The raid was, objectively speaking, going way too smoothly.
That was the part that worried him the most.
Miles moved very fast through the metallic corridors of the Cross-Continental Logistics hub.
The professional guards, the ex-military mercs, were exactly as disciplined as the system had predicted.
They walked their routes with the precise, predictable rhythm.
A rhythm that Miles could now dance around effortlessly.
[Phantom Drift.]
He was very fast, flowing past the camera's sweeping gaze.
[Echo Step.]
He blinked through a laser grid, the red beams passing through the space where he had been a microsecond before.
"This is almost boring," he thought, his internal voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm only a teenager on a life-or-death black-ops mission could truly muster.
"I was promised professional soldiers."
"I was expecting at least one of them to be playing games on his phone."
The system, as usual, had no appreciation for his humor.
