Instinct kicks in before the siren shatters the silence.
It's not a thought — it's animal intuition, sharpened in flight:
smuggling, betrayal, raids.
A subtle shift —
like a shadow falling on the heart.
A cold vein tightens in the chest.
"Something's wrong."
"Too early. Or... too perfect."
Ivor sits in his cabin.
Dim. Sterile. Like a cryo-pod.
No photos. No documents. Not a single item
betraying a trace of who he really is.
"The personal is a weakness."
"Sentimentality — the first sign of death."
Even the mirror is hidden behind a steel shutter.
He rises. Fast.
Approaches the side panel,
fingers searching for a near-invisible groove.
A click. Quiet. Almost like a sigh.
The lid slides.
Out leaps a kitten —
gray-white, eyes chromed.
Lenses ripple like drops of liquid metal.
"All according to plan. Stay calm."
"Well then, little guy," Ivor whispers, kneeling down.
His voice is barely audible.
His face smiles, his voice warm.
"Your turn to enter the game."
The Charmer tilts its head.
Tail twitching. Movements — precise and silent.
It waits for the signal.
Ivor reaches for the kitten — but he's too late.
A crash.
The doors burst open,
and five storm in.
Armor gleams, stun-batons crackle in the air.
Blinding light slices through the darkness like a blade into a pupil.
"Take him alive!" the commander yells.
But in his voice — not an order. A sentence.
Ivor doesn't think. He acts.
Lunge — knee to the chest.
Elbow — under the chin.
Skull — to the temple.
"No stopping."
"Don't count enemies. Only movement."
One guard falls, knocking into another.
But there are too many.
He takes one more step —
and a charge slams into his chest.
The air cracks.
Smells of ozone and scorched flesh.
His body jolts, but he doesn't fall.
"He's still up!" someone shouts, horrified. "Is that a malfunction?!"
Through clenched teeth, Ivor pushes through the pain.
His face contorted, but his eyes burn with fury.
He almost reaches the shooter —
when the roar of magnetic clamps cuts through.
Metal rings lock around his wrists and ankles.
"Too late. Almost."
Crackle. Sparks. Seizure.
He hangs in midair,
like a predator caught in a snare.
His chest heaves.
Sweat runs down his temples.
But his eyes — direct. Cold.
No pleading. No fear.
**
"Why didn't the stunner work?!" one of the guards gasps.
"Maybe it's empty...?"
"Are you serious? They gave us defective gear?"
"Shut it! Tear everything apart, now!"
They rip into the walls. Crawl under the bed.
Tear through panels and drawers.
And — nothing.
"Empty. Completely. As if... he knew."
"Take him. Interrogation. Now!" the commander barks.
"No more words."
**
Footsteps. Grinding. Metal.
Ivor slams dully against the restraints.
He doesn't resist.
He doesn't look back.
"Plan A failed."
"Now — Plan B."
**
The cabin stills.
The light fades. Silence returns.
Click.
From under the wardrobe, the Charmer slowly creeps out.
Moves smoothly. Like wind in a vacuum.
Its eyes — twin points of predatory light.
It makes no sound.
Just stares toward where Ivor was taken.
Then a built-in implant blinks.
A projection flares on its retina:
map. routes. power nodes.
"Time. He distracted them. Now — my turn."
Target — the command center.
It knows the way.
Because the plan —
the real plan —
is only just beginning.