Cain opened the vault door slowly, blade still in hand, no ambush, no movement.
The man inside was already sitting. Legs crossed, spine straight, back against the far wall like he'd been waiting for a delivery. Shackles lay at his feet, unfastened. His wrists were bruised, one eye half-swollen, but his posture said he wasn't broken. Just... waiting.
Roach.
He didn't flinch when Cain stepped in. Just tilted his head. Smiled. "You're not what I expected."
Cain didn't respond. The door slid shut behind him.
"No mask, no insignia. That's rare. Usually they want you to know who did it before you stop breathing."
Cain stayed quiet. Every movement Roach made, he tracked. Breathing, hand position and eye flicks.
Roach let the silence stretch, then pointed to the knife.
"So what's the call? Are you here to talk, or carve me open for the bounty?"
Cain said, "Talk first. Then we'll see."
Roach gave a dry chuckle. "Alright, ghost. Let's talk."
Cain moved to the left, slow, never letting Roach out of his sight. He circled just enough to make sure there was no weapon stashed behind him. Nothing.
"I'm listening," Cain said.
Roach nodded. Looked down at the shackles by his ankles.
"I was supposed to vanish down here. Not get rescued. So either you're freelancing... or someone up top made a mistake."
Cain watched him. Still didn't answer.
Roach's tone changed. Softened. Not like he was pleading. More like testing Cain's focus.
"Guttercrew's been cleaning the house quietly. Anyone who knew about the back-door contracts? Gone. Anyone who ran through the ghost circuits? Scrubbed. I was one of the last."
Cain narrowed his eyes. "And?"
"And someone put a freelance tag on me. Anonymous drop. Untraceable. No Binder. No witness. Just poof." Roach leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "But they never meant for me to die. Not really. They meant for whoever found me... to be found."
Cain didn't shift. But his grip on the knife eased slightly.
"You know why you're still breathing?" he asked.
Roach smirked. "Because I'm useful. And you're careful."
Cain stepped closer. Looked him over again. "Useful how?"
Roach raised two fingers. "One. I know who's laundering contracts through fake dead drops. Two. I know the locations of three Guttercrew stash houses are real ones, not the fakes they give the runners."
Cain said nothing.
Roach shrugged. "I'm not here to climb. I'm not looking for revenge. I just want out."
Cain studied his eyes. Looked for lies. He saw exhaustion, calculation, but no fear. Roach was speaking like a man who'd already accepted he might die here.
"I'm walking you out," Cain said. "But if you try to run, or breathe wrong, I finish it."
Roach didn't blink. Just stood, slow, bones cracking. "Fair trade."
Cain gestured toward the door. Roach moved, limping slightly. Cain stayed three steps behind.
They exited the vault. The air felt heavier.
The System stayed quiet.
That made Cain more uneasy than if it had spoken.
The stairs creaked like they were trying to warn someone.
Cain moved first. One step, then another. Slow. Measured. Every bootfall tested for weight and noise. Roach followed two steps behind, dragging one foot slightly, but not faking the limp.
The closer they got to the main floor, the louder the silence became. Not a single breeze through the warehouse walls. No shifting chains. No water dripping from the gutters overhead.
Cain stopped just before the stairwell's final turn. Leaned into the rail. Listened.
No voices. No footsteps. No breathing.
Too quiet.
He pulled the burner from his jacket and flicked the screen.
Still no updates. No mappings. But the signal bar blinked twice, then flatlined.
Roach spoke behind him. Low. Dry. "Have you ever noticed how empty rooms feel louder?"
Cain tucked the burner away. Drew his knife instead. "Yeah. Like a stage with no audience."
He turned the final corner.
The warehouse floor was dark. All overhead lights were off. Only moonlight cut through a crack in the roof, tracing a pale blue strip across the stacked crates. Cain's eyes scanned for motion, nothing moved. He stepped out onto the floor.
Roach came behind. "Still think this is a clean job?"
Cain didn't answer.
Halfway across the warehouse, Cain caught it a flash of reflection behind a windowed panel in the wall office above the catwalk. A scope glint. Small. Precise. Wrong angle for sniping.
He grabbed Roach by the shirt and yanked him behind a crate just before a low thump echoed.
A smoke canister hit the floor five feet ahead. Rolled. Hissed.
White plumes burst outward.
Cain crouched low, wrapped his hand over his mouth, and shoved Roach down behind him.
"Stay down," he whispered.
More thumps. Two. Then three.
Footsteps now. Not fast. Controlled. Soft-booted.
Cain pulled a crate slat loose from the pallet and slid silently to the edge. Smoke bit at his eyes, but he could still track movement by breath—shallow inhale, then placement. One was flanking left. Another came in from the far loading ramp.
Cain waited.
Closer.
A shadow stepped through the haze. He counted the rhythm of its footfalls. When the weight shifted forward too aggressively Cain moved.
He rammed the crate slat forward into the figure's knee. A shout. The man dropped. Cain took the opening, kicked his wrist, sent the blade skidding across the floor.
Another shadow moved in fast from behind. Cain spun, caught the elbow aimed for his ribs, redirected the hit into the wall. Roach stayed back, eyes wide but steady. He reached for the blade that had been knocked away, didn't raise it, just gripped it.
Cain disarmed the second attacker with a feint to the eyes, followed by a boot to the sternum. He dropped. Fast breaths. No movement.
Then came a voice, sharp above.
"Ghost Rat."
Cain froze. Turned toward the catwalk. A silhouette leaned over the rail, arm resting lazy on the pipework. No visible weapon. But the calm in his voice cut deep. "You've made a few too many decisions tonight."
Cain didn't speak.
"Drop the knife. Or the next one's through your eye."
Cain glanced down. A red laser dot danced across the floor near his feet. Not on him. Not yet.
He dropped the knife.
The voice sighed. "You weren't supposed to find him. Roach was the bait. You were the thread."
Cain's jaw tightened. "Are you watching from the start?"
"No. We just waited to see who followed the scent."
Cain flicked his eyes to the shadows. Roach hadn't moved. He still held the blade, hidden under the folds of his jacket.
Cain looked up again. "What now?"
The figure's smile cut into the dark.
"Now you run."
Then the warehouse lights exploded to life flood lamps flaring. Blinding. Roach shouted something. Cain didn't hear. Shots rang out loud and close.
Cain dove left, grabbed the knife mid-roll, shoulder first into a crate. Bullets tore splinters past him. Roach bolted the other way.
Cain shouted, "Don't split!"
Too late.
The shooters advanced from both flanks. Cain rose, pivoted, slashed the wrist of the closest, then shoved him into the second.
More gunfire. Overhead. Ricochets.
Cain grabbed a crowbar off a nearby tool bench and whipped it underarm into the light source. It shattered.
Darkness again.
Then a thud.
Roach hit the ground across the bay. Shot? Tripped? Cain couldn't tell.
He ran.