The pain didn't fade. It just folded into the rhythm of my breathing, a constant throb behind my ribs as I moved through the skeletal remains of the city's underbelly.
By morning, the wound had cauterized—not by heat, but by the Artifact knitting itself through the muscle. It wasn't healing. It was replacing. That scared him more than the pain.
I didn't sleep. Not really. I drifted in and out, back pressed to the concrete, one hand wrapped around a pipe for balance, the other clenched around the remnants of my shirt soaked in glowing blood. Every noise felt like Echo's return. Every silence was worse.
When the morning light filtered in through cracks in the street above, I pulled myself up and made my way back to the only place I could think of—Lou's old stash house. The one Maya had first led me to. Figured if she was still in the game, that's where she'd be.
She was.
She didn't ask questions when she saw me—just tossed me a protein bar and a bottle of water. I collapsed into the nearest chair and exhaled like it was the first breath I'd earned in days.
"You look like hell," she muttered.
"Feel worse," I rasped.
We spent most of the day planning. The conversations started short, clipped, but grew longer as the silence between us gave way to urgency.
"Warehouse in Burnley," I muttered, flipping open Lou's notebook and setting it beside a cup of black coffee that'd gone cold an hour ago. "Marked with a blue door. 3 a.m. No weapons."
Maya leaned over the map she'd been scribbling on. "That's the same area where Cadmus ran extraction logistics two years ago. Underground routes, micro-hubs, even droppoints off the grid. They shut it all down officially—but Lou still had a keycard to one of those spots."
"You think it's a dead drop?"
She shook her head. "Too neat. Too specific. They want you to show up unarmed. That's either a trap—or a controlled contact."
I nodded slowly. "They're fishing. Testing if I'll bite."
Maya tapped a name scrawled in faded ink beside the coordinates: Voss.
"This showed up in Lou's old burner too. Texts, mostly short and encrypted. Whoever Voss is, Lou trusted him. Or feared him enough to obey."
I reached over, turned the page. "And this? Sketch of the warehouse interior?"
"Found that folded behind Lou's mattress," Maya said. "Old blueprint. No security listed, but that doesn't mean it's clear. Could be AI-monitored, especially if Cadmus is reactivating assets."
She finished patching the gauze around my side, taped it tight, and stood.
"You sure you're good to move tonight?"
I glanced at my arm. The glow had dimmed, but the heat hadn't.
"I'll move. Doesn't matter how good."
By late afternoon, I'd crashed on a cot in the back room, letting the weight of it all press down long enough to reset my pulse. Just enough to think clearly.
When the sun dipped behind Gotham's skyline, I stood again—stiffer, more focused. Maya handed me a map. A burner phone. Another name scratched in ink beside the address we already knew.
"Blue door. 3 a.m.," she said.
"I'll be ready."
By nightfall, I was back on the move.
I got there early. Too early. That was the point.
I circled the block twice—once slow, once faster—checking shadows, scanning windows, memorizing any angles i could possibly needed if things went south. The block had been scrubbed clean of life. No security guards, no street vendors, no idle smokers or cab drivers killing time. Just empty storefronts and clean sidewalks, like the whole place had been hollowed out.
Sterile. Manufactured. The kind of quiet that wasn't natural.
The kind people paid for.
Cadmus clean-up crew, probably. Erased everything that didn't serve the plan.
I found cover in a half-burned diner across the street—its signage peeled away, one of the windows busted open. I stepped over broken tile, took a spot behind the counter where I had clear sightlines to the warehouse.
Time passed slow. I didn't check my watch. I felt the minutes stretch. The sky overhead was a dark smear, the air heavy.
At 2:57 a.m., headlights cut through the gloom. A black sedan pulled up to the curb, windows tinted dark enough to hide ghosts.
It stopped.
A man stepped out. Suit. Slick hair. Controlled posture. That Cadmus-fed calm that said, I own the building, the cops, and the air you breathe.
He took one look at the door, adjusted his tie, and walked in.
He wasn't Echo. He didn't need to be.
I counted in my head.
One minute. Two.
Then I moved.
Each step toward the warehouse felt heavier than it should've. Not fear. Not hesitation. Just a sense that whatever was behind that door wasn't waiting to be found—it was waiting for me. Like it knew the rhythm of my steps, the exact second I'd cross the threshold.
The blue door creaked when I touched it. Not locked. Not booby-trapped. Just... waiting.
I pushed it open.
Sterile concrete greeted me. Rows of crates lined the walls, all sealed, unmarked. The fluorescent lighting above gave off a low buzz, casting cold shadows. At the center of the room stood a table—stainless steel—and a man beside it, perfectly still, gloved hands resting on a sleek black case.
He didn't turn when I entered.
"You're earlier than expected," he said, voice low but steady.
"You expected me?"
"We always plan for contingencies. Especially the rogue ones."
I stepped in farther, boots scuffing slightly against the polished floor. "You Cadmus?"
"No one is Cadmus," he replied. "Not anymore. Just debris. People pretending they still matter."
The way he said it chilled me. Not regret. Not bitterness. Just fact.
"Then who are you?"
Finally, he moved. Unlatched the case. Opened it.
Inside: a sphere. Silver. Small. It pulsed softly, like it was breathing.
"A messenger," he said.
I glanced from the sphere to him. "That supposed to scare me?"
He looked up at last. Pale eyes. Not nervous. Not excited. Just resigned.
"No. This is the part where I give you a choice."
I blinked. "A choice?"
"You walk away," he said, voice smooth but sharp around the edges, "and we let you vanish. Fade back into the underground, into whatever ghost story people want to tell about you. No pursuit. No retaliation. Just... silence."
He nudged the case toward me with two fingers, like it was something fragile—or dangerous.
"Or you take this," he continued, "and everything that comes next—the blood, the collateral, the truths that won't let you sleep—that's all yours. There's no going back from it."
I looked down.
The sphere wasn't just glowing—it was pulsing, like a living thing. The energy inside moved like smoke trapped underwater, folding and swirling in ways that didn't follow any logic. Familiar. Almost... sympathetic. Like it knew me.
Like it had been waiting.
I hesitated. Not out of fear—but because I recognized the weight in his voice. This wasn't a threat. It was a warning.
"What is it?"
"Your inheritance," he said. "From Helix."
The word landed wrong. Heavy. I'd never heard it—not in Lou's notes, not in any file Maya unearthed. And yet it scraped across the inside of my skull like something half-remembered.
"Helix?" I asked. "What the hell is that?"
The man smiled without warmth. "The part of Cadmus they don't admit to. The one they locked beneath the floorboards, even from themselves."
He tapped the sphere. "It's a map. A vault. A confession. Codes, names, and memories—some yours, most not. But all of them... consequential."
My chest tightened.
"And the catch?"
"Once you activate it, Cadmus stops pretending you're a loose end. Echo was only the opening act. What follows... doesn't knock."
"They already did."
I reached forward and took it.
The second my fingers touched the metal, it flared gold.
Pain stabbed through my skull. Not just a migraine—memories. Fractured. Implanted. People I didn't know were screaming. Subjects strapped to tables. Names burned into my brain like brand marks.
My knees hit the ground.
I saw Subject K-07—me.
I saw a face I hadn't remembered in years: Hamilton, younger, smiling.
I screamed.
When it passed, I was gasping on the floor. The sphere was still glowing in my hand, but quieter now. Sated.
The man was gone. No footsteps. No goodbye. Just a cleared table and a faint scent of ozone.
I rose slowly.
And for the first time, I knew exactly where to go next.
Not a lead.
A target.
Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead or support my work, you can check out my P@treon at [email protected]/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading means the world to me. Thank you for your time and support.