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As Sico stepped out into the sunlight again, the courtyard's noise greeted him like a familiar rhythm — the thrum of engines, the chatter of guards, the hammering from the workshops beyond.
The next day dawned quieter than most. The kind of morning where even the air seemed hesitant to move — heavy with stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Inside his office at the Freemasons HQ, Sico sat behind his desk, surrounded by a small fortress of folders, papers, and half-drained mugs of coffee. The sun filtered through the blinds, striping the floor in pale gold lines that stretched across the scattered documents. The soft hum of the ceiling fan blended with the occasional scratch of his pen against paper — the slow rhythm of a leader caught in the quieter war of administration.
For the past two hours, he'd been buried in logistics: requisition reports, field repair manifests, recruitment summaries. It wasn't glorious work, but it was necessary — the invisible threads that held the Republic together.
He leaned back slightly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. The paperwork was endless, yet familiar — predictable, even comforting in its monotony.
He'd just begun reviewing the last of the convoy deployment logs when the sound of hurried footsteps broke the quiet. It wasn't the usual pace of an aide or clerk; this was faster, heavier — urgent.
Before Sico could rise, the office door swung open.
Preston Garvey stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling with the effort of his pace. His hat was tilted slightly back, his coat unbuttoned halfway down, and his expression — usually calm, centered — carried a sharp tension Sico hadn't seen in months.
"General," he said, his voice tight, breathless. "We've got a problem."
Sico's brows drew together instantly. He set his pen down and rose to his feet. "What kind of problem?"
Preston closed the door behind him, almost as if to contain whatever words were about to leave his mouth. "There's been… an incident in Sanctuary. A bad one."
Sico's tone turned low, controlled. "Go on."
Preston hesitated — a flicker of discomfort crossing his face before he forced the words out. "There's been a murder."
The room went still. Even the hum of the fan above seemed to fade into the background.
Sico's eyes narrowed slightly, his body straightening. "Where?"
"Lower east side, near the market district," Preston said. "Civilian zone. Patrol found the body just before dawn."
Sico's voice dropped further, though his composure didn't waver. "Who?"
"Her name was Abby Hennings. Twenty-six. Lived with her younger sister. Worked at the trade post as a clerk." Preston's voice faltered slightly, then hardened. "It's not the first one, sir."
That made Sico freeze. "Not the first?"
Preston shook his head grimly. "No. We've had three disappearances this past week — all women. At first, the patrols figured they'd just gone missing outside the gates. Maybe caught out during scavenging runs or trading trips. But now…"
He paused, exhaling sharply. "We found the other two this morning. In different parts of Sanctuary."
A heavy silence filled the room.
Sico's expression hardened into something unreadable — not shock, not anger, but that cold, deliberate focus he'd learned long ago to wear in the face of chaos.
"Where exactly?" he asked.
"First victim was found near the old culvert by the northern fence," Preston said, his tone clipped, professional again out of habit. "Second in the storage yard by the workshop district. Third — Abby — in the alley behind the east market."
"All within the walls," Sico said quietly.
Preston nodded. "Yeah. Which means whoever's doing this isn't coming from outside. This is someone inside Sanctuary."
Sico's jaw tightened. "How long have they been dead?"
"The med team says all three within the last week. Different times, but same kind of wounds." Preston's voice lowered, his eyes flicking toward the floor before meeting Sico's again. "Sir… all three women were assaulted before they were killed."
The words hung there, heavy and cold, filling the space between them with something dark.
For a long moment, Sico said nothing. He turned slightly, looking toward the window — the sunlight still shining outside, serene, oblivious to the ugliness that had just crept into its world.
When he spoke again, his voice had lost all warmth. "Do we have the autopsy reports?"
"Preliminary only. Curie' medical team confirmed similar injuries on all three. Knife wounds, shallow and deliberate — throat slashed after death. And there's a pattern, too. A symbol carved near the left shoulder blade on each victim. Small, but precise."
Sico's eyes flicked back sharply. "A symbol?"
Preston nodded grimly. "A triangle, inverted, with a line running through it. Looks deliberate. Same mark, same placement."
For a second, neither man spoke.
Then Sico said quietly, "Show me."
Preston reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, sealed folder. He placed it on the desk, the Republic's seal half-torn from where he'd opened it earlier. Inside were three grainy photographs — the kind no one ever wanted to see.
Sico flipped them open one by one.
The images were harsh, clinical — the victims lying under makeshift white sheets, the marks on their shoulders visible under the glow of the medic's lantern. The symbol was clear in each picture: the triangle and the line, burned or carved into the flesh.
He stared at them for a long time, not with revulsion, but with that still, deadly kind of focus that meant he was already building a plan in his head.
"Does Sarah know yet?" he asked finally.
Preston nodded. "She's already secured the crime scenes. No one in or out. Civilians have been told it was an animal attack — just until we confirm more. But that lie won't hold by nightfall. Sanctuary's too small to keep this quiet."
Sico shut the folder with a slow, measured motion. "You did right to tell me first."
He walked around his desk, the sound of his boots striking the floor in a steady rhythm. "I want the perimeter logs from the last seven days pulled immediately. Every name on the night patrol rosters. Anyone seen entering or leaving after curfew."
"Already on it," Preston said. "I've got Daniels and Morris checking the gatehouse records now."
"Good," Sico said. "Have Sarah report to me as soon as possible. I want to review the scene myself."
Preston hesitated before asking, "You think this is someone acting alone?"
Sico paused near the window again, looking out toward the distant line of rooftops. From here, Sanctuary looked peaceful — too peaceful. Children were probably playing in the square right now, settlers opening stalls, traders unloading carts. None of them knew yet.
"I don't know," he said at last. "But if it's one of ours… if it's someone under our protection…" His voice lowered, steady as a blade's edge. "Then I'll find them."
Preston gave a firm nod. "Understood, sir."
Sico turned back toward him, eyes sharp. "No word of this leaves the command chain. The last thing we need is panic. Let the civilians think the patrols are running drills. Keep extra guards posted near the residential blocks tonight — quietly."
"Right away."
As Preston turned to leave, Sico added, "And, Preston — tell Sarah to bring whoever's on forensics. I want to see those symbols up close."
The door closed behind him, leaving Sico alone once more. But the quiet this time wasn't peaceful.
He moved slowly to his desk, his eyes lingering on the folder lying there. His reflection in the dark surface of the photographs looked older somehow — harder.
For all the wars he'd fought, for all the raids and battles and political maneuvers, this was the kind of fight he hated most — the kind that tore people apart from within. Sanctuary wasn't just a settlement. It was the Republic's beating heart. A place where people believed they were finally safe.
The silence that lingered after Preston's departure wasn't the kind that brought peace. It was the kind that pressed against the walls, thick and heavy — a silence that made every sound sharper. The faint hum of the ceiling fan now felt like a drone in his ears. Even the ticking of the small clock on the shelf seemed louder, its rhythm uneven, like a pulse skipping a beat.
Sico stood there for a moment, unmoving, staring down at the sealed folder on his desk. The weight of it seemed to bleed into the room — three lives, gone, carved with symbols like a message no one could yet read. He'd seen death before, plenty of it, but this was different. This was inside the Republic. Inside Sanctuary.
He'd built this place to be a refuge from chaos — a sanctuary in every sense of the word. And now something, or someone, had turned that sanctuary into a hunting ground.
His hands tightened into fists.
He turned away from the desk, pacing once across the length of the room. The floor creaked faintly under his boots. His mind was already dissecting the facts — three victims, same profile, same markings. A pattern meant intent. Intent meant planning. And planning meant whoever did this wasn't just a killer. They were sending a message.
But to who?
He was still turning that question over when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Sico said immediately.
The door opened, and Sarah Lyons stepped inside, her expression as composed as ever but her posture tense — the kind of tension that lived in her shoulders, coiled tight. She had changed out of her field armor, but the tactical harness still clung to her chest, pistol holstered at her hip. Her boots were dusted from the morning's investigation.
"Sir," she said, nodding once. "You asked for me."
Sico gestured toward the chair across from his desk, though she didn't take it. "You've seen the scenes?"
"Yes," she said simply. "All three. And you'll want to see them yourself."
Sico's jaw set. "Then we go now."
She blinked — not in surprise exactly, but in acknowledgment of what that meant. "You're taking command of the investigation yourself?"
"I am," Sico said, already moving toward the weapon rack by the wall. He holstered his sidearm and checked the chamber with practiced precision. "Whoever did this is in our walls, Sarah. I won't have this handled as routine patrol work. Sanctuary deserves answers — and justice."
Sarah gave a short nod. "Then I'll have a detail ready."
"Just two soldiers," Sico said, fastening his coat. "Discreetly. The fewer people see us move, the better."
"Yes, sir."
As Sarah turned to relay the order through her radio, Sico picked up the folder again, tucking it under his arm. His reflection caught briefly in the office window — dark coat, the faint lines around his eyes deeper than usual. The face of a man who'd carried wars and peace both, now about to face something worse than either: betrayal within his own home.
Within minutes, they were outside.
The midday sun had climbed higher, its light harsh but filtered through thin clouds that cast a pale hue over Sanctuary. The settlement looked the same as ever — guards at posts, mechanics shouting across the yard, the clang of metal from the workshops echoing faintly. To anyone else, it was a normal day. But Sico could feel the undercurrent — that quiet ripple that ran beneath the calm when fear was still unspoken but alive.
They crossed the central square where vendors were setting up for the afternoon market. Children darted between stalls, laughter echoing faintly. Sico caught sight of a group of soldiers walking by — they paused and saluted sharply when they saw him. He returned the gesture with a nod, his expression unreadable.
As they moved through the settlement's eastern streets, Sarah fell into step beside him. "We've secured all three scenes. The patrols are posted on a rotational pattern to keep civilians from wandering close. We haven't released the names of the victims yet — only that there were 'isolated accidents.' But… people are starting to notice the patrol density."
"They'll know soon enough," Sico murmured. "And when they do, I don't want panic. I want them to know we're in control."
Sarah's tone softened slightly. "They trust you. That hasn't changed."
He didn't respond. Trust was fragile — easier to lose than to earn. And something like this could shatter it overnight.
Their first stop was the alley behind the east market — the most recent scene, where Abby Hennings' body had been found. The area had been cordoned off with simple rope barriers, soldiers standing at each end to block foot traffic. A few traders nearby glanced curiously as the General passed, but one look from Sarah's steely eyes sent them scattering back to their work.
The alley smelled faintly of rot and rust. The kind of smell that clung to brick and metal after something terrible had happened. A medic team had already cleared the body, but the dark stains on the ground still marked where she'd fallen. Beside them, a faint chalk outline traced the shape of her final moments.
Sico crouched slowly, his eyes scanning the ground. "This is where the patrol found her?"
"Yes, sir," Sarah said, standing a few steps behind him. "About five meters in. No signs of a struggle, no footprints except hers and the ones from the responders. She was placed here after death."
Sico glanced up. "Placed?"
Sarah nodded. "No defensive wounds. No blood trail leading in. Whoever did it killed her elsewhere, then carried her here."
Sico's gaze swept the walls — narrow brick, a rusted drainage pipe, an old pre-war poster peeling off the side of the corner building. "Too exposed for a kill. He wanted her found."
"Exactly what I thought," Sarah said.
He rose slowly, dusting off his gloves. "Any witnesses?"
"None who've come forward," she replied. "But the market runs late. Someone must have seen or heard something."
Sico looked toward the soldiers guarding the rope. "Pull the names of every trader who closed up shop after midnight last night. Cross-check with the patrol logs. I want to know who was awake and where they were."
Sarah gave a quick nod and made a note on her pad.
They moved on.
The second scene — the old storage yard by the workshop district — had a different feel altogether. The air was still thick with the scent of machine oil and dust, and the shadows here were longer, deeper. A single floodlight still hung from a pole, flickering faintly in the afternoon light. Sico noticed the drag marks near the gravel and followed them with his eyes until they ended near a pile of rusted crates.
"She was found here," Sarah said quietly, pointing. "Same wounds. Same symbol."
Sico knelt again, tracing a gloved finger near the gravel. The ground was scuffed — not much, but enough to suggest she'd been laid down, not dropped. He looked up. "Someone strong. To carry a grown woman like this without being seen."
"Or someone who knew the patrol routes," Sarah said grimly.
That thought lingered between them.
Someone who knew the routes. The schedules. The weak points in Sanctuary's night watch.
A soldier, then — or someone close enough to act like one.
Sico's jaw tightened. "We'll come back here with Curie's team. I want to see that mark up close."
Their last stop was the culvert near the northern fence — the first body. It was quieter here, away from the denser parts of Sanctuary. The old concrete tunnel sat half-buried beneath ivy and rubble, the air cooler and damp with the scent of moss. The ground sloped slightly, and the light that filtered through the broken sections above cut the space into slanted beams.
"This one's different," Sarah said as they approached. "Less clean. More rushed."
Sico crouched near the entrance, noting the way the stones were disturbed, the faint trace of boot prints in the mud. "He was interrupted."
Sarah nodded. "We think a patrol passed close by. The body was only half-hidden when they found it."
Sico exhaled slowly, the sound carrying faintly in the hollow space. "So the killer's growing bolder. First near the outskirts, then the heart of the settlement. He's testing us."
Sarah's eyes were hard. "We'll find him before he tests us again."
Sico straightened, turning to her fully. "We will. But we'll do it quietly. If the people know there's a murderer inside the walls, fear will do more damage than he ever could."
"Understood," she said.
For a moment, they stood there in silence. The air was cold in the shadow of the culvert, and the faint drip of water echoed somewhere deeper inside. The place felt wrong — not just because of what had happened here, but because of the emptiness it left behind.
Sico finally spoke, his voice quieter now. "You know, Sarah… I've seen what happens when people lose faith in safety. When they realize the monsters aren't outside the walls anymore — they're among them. It's the beginning of collapse."
Sarah's tone softened. "That won't happen here."
He looked at her — really looked at her — and nodded once. "No. It won't."
They made their way back through the narrow paths, the afternoon light beginning to fade into the warmer hues of evening. Sico walked in silence, mind racing with details, timelines, possibilities. There were too many gaps, too many chances for this thing — whoever they were — to slip through unnoticed again.
Back at HQ, he went straight to the briefing room. The space was smaller than the command hall but lined with screens, charts, and the Republic's central communication array. Preston was already there, arms folded, watching the data feed scroll across a monitor.
"You've seen the sites?" he asked as Sico entered.
"I have," Sico replied, setting the folder on the table. "We're dealing with someone methodical. He's planned every step. Knows our routines, knows our blind spots. He's not killing out of impulse — this is ritual."
Preston frowned. "The symbols?"
Sico nodded. "It's deliberate. The same precision each time. Could be religious, ideological, or personal. Whatever it is, it's not random."
Sarah stepped forward, sliding a data chip into the console. "Curie's running DNA traces on the wounds and the residue found on the victims' clothing. We should have results by morning."
"Good," Sico said. "Until then, we lock down the gates. No one enters or leaves Sanctuary without clearance. Double patrols around the residential zones. Quietly."
Preston hesitated. "That'll draw attention."
"It'll draw fear if we do nothing," Sico countered sharply. Then, after a beat, his tone softened. "I want this bastard found before he strikes again. I don't care if he's a scavenger, a mercenary, or one of our own. We bring him in alive if possible — but if he resists…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.
Sarah gave a small nod, her expression grim. "Understood."
As the orders went out, the HQ came alive with controlled urgency. Runners moved between rooms, radio chatter filled the air, and the hum of machinery became the pulse of Sanctuary's unease.
Sico stood by the window once more, looking out over the settlement as dusk settled in. The lights flickered on, one by one — windows glowing like beacons against the coming dark. It looked peaceful, almost fragile.
Behind him, Preston spoke quietly. "You'll find him, General. You always do."
Sico didn't turn. His voice, when it came, was low — almost a whisper. "This time, Preston, it's not just about finding him. It's about making sure the people never have to fear what walks among them."
The next day dawned uneasy.
The air carried a chill that wasn't from the weather but from something deeper — a quiet tension that hummed beneath the rhythm of morning life. The sky was pale, washed in soft silver light, and the mist that clung to the rooftops seemed to mute every sound, as though Sanctuary itself was holding its breath.
By sunrise, the news had spread.
Not officially, not through any public announcement — Sico had forbidden that — but through whispers, half-truths, and the kind of stories that grow teeth in the dark. A few traders had "heard something." A child had "seen soldiers near the market at night." Someone's neighbor had "found blood behind the old storehouse." The words passed from stall to stall, home to home, picking up weight and shape as they went.
By the time the settlement was fully awake, Sanctuary's streets were lined not with the usual morning chatter but with wary glances, hushed voices, and the sharp awareness that something terrible had happened close to home.
Still, despite the unease, there was something else in the air too — something steadier. Security.
The sight of increased patrols helped. Soldiers now walked in pairs along every major street, their movements steady and alert but not overtly aggressive. The familiar insignia of the Republic — the intertwined compass and laurel — shone faintly on their shoulders in the morning light, a reminder that even when darkness crept in, someone was watching.
Mothers held their children's hands a little tighter on the way to the market, but they walked the streets nonetheless. Mechanics opened their shops, though their laughter was quieter. Even the traders, eyes darting toward the patrolling soldiers, still raised their awnings and sorted their wares. Life didn't stop. It just held itself carefully, like a breath that might break if let out too soon.
From his office window, Sico watched it all unfold.
He stood with his arms crossed, the faint morning light drawing a pale outline around his figure. The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual — a byproduct of a night spent without sleep. He hadn't left HQ since the investigation began, and it showed.
Sarah stood beside him, holding a small tablet displaying the patrol schedules. "We've increased the rotations. Four-man teams in the residential sectors, two-man rovers by the gates. Checkpoints have been set up along the northern and eastern routes."
Sico nodded slowly. "Good. Keep them rotating every three hours. Don't let anyone get too familiar with the pattern."
"Understood."
He turned his gaze toward the square below, where a group of settlers had gathered near the fountain — not to protest or demand answers, but simply to talk. He could see it in their faces: confusion, fear, disbelief.
"Any word from Curie?" he asked.
Sarah glanced at her notes. "She's still finalizing the DNA results. Said she'd have them ready within the hour."
"And the patrol logs?"
"Preston's cross-checking them now. No unauthorized exits, no new entries. Which means whoever did this hasn't left."
Sico's jaw tightened. "They're still here."
The words lingered in the air between them.
Sarah looked toward him then, her voice softer. "You think it's someone in uniform, don't you?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he watched the patrols passing through the marketplace — the familiar faces of men and women who had fought beside him, who had risked their lives for the Republic. He trusted them. All of them. But trust was fragile, and trust without proof was a dangerous thing.
Finally, he said quietly, "Whoever it is — they know our movements. Our blind spots. They've studied how we operate. That's not something an outsider could've done."
Sarah's expression hardened. "Then we find them before the people do."
He turned to her, eyes sharp. "No arrests, no accusations until we have proof. If word gets out that we're hunting one of our own, we'll lose control faster than you can draw a gun."
"Understood, sir."
A knock at the door interrupted them. Preston stepped in, his usual calm replaced by a heavy seriousness. He carried a folder under one arm and the weight of sleepless hours under his eyes.
"General. Curie's finished her report."
Sico's focus sharpened. "Let's hear it."
Preston handed over the folder. "All three victims had traces of oil residue under their fingernails and fabric fibers that match standard field uniforms — our make. But there's something else."
Sico flipped the folder open. "Go on."
"Chemical analysis found traces of hydraulic grease and industrial coolant — the kind we use in the robotics bay."
Sarah frowned. "You think it's someone from Engineering?"
Preston shook his head. "Not necessarily. But whoever it is, they've been spending time around the machines."
Sico looked up from the file, his voice flat. "That narrows it down. Mechanics. Technicians. Anyone working near the lower bays."
Sarah was already pulling up the registry on her wrist console. "That's about fifty people."
"Then we start with the ones who've been pulling late shifts," Sico said. "Anyone who's signed in after curfew in the last week."
Preston nodded. "I'll have the logs ready within the hour."
Sico closed the folder with a decisive snap. "Good. When we find him, I want no mistakes."
By midmorning, Sanctuary was alive with motion — though it wasn't the easy rhythm of a thriving settlement anymore. There was tension in every step, caution in every glance. People moved with quiet purpose, avoiding alleys, keeping to open streets. Soldiers walked in pairs, heads on a swivel, eyes scanning the crowd.
Word of the murders had traveled faster than the official reports could contain. Someone had overheard a medic. Someone else had seen the covered stretchers being carried through the streets at dawn. And then, inevitably, the stories spread.
Some said it was raiders who'd slipped through the walls. Others whispered about synth infiltrators — ghosts from the old Institute days. A few even muttered about curses, about symbols that called back to pre-war cults.
And through it all, one name kept rising — Sico.
The General was taking personal command. The Republic's leader himself was walking the streets, visiting crime scenes, speaking with guards. That thought alone seemed to keep panic from turning into chaos. If Sico was involved, people still believed there was hope.
But hope was fragile too.
By noon, Sico was back in the command hall, reviewing the cross-checked roster logs with Preston and Sarah. The data flickered on the screen, rows of names and timestamps scrolling faster than the eye could follow.
"Three names stand out," Preston said, highlighting them. "All technicians assigned to the robotics bay. All clocked in after midnight at least twice in the past week. Only one had clearance to do so."
Sico leaned forward, scanning the list. "Who?"
"Leon Mercer," Sarah said, tapping the screen. "Senior mechanic. Joined us one years ago from the Commonwealth survivor camps. Clean record, solid work ethic. No disciplinary issues."
Sico frowned. "And the others?"
"Simon Hale and Victor Ross," Preston replied. "Both newer recruits. Hale transferred from the eastern workshops six months ago. Ross came in with the last batch of settlers — said he used to work in machinery repair back in Lexington."
"Background checks?"
Sarah hesitated. "Limited."
Sico's eyes narrowed. "That's very unusual."
Preston nodded. "Agreed. He's on the midday shift today."
"Then I'll talk to him myself," Sico said.
Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Personally?"
"I want to see his eyes when he answers."
The robotics bay was dim and filled with the familiar hum of machinery. The scent of oil and ozone clung to the air, mixing with the faint hiss of steam vents and the rhythmic click of mechanical arms assembling components along the benches.
Victor Ross was easy to spot — a tall, wiry man in a grease-stained jumpsuit, his dark hair tied back and face streaked with smudges of soot. He worked quietly, methodically, tightening a bolt on a damaged Protectron limb.
Sico watched him for a few seconds before speaking. "Ross."
The man jumped slightly, turning with a startled look before his face settled into guarded respect. "General! Sir, didn't see you there."
Sico stepped closer, his gaze steady. "You've been working late lately."
Ross shrugged, wiping his hands on a rag. "Yeah, sir. The automation lines keep breaking down after hours. Thought I'd get a head start before the day crew."
"Alone?"
He hesitated. "Most nights, yeah. Some of the other guys don't like pulling shifts in the dark. Can't blame 'em."
Sico studied him in silence. His movements were casual, his tone calm — but there was something about the way his eyes flicked toward the floor, just for a heartbeat, when he said alone.
"You've been in Sanctuary long, Ross?"
"About a year, sir. Best place I've been since the war ended." His smile was small, almost rehearsed. "Safe. Quiet."
Sico nodded slowly, but his gaze didn't waver. "You know anything about the murders?"
The wrench froze in Ross's hand. His eyes flicked up. "Murders?"
Sico didn't answer. He just kept watching. The silence between them stretched taut — the hum of the machines the only sound in the room.
Ross swallowed. "No, sir. Haven't heard a thing."
Sico's voice was quiet but sharp as glass. "That's strange. Most people have."
Ross blinked, his composure faltering for a second. "I… I just keep to myself, General. Don't talk much outside work."
"Mm." Sico took a step closer. "Keep it that way."
Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the exit. Sarah followed close behind, her eyes still on Ross, who exhaled only when the door closed behind them.
Outside, she spoke first. "He's lying."
Sico nodded. "I know."
"You want him detained?"
"Not yet," Sico said quietly. "He knows we're watching now. If he's guilty, he'll slip. And when he does, I'll be there."
That night, Sanctuary was quieter than ever. The lamps glowed dimly along the streets, casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. The patrols moved like ghosts through the fog, their boots soft on the gravel, their eyes scanning the darkness.
In his office, Sico stood by the window again, watching the settlement settle into uneasy stillness. The sound of rain began to patter softly against the glass — gentle at first, then steadier.
Sarah entered, her expression tired but resolute. "Preston's doubled the night patrols. Every sector's covered."
Sico nodded. "Good."
"Curie sent another message. The chemical traces on the wounds — they weren't just from oil or grease. There was blood mixed in. Animal blood."
He turned sharply. "Animal?"
She nodded. "Mole rat, specifically. It's common in the workshop area, but mixed with the human samples, it's deliberate. Like the killer's trying to hide his scent."
Sico's voice dropped low. "Which means he's not just careful — he's smart."
Sarah's jaw tightened. "He's getting braver."
Sico's eyes moved back to the window, where lightning flashed faintly over the distant hills. The reflection of his own face stared back at him — older, wearier, but still unbroken.
"Then we'll have to be smarter," he said. "Tomorrow, we draw him out."
And outside, the rain kept falling — steady, relentless — washing over the rooftops of Sanctuary as if trying, futilely, to cleanse it of the darkness now moving quietly beneath its surface.
________________________________________________
• Name: Sico
• Stats :
S: 8,44
P: 7,44
E: 8,44
C: 8,44
I: 9,44
A: 7,45
L: 7
• Skills: advance Mechanic, Science, and Shooting skills, intermediate Medical, Hand to Hand Combat, Lockpicking, Hacking, Persuasion, and Drawing Skills
• Inventory: 53.280 caps, 10mm Pistol, 1500 10mm rounds, 22 mole rats meat, 17 mole rats teeth, 1 fragmentation grenade, 6 stimpak, 1 rad x, 6 fusion core, computer blueprint, modern TV blueprint, camera recorder blueprint, 1 set of combat armor, Automatic Assault Rifle, 1.500 5.56mm rounds, power armor T51 blueprint, Electric Motorcycle blueprint, T-45 power armor, Minigun, 1.000 5mm rounds, Cryolator, 200 cryo cell, Machine Gun Turret Mk1 blueprint, electric car blueprint, Kellogg gun, Righteous Authority, Ashmaker, Furious Power Fist, Full set combat armor blueprint, M240 7.62mm machine guns blueprint, Automatic Assault Rifle blueprint, and Humvee blueprint.
• Active Quest:-