Elias Park stood in Mara Chen's loft, the hum of her servers filling the air like a distant storm. The USB drive sat in his hand, small and unassuming, but it felt like a live grenade. Mara leaned against a cluttered desk, her arms crossed, her eyes unreadable. The clipboard from Warehouse 17 lay between them, its notes about "memory overwrites" and "Veil protocol" burning a hole in Park's mind. The rain outside battered New Jericho's skyline, a relentless reminder that time was slipping away.
"Plug it in," Mara said, nodding at a laptop glowing faintly in the corner. Her voice was calm, but Park caught the edge in it, the same edge she'd had years ago when she'd tipped him off about a dirty cop—right before everything went to hell with Sarah.
He hesitated, his thumb brushing the drive's smooth surface. "What's on it, Mara? No games. You knew about The Veil before I walked into that warehouse."
Mara's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "You want answers, Elias? That drive's got them. But you won't like what you see."
Park's jaw tightened. He crossed the room, dodging a tangle of cables, and slid the drive into the laptop. The screen flickered, a password prompt popping up. Mara leaned over, her fingers flying across the keys, entering a string of characters too fast for him to follow. The screen went black, then lit up with a video feed.
Grainy footage showed a sterile room, not unlike the lab in Warehouse 17. A woman—Dr. Lena Voss, unmistakable from her file photo—sat strapped to a chair, her face pale but defiant. Electrodes snaked from her scalp to a machine, its lights pulsing like a heartbeat. A man in a suit, his face obscured, leaned close, his voice distorted but cold. "The implant's ready, Doctor. Tell us the access code, or we start rewriting you."
Voss's eyes narrowed. "You'll get nothing," she spat. The man gestured, and the machine hummed louder. Voss's body jerked, her scream cut off as the footage ended.
Park's stomach churned. "What the hell was that?"
Mara's face was grim. "Proof. The Veil's got Voss, and they're using her tech. That implant—it can erase memories, plant new ones. They're testing it on her."
"For what?" Park's voice was low, dangerous. "Control? Blackmail?"
"Power," Mara said. "New Jericho runs on secrets. Imagine rewriting a mayor's memory, or a CEO's. Or a cop's." Her eyes met his, and Park felt a chill. He thought of Sarah, the raid that went wrong, the gaps in his memory that never added up.
"Where'd you get this?" he demanded, stepping closer. Mara didn't flinch, but her hand drifted to a knife on her desk.
"Old contacts," she said. "I've been digging into The Veil since you and I… parted ways. They're not just criminals, Elias. They're in the walls—city hall, the precinct, everywhere."
Park's phone buzzed, breaking the tension. Another text from an unknown number: You saw the video. Stop now, or you're next. His blood ran cold. He glanced at Mara, who was watching him too closely.
"They're tracking me," he said, holding up the phone. "How?"
Mara snatched it, her fingers moving fast as she pried off the back. A tiny chip, no bigger than a grain of rice, gleamed under the battery. "Tracker," she muttered, crushing it under her boot. "Sloppy. They're getting desperate."
"Or they're toying with me," Park said. He grabbed the USB drive, yanking it from the laptop. "I need to find Voss. Where's that video from?"
Mara hesitated, then sighed. "I don't know the exact location, but I've got a lead. Tommy Vega mentioned a shipment at the docks tonight—same kind of van you saw. Could be a drop-off. Pier 9, midnight."
Park checked his watch: 11:15 p.m. "You're coming with me," he said, not a question. Mara raised an eyebrow but grabbed a jacket, her knife disappearing into a sleeve.
The docks were darker now, the rain heavier, turning Pier 9 into a slick, shadowed maze. Park and Mara moved low, sticking to the cover of stacked containers. His Glock was drawn, his flashlight off to avoid attention. Mara's silence was unnerving—she was too calm, like she knew more than she was letting on.
"There," she whispered, pointing to a black van parked near a warehouse, its engine idling. Two figures stood nearby, one holding a case, the other scanning the dark. Park's pulse quickened. The case matched Tommy's description from the lab.
"Stay here," he told Mara, but she was already moving, slipping toward the van like a ghost. Park cursed under his breath and followed, his boots splashing in puddles. As they neared, one of the figures turned, his face catching the light—scarred, hard, familiar. Park's memory flickered: Seoul, three years ago, a man in a suit watching from an alley as Sarah bled out.
Before he could react, Mara hissed, "Trap!" A floodlight snapped on, blinding them. Tires screeched as the van peeled out, and gunfire erupted, bullets pinging off the containers. Park dove, dragging Mara behind a crate. His heart pounded, the memory of Sarah's death clawing at him—gunshots, blood, that same scarred face.
"Move!" he barked, returning fire. The shooters—three now, all in black—advanced, their movements too precise, military. Mara pulled a device from her pocket, a small EMP, and tossed it. A pulse rippled out, killing the floodlight and plunging the pier into darkness.
They ran, weaving through the containers, the shooters' shouts fading behind them. Park's lungs burned, but he didn't stop until they reached his car, parked a block away. Mara slid into the passenger seat, breathing hard. "You saw him, didn't you?" she said, her voice low. "The guy with the scar."
Park's hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white. "Yeah. From Seoul. The night Sarah died."
Mara's eyes softened, just for a moment. "The Veil was there, Elias. They've been in your life longer than you know."
He started the engine, the city's lights smearing through the rain. The USB drive was in his pocket, the clipboard in the backseat, and the memory of that scarred face burned into his mind. Voss was out there, and The Veil was closing in. Park didn't know who to trust—not Mara, not himself—but he'd find the truth, even if it broke him.