The docks of New Jericho smelled like diesel and decay, a graveyard of rusted shipping containers and forgotten dreams. Elias Park moved through the shadows, his boots silent on the wet asphalt, the rain a steady drumbeat against his coat. Warehouse 17 loomed ahead, its corrugated walls streaked with salt and grime, a single floodlight casting jagged shadows. Tommy Vega's tip was thin—a black van, no plates, hauling something from Voss's lab. Thin, but it was all Park had.
He checked his Glock, the weight of it a cold comfort, and slipped Mara's USB drive into his pocket. Her note—Careful, Park. They're already watching—gnawed at him. Mara Chen had a knack for showing up when the world started to crack, always with one foot in the fire. He didn't trust her, not after she'd ghosted him during the Sarah Dunne case, but her intel was rarely wrong. If The Veil was real, and they were watching, he was already a target.
The warehouse door was ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning. Park's flashlight beam cut inside, revealing crates stacked like tombstones, their labels faded. His pulse ticked up, senses sharp. The air was thick with the tang of metal and something else—chemical, sharp, like bleach gone wrong. He stepped inside, the door creaking behind him, and froze. Footsteps, faint but deliberate, echoed from deeper within.
"Police," Park called, his voice low, steady, though his gut screamed trap. No answer, just the drip of water somewhere in the dark. He moved forward, gun raised, weaving through the crates. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a figure darting behind a stack. Too fast to be Tommy, too cautious to be a dockworker.
"Show yourself," Park said, his beam pinning the spot. Silence. Then a metallic clatter, like a tool hitting the floor. He rounded the crate, heart pounding, and found nothing but a wrench lying in a puddle. His eyes narrowed. Someone was playing games.
His phone buzzed, the vibration jarring in the quiet. A text from an unknown number: Leave now, or you won't leave at all. Park's jaw clenched. He pocketed the phone and pressed on, following a faint hum, like machinery waking up. The sound led him to a steel door at the warehouse's far end, padlocked but new, out of place in the decay. He pulled a lockpick from his coat, the old skill coming back like muscle memory. The lock clicked open, and he eased the door ajar.
Inside was a makeshift lab—sterile, modern, wrong. Stainless steel tables held vials, monitors, and a device that looked like a cross between a headset and a torture rig. Neural tech, Park realized, his stomach twisting. Voss's work. Cables snaked to a server rack, its lights blinking like a heartbeat. He scanned the room, spotting a clipboard with handwritten notes: Subject 7: Memory overwrite successful. Veil protocol active.
Before he could read more, a shadow moved behind him. Park spun, gun up, but the figure was gone. A low chuckle echoed, cold and deliberate, from the dark. "You're out of your depth, Detective," a voice said, male, accented, unfamiliar. "Voss belongs to us."
Park's beam swept the room, finding nothing. "Us?" he said, keeping his voice steady. "You The Veil?"
The chuckle again, closer now. "You say it like it's a name. It's a truth. You can't stop what's already everywhere."
A crate crashed behind him, and Park ducked as a knife slashed through the air where his head had been. He fired blindly, the gunshot deafening in the enclosed space. Footsteps scrambled, fading fast. Park gave chase, weaving through the warehouse, but the attacker was gone, swallowed by the docks' maze. His breath was ragged, adrenaline burning. He'd been set up.
Back at the lab, he grabbed the clipboard and a vial, stuffing them into his coat. The server's lights flickered faster now, a countdown. Park didn't wait to find out what it meant. He sprinted for the exit as a low whine filled the air, growing shrill. The warehouse erupted in a flash of heat and light, the blast throwing him to the ground outside. Ears ringing, he rolled to his knees, coughing through the smoke. Warehouse 17 was a pyre, flames licking the sky.
He stumbled to his car, the clipboard crumpled but intact. The vial had cracked, a faint glow leaking from it, stinging his skin. He tossed it into the glovebox, his hands shaking. The text on his phone glowed in the dark: Next time, we don't miss.
Park drove, the city's neon blurring past. He needed answers, and Mara was his best bet. Her loft was in the tech district, a rat's nest of wires and secrets. He pounded on her door, the clipboard under his arm. "Mara, open up. Now."
The door cracked, revealing Mara Chen's sharp eyes, her black hair pulled into a messy bun. "You look like hell, Park," she said, stepping aside. Her loft was a chaos of monitors and takeout boxes, a server humming in the corner. "What's got you spooked?"
He tossed the clipboard on her table. "Warehouse 17. Voss's lab. Someone tried to kill me, and they blew it to hell. You know anything about The Veil?"
Mara's face didn't change, but her fingers twitched, a tell. "You're chasing ghosts," she said, but her eyes flicked to the clipboard. "What's that?"
"Proof," Park said, voice hard. "Voss was building something—neural tech, memory wipes. The Veil's got it, and they're not playing. You warned me they're watching. Start talking, Mara."
She hesitated, then sighed, pulling up a chair. "Plug that USB I gave you into my system. But don't say I didn't warn you, Elias. Once you see what's on it, there's no going back."
Park pulled the drive from his pocket, his gut telling him he was already in too deep. The Veil wasn't just a name—it was a noose, and it was tightening around his neck.