OFFSITE PORT – NIGHT - DISTRICT II
Christopher scaled the perimeter wall with quiet urgency, the sky above him starless and black. A small flight-bot zipped beside him, casting a dim blue beam across the concrete.
The terminal beyond the fence was silent, deserted—just a ghost of old shipments and echoes. He checked the address on his comm device again.
This was the place. But why here?
He approached the old security gate where a single surveillance lens blinked red. Christopher gave a cautious wave. The scanner clicked, and the heavy metal door groaned open.
Inside, the contrast was jarring.
The underground facility buzzed with life—technicians, weapons specialists, AI operators, and soldiers moved briskly between glowing control hubs, ammunition crates, and flickering holo-boards. It wasn't a warehouse—it was a war room. A hidden one.
From a raised platform, Butch spotted him.
"Hey, sonny! Come up here. Glad you showed."
Butch's voice was gruff but tinged with something more—anticipation. Maybe relief. Christopher hesitated only for a second before climbing the steps.
The message from Butch had come out of nowhere, right after his visit to Maxwell Erbinger—a name that made his blood run colder than any winter patrol. Something had felt off since that encounter.
He remembered what his older colleague , had said to him that evening.
"Kid... you just kicked the hornet's nest. And when Butch gets ideas, even the devil don't play ball. Whatever happens now—you started this. You fix it."
The words had burrowed deep. Especially since Butch had been distant, operating mostly outside precinct bounds with a private squad of handpicked officers. Rumors had spread.
About black files. About cold cases with missing leads. About Retributor murder - suicides—six, just in the last few weeks. No patterns. No explanations. But Christopher knew something tied them together.
He had gone to Butch.
But Butch had waved it off, too casually. Too fast.
Now, face to face under the buzzing lights, Butch approached him, all teeth and swagger.
"What do you think, kid?" he gestured to the bustling chamber.
Christopher didn't answer. He didn't know how.
That hesitation—that silence—was enough to crack Butch's grin.
"Still stuck in your head, huh? Gotta fix that, son. Because open season's here. We're gonna take those Retributor bastards down one by one."
He clapped Christopher hard on the back, then leaned closer.
"Got a special job for you. sorry for the hiatus, needed to get some things together, You in?"
Before Christopher could speak, a data ping lit up on his wristband. Butch had sent a file. Christopher opened it.
Assignment: Maxwell Erbinger. Detailing: Full Shadow Security Clearance: Temporary/Executive
"Wait, why me?" Christopher's voice was tight. "Why Erbinger? He—"
"That's how we infiltrate the Council," Butch interrupted. "You're close, but not too close. And Max has been very supportive of our cause. We need eyes on him—until the election's over. You've got the appointment. He's expecting you."
Christopher's gut twisted. Everything in him screamed don't. But Butch had already turned toward the exit corridor. No room for argument.
As they passed a junction, two staffers dropped a crate by mistake. A few vials clattered out. Christopher recognized them instantly—illegal bio-suppressants. Nerve drugs. Contraband. Disguised in medical packaging.
Butch barely glanced down, then forced a tight grin.
"Yeah... we're working on destroying those loot boxes," he said, too smooth. "Anyway—have a good night. Wait for my instructions. And kid…"
He looked over his shoulder, eyes suddenly sharp.
"You were never here."
The door slammed behind him with finality.
Christopher stood still for a long time.
Maxwell Erbinger. That name coiled like a viper in his mind. Everything about the man set his nerves on edge. His voice. His smile. His eyes—dead and watching.
He felt the dread settle in his chest like concrete.
And yet... he turned and walked away. Toward the assignment. Toward a growing nightmare he couldn't wake from.