the walls, stretching long and thin in the light that slipped through cracks above. It was the kind of place where ghosts could live—and be left alone.
"HQ, this is Teji. I'm in. No signs of movement."
The words left his mouth flat and automatic. But his eyes? His eyes moved like razors—cutting every corner, scanning every shadow. His hand hovered close to the sidearm in his jacket, fingers twitching with instinct.
The first floor was a graveyard of empty scaffolding and crumbling support beams. Old spray paint marked the walls—gang signs, maybe. Or warnings from the past. The second floor wasn't any better. Just more silence. More ghosts.
But the third—
A voice sliced through the quiet like a knife.
"Welcome, Teji. Or do you prefer I call you Agent 4?"
Teji's body reacted before his brain did. He spun, one foot sliding back, hand already on his weapon.
A man leaned casually against a cracked pillar. Arms crossed. Long black coat flowing slightly in the breeze leaking through the broken windows. His face was obscured by a deep hood, shadow pooling where his eyes should be—but Teji didn't need to see the face.
He knew.
It was him.
The man from the alley. From the classroom. From the edge of every strange moment in the past few weeks.
The watcher.
"You," Teji muttered, voice low, sharp. "You set this up."
"I had to," the man replied, tone calm. Not smug—just... tired. "Otherwise, you'd never come."
The man's right hand slipped into his coat.
Teji's muscles locked—eyes narrowing, tension sparking like a coiled wire about to snap.
But no weapon appeared.
Instead, the man pulled out a chain. A red dog tag dangled from it—tarnished, dusty... cracked clean in half.
"Agent 7," the man said, letting the tag swing gently in the air. "Marked for death. But still breathing."
Teji didn't respond at first. His eyes locked on the tag. That break wasn't just a symbol—it was a sentence. When Boizano split a dog tag, it wasn't for ceremony. It meant you were erased. Hunted. As good as dead.
And yet—here he was.
"You were Boizano," Teji said at last. Quiet. But laced with steel.
The man nodded.
"Was. Until I saw what they really are."
Teji touched his earpiece, eyes never leaving the hooded man before him.
"HQ, there are no kids here. It's a trap."
Static crackled.
A beat of silence.
Then:
"Eliminate the threat."
Teji closed his eyes briefly, exhaled through his nose. "Copy."
He took one last look at the man before him—this ghost with a red tag and too many secrets—then let his sidearm fall from his grip. The metallic clack echoed through the hollow floor as he kicked it away.
"We both know guns won't work on us, right?"
Agent 7 tilted his head. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah. I know."
Teji moved first. His figure blurred—a sudden, explosive rush like lightning cutting across a night sky. His boot came up in a brutal sidekick aimed clean at Agent 7's head.
Agent 7 barely managed to cross his forearms to block, but the impact slammed into him like a sledgehammer. He staggered back, boots dragging through the dust, leaving twin trails on the cracked concrete.
He cracked his neck with a click.
"Not bad for a newbie."
Then he launched—one fluid motion into a spinning roundhouse. The air hissed around his leg like a blade slicing wind. Teji ducked low, his body compact, launching a swift sweep—
—but Agent 7 was already airborne. His kick missed by inches, sailing just above the sweep.
Teji rolled forward, came up on one knee, and drove a sharp elbow toward Agent 7's side, but the man twisted mid-air and landed light on his feet, responding with a short jab that clipped Teji's jaw.
They closed again—tight range. Close enough to smell sweat and blood.
Fist met fist.
Elbow met rib.
Knee collided with thigh.
Each strike echoed like cannon fire in the hollow building. A left cross from Teji. A parry and elbow from Agent 7. Teji weaved low, slammed a palm into the ex-agent's sternum—thwack—and launched a second one into his chest, sending Agent 7 stumbling backward.
He crashed against a broken pillar, chunks of concrete falling like dust around him.
But there was no pause.
Agent 7 roared forward, lifting a knee like a spear.
Teji twisted mid-air—gravity defied for just a second—avoiding the knee and answering with a crescent kick that came low and fast.
Crack.
The kick connected flush with Agent 7's jaw, snapping his head sideways and hurling him into a concrete slab. The structure groaned from the force. Dust exploded in a cloud.
Both fighters held their ground, panting. Chests heaving. Shoulders rising and falling like tides in a storm.
Blood smeared the corner of Teji's mouth.
Agent 7 wiped his own lip and looked at it, amused.
Then he charged.
Teji didn't hesitate.
He met him halfway, and they collided like meteors.
Agent 7 threw a brutal overhand right—Teji slipped under it and drove an uppercut straight into the ribs. But Agent 7 absorbed it and responded with a spinning backfist, the kind meant to break jaws.
Teji's hook landed a split-second earlier—square across the side of Agent 7's face. But the backfist still landed, smashing into his temple.
Both hits connected.
Both bodies went flying—launched in opposite directions like ragdolls. Teji slammed into a rusted support beam. Agent 7 hit the far wall, concrete cracking beneath the impact.
The whole building seemed to shudder.
Silence followed.
Heavy. Sharp. Breathing echoed. The kind of silence that only comes after violence.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Fragile.
Crying.
Teji's head snapped toward the hallway.
There—barely visible in the shadows—three children. Dirty, trembling. Eyes wide. Faces pale and stained with tears. They peeked out from behind the broken remains of an old supply closet.
Real.
Not bait.
Not holograms.
Real children.
Teji's eyes widened. Heart stopped. This wasn't just a setup for him. It was a message.
Agent 7 groaned, pulling himself from the wall, blood dripping from a cut over his brow. His breath was ragged, but his eyes weren't on Teji anymore.
They were on the kids.
And they softened.
Just for a second.
That's when Teji realized—
The trap wasn't just for him.
Agent 7 didn't come here to fight.
He came here to prove something.
"They were real?" Teji whispered, the words barely making it past his throat.
Then—
Crrrk.
A deep groan echoed above them. The ceiling, cracked and long-forgotten, began to shift. Hairline fractures spidered across the concrete slab overhead—then split wide.
BOOM.
A massive chunk of the ceiling cracked loose.
Teji's eyes shot up.
Everything slowed.
He sprinted forward, lungs burning, legs coiled like springs.
But Agent 7 moved first.
A blur of motion. A grunt of exertion. He launched himself beneath the falling slab, arms wide like wings, shoving the children with all the strength he had left.
CRASH.
The slab slammed down.
A thunderclap of stone and dust.
Silence. Then coughing. Screaming. The building trembled under the impact.
When the dust cleared, the kids were curled up against the far wall—shaken, bruised, but alive.
Agent 7 wasn't so lucky.
Half his body was crushed beneath the rubble. One arm pinned, his coat torn, blood running freely from a gash on his temple. His chest rose and fell in shaky bursts, each breath sounding more like a struggle than a rhythm.
Teji stood frozen.
Staring.
His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.
This wasn't what he was trained for.
This wasn't what they told him.
He touched his earpiece again.
"HQ," he said, voice hollow. "Agent 7 saved the kids."
There was a pause.
Then:
"Irrelevant. Eliminate him. That's a direct order."
Teji's breath caught.
His eyes dropped to the man below him—bloody, broken, and still alive. Still breathing. Still trying.
He reached up. Pulled the earpiece from his ear.
Let it fall.
Click.
It hit the ground, bounced once, and died in the dust.
Teji stepped forward. Then another. He dropped to his knees, grit digging into his skin, and began pulling at the rubble.
Every slab felt like iron.
Every piece like lifting a mountain.
But he kept going.
Minutes passed.
Muscles tore at the joints. His back screamed. Skin split across his fingers.
Blood smeared the stone.
But finally—one last heave—and the weight came free.
Agent 7 collapsed sideways with a groan, coughing dust and blood.
Teji dropped beside him, exhausted. His shirt clung to his body with sweat. His hands trembled, blood-soaked and raw.
Agent 7 looked up, laughing softly through cracked lips.
A laugh that tasted like iron and defiance.
"Didn't think you'd do it," he said.
Teji wiped his face with the back of his hand. "I didn't either."
For a moment, silence returned.
Only the far-off cries of the children and the groan of settling concrete filled the air.
Then Agent 7 turned his head. His eyes—dull from blood loss but still sharp like glass—locked on Teji's.
"You want to know why I brought you here?" he rasped.
Teji stared at him, jaw tight. "Not really."
Agent 7 smiled, teeth stained red.
"Too bad. You need to know."
Teji didn't answer.
He just listened.
Agent 7 drew a slow breath.
And began.
"Boizano lied to you. About their purpose. About everything."
Teji's jaw tensed.
"Also… your father... he's still alive."
Silence.
The wind slipped through broken windows, whistling like a ghost through the ruins. Dust hung in the air. Somewhere, a loose beam creaked.
Teji didn't blink. Didn't move.
He stared at the man on the floor—bloodied, bruised, barely breathing.
Then, flatly—
"Are you high?"
Agent 7 gave a rough laugh. It hurt—he winced, hand pressed to his ribs—but he laughed anyway.
"Wish I was." He spat blood to the side. "Would've made the past five years easier."
Teji crouched beside him, gaze sharp but unreadable.
"You expect me to believe that after dragging me into this mess?"
"I didn't drag you. I woke you up."
Agent 7 met his eyes. "You know I'm not lying. You felt it the second I said it."
Teji looked away. Jaw clenched.
He wanted to punch the man. Scream. Deny it.
But he couldn't.
Because deep down, something had shifted. A weight he didn't know he was carrying had cracked.
His hands trembled.
Not from anger. Not from adrenaline.
But from something colder. Older.
Hope.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
[End of Chapter 6]