The stars above shimmered faintly, muted by ash and fog that never fully lifted from the Eastern Sector. Kirion crouched atop a ridge with Kael beside him, overlooking what appeared to be nothing more than an abandoned industrial facility, cloaked in rust and shadow. But beneath that surface, Kirion sensed movement. Power. Secrets. The silence here was deliberate, enforced.
"This is where they kept her," he said, barely audible.
Kael adjusted her scope, scanning the perimeter. "No guards, no drones, no motion sensors—at least not visible ones. It's too clean. They want us to think it's empty."
Kirion nodded slowly. "Which means it's not."
Their team, now down to a skeleton unit of five, huddled behind the ridge. All veterans. All believers. They didn't ask questions anymore—not about the risk, not about the odds. They followed Kirion not just because of his past or reputation, but because of his resolve.
He stared at the facility again. This place had once been a research center—repurposed during the Regime's darker years as a psychological reprogramming site. Officially, it was decommissioned. In reality, it had become a black site. A place to disappear people. Including his daughter.
He closed his eyes, letting the night speak to him. Sounds of electricity, too subtle to be natural. Faint mechanical pulses underground. Someone had gone to great lengths to mask the activity here—but not well enough.
Kael tapped his shoulder. "Signal uplink just spiked. Something's broadcasting out."
Kirion's eyes narrowed. "Can you trace it?"
"Trying. Could be a beacon. Could be her."
The possibility filled him with a surge of urgency. His daughter had been dropped into hell—and somehow, she was trying to light her own path out. He wouldn't let her do it alone.
"No one speaks after we go in," Kirion said to the team. "No shots unless fired on. We get in. We confirm. We extract if possible."
"And if she's not there?" Zae asked.
Kirion didn't blink. "Then we find out where they took her next."
They began their descent under the cloak of night. Silent boots. Silent breath. Silent purpose. Kirion led them to a side service hatch, where he remembered emergency access ports had once been located. To his surprise, the biometric lock was still intact—although newer than expected.
He pulled out a bypass injector crafted by his daughter's own hand months ago—one of her first independent designs.
It fit perfectly.
Click. The hatch opened with a hiss.
They entered.
The halls smelled of sterilized metal and old blood. Lights flickered erratically, but Kirion's path was steady. He moved like a ghost, the others following closely. At every corner, they encountered signs of rapid abandonment: overturned chairs, still-warm coffee in mugs, terminals left logged in.
Kael muttered, "They knew we were coming."
"No," Kirion said. "They knew she was coming back. And they ran."
Then they found it—her room. Scorch marks on the floor. Embedded sensors ripped from walls. A mural drawn in chalk on one side: a series of binary codes and a child's sketch of a figure holding a torch in the dark.
Kirion stepped closer.
"It's a map," he said. "And a message."
"What does it say?" Kael asked.
Kirion traced the binary with his finger. "It says: 'I know you're close. I'm not stopping. Neither should you.'"
He stood back, heart full but hands steady.
"She's not just surviving," he said. "She's leading."