The SUV's engine cut off, leaving only the creak of metal cooling in the midday sun. Aldrin sat still behind the wheel, gaze fixed on the skeletal warehouse ahead—its windows black with grime, walls sagging with rust, and the air around it oppressively still.
Next to him, Iris shifted. "This where he came?" she asked, hushed.
Aldrin gave a faint nod but kept his eyes forward.
Then it came—
BANG.
A single gunshot ripped through the silence, sharp and close. Aldrin was out of the car before the echo faded, door slamming open as he drew his weapon.
"Stay," he commanded, low and clipped.
But Iris was already moving, heart hammering as she slid out beside him, crouched behind the SUV door. "I didn't come this far to wait in the car."
Aldrin didn't argue. He just moved—fast and clean—skimming the warehouse's edge, checking angles. Iris followed, staying a step behind, her breath steady despite the cold fear in her stomach.
Then—
Another shot. Then two more. Fast. Closer.
POP–POP.
Muffled, inside.
Aldrin's eyes sharpened. He found the side door half ajar, swinging slightly on rusted hinges.
He moved first, shoulder pressing to the frame, gun raised. A silent count in his head—
Three. Two. One—
He swept inside, and the warehouse swallowed him whole.
Iris followed a second later.
The space was vast and hollow, dust catching the slanting light from broken windows above. Rows of rotting shelves cast long shadows. In the center, between patches of scattered debris, gunfire had danced its grim steps just moments ago.
A table overturned. Bullet holes in support beams. A faint trail of blood—thick and fresh—dragged across the dusty floor.
Then he saw him.
Ainsworth was down—on one knee, hand clutched to his side, breathing ragged. Blood slicked his fingers.
Aldrin moved fast, crossing the floor with urgency but control, dropping to one knee beside him.
"Where?" he asked.
Ainsworth didn't respond right away. He coughed, grit his teeth, and nodded toward the far corner—where a service door now stood wide open, swaying gently. Beyond it, only shadows.
"He was waiting…" Ainsworth muttered. "Knew I'd come. He didn't run—he led me here."
Aldrin's eyes tracked the blood trail disappearing into the open door, then back to his old friend.
"You shoot him?"
"I winged him," Ainsworth hissed. "But not enough."
Aldrin turned to Iris, who had stopped near the threshold, unsure if she should come closer. Her eyes were wide, flicking between the blood and the open door.
"You good?" he asked her, voice tight.
She hesitated, then nodded once.
"Then help me lift him."
As they raised Ainsworth, Aldrin's mind raced—not just about the identity of the shooter, but the message behind the trap.
This wasn't just mimicry anymore.
It was escalation.
It was personal.
And whoever—or whatever—was behind the Revenant Directive had just drawn first blood.
The drive back was coated in a thick, unspoken urgency. Aldrin's hands locked on the steering wheel like a vice, his gaze fixed ahead, laser-focused as the SUV tore down streets with surgical precision. The city blurred around them—hazy skyscrapers, sun-glinted steel, lives unaware of the blood seeping into their narrative.
In the back seat, Ainsworth's head lolled against the window, blood still trailing from the wound in his side. His fingers dug into his jacket, trying to slow the leak. Every bump in the road earned a sharp inhale, but he stayed awake, gritting his teeth through the pain.
Beside Aldrin, Iris sat stiff, her arms folded but her fingers twitching slightly in her lap. Her eyes darted to the rearview mirror again and again, not out of panic, but tracking—processing.
She finally spoke. "I'm just going to say it: this is not in the job description."
Aldrin didn't blink. "You followed me."
"You let me."
A beat passed.
Aldrin's jaw shifted, just barely, before he gave a short, dry sound—almost like amusement, or maybe disbelief.
Another glance into the mirror. "He's fading."
"We're five minutes out," Aldrin replied. "Tell him to stay conscious."
Iris twisted slightly to look back. "You still with us?"
Ainsworth gave a weak thumbs-up. "Regretting it, but yeah."
The SUV pulled around into a side alley behind a sterile, concrete building with no windows on the lower floors. There were no signs, no cameras—only a rusted metal plate by a heavy door. Aldrin parked without ceremony and stepped out into the heat of the late morning sun.
He yanked open the back door.
"Out," he said, voice flat. "You're not bleeding out in my damn car."
Ainsworth let out a shaky laugh. "Spoilsport."
Iris slipped under his arm to help, wincing at the warmth of blood seeping onto her blouse. Between the two of them, they managed to get him upright and moving toward the door.
Aldrin knocked once—sharp, deliberate. A faint click answered. The lock disengaged.
The door opened to a private corridor lit by sterile LED strips. As they moved inside, the scent shifted from industrial heat to antiseptic and cold air. Waiting just inside was a woman in a navy coat, clipboard in hand and black gloves already on.
Dr. Etta Rahal. Precision personified. Her dark hair was tied back in a clean knot, and she wasted no time.
"Bring him in. Room three."
No "What happened?" No panic. Just swift action.
They laid Ainsworth down on the surgical table as machines hummed to life around them. Monitors blinked. A robotic arm adjusted overhead, scanning his vitals before Dr. Rahal even touched him.
She glanced once at Aldrin. "This is the third time this year."
"Could've been four," Aldrin said.
Ainsworth groaned. "Your charm keeps people from aiming straight."
Dr. Rahal sighed. "Try not to die before lunch. I have plans."
As she rolled up her sleeves, Iris watched the whole thing unfold with wide, guarded eyes. The room was quiet but full of unspoken history—this wasn't their first emergency. This was just... procedure.
"You have your own trauma team?" Iris asked Aldrin quietly.
"I have contingencies," he replied.
She arched an eyebrow. "Normal executives have espresso machines."
Aldrin allowed a ghost of a smile. "Those don't stop bleeding."
Ainsworth chuckled weakly. "He brought an analyst."
"In heels," Aldrin added.
"They're combat heels," Iris muttered, crossing her arms.
Dr. Rahal snapped a pair of surgical gloves tight over her wrists. "Unless the analyst plans to hold suction or scrub in, both of you—out."
Aldrin lingered at Ainsworth's side for a moment. Their eyes met. No words, just the steel of understanding. Then he turned and motioned for Iris to follow.
They exited the back hallway into a loading area shielded from the public. As the door sealed shut behind them, Aldrin exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing in thought.
Iris trailed a step behind. "That wasn't a botched robbery."
"No," Aldrin said. "It was a warning."
A pause.
She looked at him, not challenging—just quietly absorbing.
"You going to tell me who that was back there?"
"I don't know yet."
"But you will?"
He looked at her then, something unreadable in his gaze.
"When I do," he said, "you'll wish I hadn't."
Iris didn't answer. She just walked beside him in silence, watching the way the tension moved through his shoulders. Something had shifted. Lines had been crossed.
And whatever ghost they were chasing now—it was real.