Elias Park's car tore through New Jericho's streets, the engine's roar barely drowning out the pulse in his ears. Rain lashed the windshield, blurring the city's neon into streaks of red and blue. Mara Chen sat beside him, her knife still in hand, her breath steady despite the gunfire they'd just escaped at Pier 9. The USB drive, the clipboard, and the memory of the scarred man from Seoul weighed on Park like a noose. He didn't know what The Veil wanted, but they knew him—too well.
"Where to?" Mara asked, her voice cutting through the silence. She was wiping down her EMP device, her movements precise, like she hadn't just outrun a kill squad.
"Somewhere safe," Park said, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. No tail, not yet, but The Veil's last text—Next time, we don't miss—echoed in his head. "My place is burned. Yours too, probably."
Mara snorted. "You think I'd still be alive if I didn't have a bolt-hole? Head to the old textile district. I've got a spot."
Park didn't argue. Mara's "spots" were usually traps for anyone else, but he was out of options. The textile district was a ghost town, all shuttered factories and broken windows, perfect for hiding. He turned down a side street, the car's headlights catching graffiti that read The Veil Watches. His grip tightened on the wheel.
The safehouse was a loft above a derelict warehouse, accessible only by a rusted fire escape. Inside, it was bare—concrete floors, a cot, a table with a laptop and a burner phone. Mara locked the door behind them, her knife disappearing into her sleeve. "Sit," she said, pointing to the cot. "You're bleeding."
Park touched his temple, where a shard of crate from the pier had grazed him. Blood smeared his fingers. He ignored it, dropping the clipboard on the table. "Talk, Mara. That video of Voss—what else do you know?"
She hesitated, then pulled up the laptop, plugging in a second drive from her pocket. "You saw the implant. It's not just tech—it's a weapon. The Veil's been funding Voss for years, but she got cold feet. Wanted out. That's why they took her."
Park's mind flashed to the scarred man, his cold eyes in Seoul, watching as Sarah bled out in that alley. "And the guy at the pier? I saw him three years ago, the night my partner died. How's he tied to this?"
Mara's fingers paused on the keyboard. "You're sure it was him?"
"I don't forget faces," Park snapped. "Especially not that one."
She exhaled, pulling up a file—a grainy photo of the scarred man, labeled Subject 4: Operative K. "He's one of theirs. High-level enforcer. No name, just a codename: Kain. The Veil uses him for wet work. If he was in Seoul, your partner's death wasn't an accident."
Park's chest tightened, Sarah's face flashing in his mind—her laugh, her blood, the way she'd trusted him. He shoved the memory down. "Why me? Why are they coming for me now?"
Mara's eyes met his, sharp and unyielding. "Because you're a loose end, Elias. You were in Seoul, sniffing around their ops. They let you live then, but now? You're too close."
Before he could press her, the burner phone on the table buzzed. Park grabbed it, reading the screen: Tommy Vega. Meet me. Redstone Bar. Urgent. His gut twisted. Tommy was a liability, hooked on neural stims, but he'd been right about the van. Park glanced at Mara. "Vega's got something. You coming?"
She shook her head. "I'll dig into the drive, see what else I can pull. But Elias—Tommy's a junkie. Don't trust him."
Park didn't trust anyone, not anymore. He left Mara in the loft, the rain soaking him as he climbed down the fire escape. The Redstone Bar was a dive in the heart of New Jericho's slums, where cops and crooks drank side by side. Park found Tommy in a back booth, his eyes wild, his hands shaking worse than before.
"Park, man, you gotta listen," Tommy whispered, leaning close. His breath reeked of stims. "I saw another van, same kind, at the old power plant. They're moving stuff tonight—cases, like the one at the lab. I heard 'em mention Voss."
Park's pulse quickened. "You sure?"
Tommy nodded, frantic. "Swear it. But they saw me, man. I'm marked."
Park slid him a fifty. "Stay low. I'll check it out." He stood, but Tommy grabbed his arm, his grip desperate.
"They know you're coming, Park. They always know."
The words hit like a punch. Park pulled free, heading for the door. The power plant was on the city's edge, a maze of rusted turbines and broken pipes. If The Veil was moving Voss's tech, he'd find proof—or a fight.
He drove through the rain, the city's lights fading as the plant's silhouette rose against the sky. Park parked a block away, moving on foot, his Glock ready. The plant's gate was open, a bad sign. Inside, the air was thick with dust and oil. He heard voices—low, urgent—coming from a lower level.
Creeping down a stairwell, Park spotted them: two figures loading cases into a van, Kain's scarred face unmistakable under a flickering bulb. A third figure stood in the shadows, watching. Park's breath caught as the figure turned—Captain Regina Holt, her face cold, her hand on a radio.
"Target's here," Holt said into the radio, her voice carrying. "Move in."
Park's world tilted. His captain, his boss, was Veil. He backed away, but a boot scuffed behind him. He spun, too late—a needle jabbed his neck, and the world went black, Kain's scarred face the last thing he saw.