The Hunt Begins
The sea churned like an animal in pain, dark waves clawing at the steel hull of the speedboat as it cut through the night. Overhead, the moon hung like a silent witness, casting a pale sheen on the waters as if blessing a funeral procession. The wind howled past Damien's ears, flaring his coat and stinging his face with salt. But he didn't flinch. His eyes were fixed—unblinking—on the black silhouette rising in the distance.
The island loomed like something out of a legend. Razor-tipped cliffs. Fortress walls carved from ancient stone. Floodlights swept across the compound in slow, mechanical arcs, illuminating guards with rifles strapped across their chests, their faces obscured by helmets and night-vision visors. No markings. No flags. No identification.
Because this place didn't exist.
And yet, it held answers.
Behind the wheel, Jax kept one hand on the throttle, the other on his sidearm, his eyes locked on the landing point ahead. "Boss," he muttered through clenched teeth, "I count at least two dozen mercs. Maybe more. This place wasn't meant to be found."
Damien didn't glance back. His voice was low, measured, steady as stone.
"Since when have we ever waited for permission to take what's ours?"
He drew his weapon, checked the magazine, and snapped it shut with a click that cut through the roar of the engine. As the fortress drew nearer, the salt in the air was replaced by something heavier.
Anticipation.
Vengeance.
And something deeper still.
A reckoning.
The Storm Unleashed
The chaos began before the first alarm could ring.
Damien moved like a phantom, gliding through shadows with lethal precision. The first sentry didn't even see him coming—a flash of steel, a gurgled cry, and then silence. The second barely raised his weapon before a bullet ripped through his chest.
Jax stayed close, laying down fire with mechanical efficiency. For every two guards that rounded the corners with assault rifles raised, three dropped before their fingers touched the trigger.
By the time the compound lights flared red and the alarms began to wail, the perimeter was already breached.
The gates fell in a roar of shrapnel and smoke, and Damien stormed through the breach like a force of nature, cutting down the last line of resistance with cold, merciless resolve. Blood streaked the walls. Footsteps echoed through the once-impenetrable halls.
And then—silence.
Only one door remained.
Steel. Reinforced. Scarred from decades of wear.
Damien kicked it open—and what lay beyond stopped him in his tracks.
A Lab of Nightmares
The room reeked of antiseptic and decay. Rows of shelves lined the space, each stacked with glass containers—documents sealed in chemical fluid, fragments of old video reels, x-rays, vials of blood, teeth, hair. All meticulously labeled. All preserved like relics in a tomb.
A makeshift altar of forgotten horrors.
Damien stepped forward slowly, his eyes sweeping over the macabre archive, until one name—burned in red across the cover of a file—leapt out at him.
Victoria Voss.
His fingers hesitated, then gripped the file like a lifeline. Page after page of classified records tumbled out—medical reports, neurological scans, psychiatric breakdowns marked with government seals he didn't recognize. Stamped across every page: TOP SECRET. Handwritten notes, underlined phrases.
Subject displays signs of enhanced cognition. Memory manipulation successful. Instability increasing. Recommend further containment.
He felt the breath catch in his throat.
This wasn't just about disappearance.
This was manipulation.
Erasure.
Control.
"They didn't just hide her," he whispered, voice hoarse. "They experimented on her."
And just then—footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Approaching from the corridor behind him.
Damien turned, weapon raised, but what he saw made his hands tighten and his mind freeze.
A Face from the Past
The room was dim, barely lit by a flickering bulb overhead. In the center sat a wheelchair—sleek, reinforced metal, the kind built not just for mobility but endurance.
In it, an old man.
His skin had paled to near transparency, veins webbing his hands like cracks in porcelain. His white hair was slicked back, and a jagged scar ran from his cheekbone to his collarbone like a blade had once tried to carve the truth out of him.
But it wasn't his appearance that chilled Damien's blood.
It was the smile.
Calm. Knowing. Almost pleased.
"About damn time," the man said with a gravelly voice, as if greeting an old friend.
Damien's aim didn't waver. "Who are you?"
The old man leaned forward slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Elliot Voss."
The name was a curse. A ghost from history. A myth buried by time.
Damien's voice dropped to a whisper. "Impossible. Elliot Voss died forty years ago."
"Did I?" the old man rasped, eyes glinting with something dark and ancient. "Isn't that what they wanted you to believe?"
For a long moment, the silence between them grew thick. Like fog. Like truth refusing to surface.
And then the old man looked up, eyes locked on Damien's, and uttered something that struck like a blade to the gut.
"You look just like him."
Damien's voice was barely audible. "Like who?"
The smile widened.
"Your real father."
A Truth Worse Than Lies
Damien didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Something cracked inside him—quietly, deeply—as if the world he thought he understood had just shifted on its axis.
He took one step forward, gun still trained on the old man's skull.
"No riddles. No games. Talk."
But Elliot Voss didn't flinch. Didn't blink. He merely tilted his head, as if weighing how much to reveal… or how much more to withhold.
"You came here searching for your mother," he said. "But you've only scratched the surface. This isn't about a missing woman. Or a stolen legacy. Or even revenge."
His voice dropped to a whisper, and yet it echoed in Damien's bones.
"This is about the bloodline."
Damien's jaw clenched. "What bloodline?"
Elliot leaned back in his chair, gaze dark and distant.
"The one they've been trying to erase for generations. The one you were never supposed to awaken."
He smiled again.
"You'll find out soon enough."