(Headquarters of Erriador Intelligence Services)
The lights are low in Director Elk's office, the windows blacked out by security tint.
Silence hangs in the air, broken only by the soft ticking of the antique clock on the wall.
"This is it?" Elk asks quietly, his gaze resting on the slim, matte-black case on the table.
Across the desk, Rhett sits still, his posture alert. He meets the clear, shrewd black eyes of the middle-aged man, whose aura is clinical—almost dire.
He nods once. "Everything Alfredo stole—military schematics, intercepted diplomatic wiretaps. Some of it dates back ten years."
Elk places his thumb on the scanner embedded in the case's lid.
A soft beep follows, and the locks click open.
Inside: a hardened drive, a sealed envelope marked Eyes Only, and a chip embedded with multi-layer encryption.
"There's also a list," Rhett adds.
"Names of buyers. Countries. People in our own government."
"Good job," Elk mutters, eyes scanning the contents.
"Agent Grey died for it. Make it count." Rhett says.
Elk exhales through his nose emotionally and dips his head slightly, as though honoring the fallen.
Rhett and his team have just returned from the mission.
Led by Rhett—code name Czar—the elite unit consists of Ace, a sniper without equal; Sky, a master hacker; and Hunter, a bomb specialist.
Only the team leader is authorized to handle final intelligence transfers and top-tier communication.
It had taken them nine days, two countries, and over a thousand rounds of fire—but they got him.
Their objective: eliminate Alfredo—leader of the rogue militant group Red Sheol Directive, responsible for multiple hijacking attempts and a foiled chemical bombing over Erriadorian airspace.
The mission is classified Top Secret—EIS Black Ops Division.
Signed under Clause Dusk-9 by the High Council of Erriador, authorizing extrajudicial action against non-state existential threats.
Alfredo had been a ghost in global networks for six years.
Red Sheol thrived in failed states and conflict zones, funded by arms trafficking and crypto laundering. Their mission: destabilize Erriador's international standing through aviation terrorism.
The EIS had tried, and failed, to capture him thrice. He had evaded drones, cut off tracking lines, and left behind only bodies. In return, Alfredo had personally placed bounties on the heads of top EIS agents—making the conflict blood-deep.
Sky and Ace infiltrated a black-market syndicate on the Dutch border to trace Alfredo's safehouse.
After a week of encrypted exchanges, the location narrowed: an abandoned monastery in a snow-cloaked region.
Hunter staged a mock uprising nearby to draw out Alfredo's guards—isolating their leader with fewer men.
Rhett led the midnight infiltration.
No lights. No signals. No one in or out.
They captured Alfredo alive. Failure was never an option.
Satellite jammers blocked every frequency.
Dead man's switches. IED traps. Drone surveillance.
One misstep—and Alfredo could have triggered another hijacking plan already in motion.
Agent Grey, long classified as MIA, was also part of their mission parameters. Emotionally significant. A hope.
But confirmation came: he had been caught and executed by Alfredo's guards.
Elk closes the case and looks up at the man he's known since boyhood.
Rhett, the son of a late friend and fellow agent. He lost his mother young, his father not long after—Elk remembers.
There's pride in his chest, but it stays hidden behind a stoic mask.
"If that's all, I'm out of here," Rhett says, leaning back and gesturing lazily toward the door.
"I know you just got back," Elk says, voice flat. "But I need your team for this."
Rhett sighs and rubs a hand across his face. "What?"
"Raka has hundreds of hostages trapped in Hotel Aurora.
It's been five days. His demand is Ruhd."
Elk's voice darkens. "The news hasn't gone public. The President's daughter is among the hostages."
Rhett clenches his jaw.
He wants to go home.
It's been nearly two weeks away.
He almost wouldn't mind another mission, but now—he has a reason to return.
Neva. His angel is waiting for him.
And the thought of straying from her longer gnaws at his soul.
Elk notices the distant look in Rhett's eyes, a frown tugging at his brow.
"I can't do it," Rhett says, straightening. "Find someone else."
Elk doesn't blink. "Terrorist factions and enemy states are circling Ruhd like vultures.
If Raka gets it, it's war."
Rhett says nothing. He knows.
"Ruhd is a threat to humanity," Elk continues.
"We cannot let it fall into the wrong hands."
"You think the hostages are enough leverage to make the government hand over Ruhd?" Rhett asks dryly.
He knows how politicians work—greedy, prideful, too cautious with anything valuable.
"The President's daughter changes everything," Elk replies. "But we treat all hostages with equal priority. Strict orders."
Rhett lowers his gaze to the desk, deliberating.
Ruhd.
A life-threatening virus. No vaccine. No known cure.
It's stored in the Worthon Tower vault in Erriador—one of the most secure facilities in the nation.
And Raka—notorious drug lord. Elusive leader of the Lavallierre Cartel.
No confirmed name. No confirmed photo. Every attempt to infiltrate his network has failed.
Until now, his threat level was high—but never prioritized.
Now it's critical.
"I'll do it," Rhett mutters, looking up to meet Elk's gaze.
The corners of Elk's thin lips lift slightly. "As expected of you," he says. "Shall we get into the details?"
"Why not?" Rhett replies, leaning back and crossing his legs.
"With the way you're making me work, shouldn't I at least get a raise?"
"I'll mention it to the higher-ups," Elk answers, tone effortlessly casual.
Rhett raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised for a beat.
Then, a ghost of a smirk touches his lips.
"I'll believe it when I see it."
Elk's expression doesn't change, but there's a flicker of quiet amusement in his eyes.
"Now," he says, pressing a button on his desk. The monitor behind him lights up with encrypted files and satellite images.
"Let's talk about Aurora."