..
The truck was already full—front and back seats crammed, with several bags containing clothes on their laps. Damian climbed into the boot instead, where bags filled with severed, valuable Ncrogyph parts gave off a faint, metallic odor and a strong decaying smell. He braced himself near the edge, gripping the rim as the engine roared to life.
The truck rumbled toward the Fort's inner lot.
---
-
---
What's the worst that can happen, he said…
..
---
Location: Johannesburg - Fort Sentinel - Sector A - Hallway.
Year: 2026.
Date: April 1st.
POV: Third Person.
Time: 7:41 PM.
---
The hallways of Sector A thrummed with life, a narrow artery of humanity in the heart of the Fort. People moved in clusters—some in pairs, others in boisterous groups of five or six—laughing, trading jokes, and carrying an energy that almost pretended the world outside wasn't on it's heads. The faint hum of conversation and shuffling boots bounced against the concrete walls, broken here and there by the hollow clang of distant doors and the metallic squeak of overhead pipes.
Not everyone shared the carefree mood. A few stragglers walked alone, their eyes heavy, their expressions detached—present in body, absent in spirit.
Through this bustle moved a large group of seven, their formation tight as they headed in the same direction. Conversations sparked here and there among them, but most ears tuned to the exchange between two figures walking near the rear.
Marcus cast a glance to his side. "You never really said where we're going," he pressed, his tone carrying both curiosity and slight unease.
Damian, walking with steady strides and eyes fixed forward, answered without hesitation. "…Fort Nyoka, up north."
Marcus arched a brow, nodding slowly. "I see. And how exactly do we get there? Car? Bike?" His mind already ticked through the logistics: fuel, maintenance, food, spare parts. Survival was all about strength and preparation.
"We're walking," Damian said flatly, without a shred of doubt.
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks, so abruptly that Damian half-expected to hear the screech of cartoon brakes echo through the corridor.
"Wait—what? We're walking?!" His voice cracked with disbelief, drawing curious looks from a few passersby. "A thousand miles?!" His face was a mix of shock and comic dumbfoundedness.
Damian halted too, tilting his head slightly as if Marcus's reaction puzzled him. "A thousand and fifty miles, to be exact. What? Is there a problem?"
Marcus's jaw worked uselessly, opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Y-you're joking, right?" He spun toward the others who had also stopped from his earlier exclamation. "You guys hear this? He wants us to walk it!" His hand shot out, thumb jabbing toward Damian like he'd just proposed leaping into a volcano.
"Of course there's a problem! Walking that far? That's three weeks at least—three! And that's if we push ourselves. Not to mention the things we'd run into along the way. It's suicide." Marcus's voice rose, then lowered into a troubled mutter as he shook his head.
Damian's face remained calm, almost detached, as he posed his counter. "I see. Then do you have a car? Or any means of transportation?"
His even tone unsettled Marcus more than if he'd snapped. Was Damian simply arrogant, or did he have the strength to back up such calm certainty?
"I don't have one," Marcus admitted, his brow furrowed, "but we can trade for one. Didn't you think of that?" His suspicion flared.
'It seems like he didn't… Otherwise, he'd have arranged it already. Unless… no—if he came out of a dungeon, he must've gotten valuable Relics. Maybe he just didn't think of it... Or he doesn't want to part with them.'
Damian Derulo "Yes. I did," Damian replied simply.
Of course he had thought of that, but he couldn't, not because the Relics he had at hand were worthless but the exact opposite, they were too valuable. Some of the items were too valuable and useful to part with while the others WILL definitely draw unwanted attention to himself, and that was the last thing Damian wanted.
Marcus blinked, thrown off by the curt answer. "Then—?"
Damian's lips parted to explain, but the flow of the hallway shifted. A much larger group rounded the corner and moved toward them, forcing them to break stride.
Hustin Bright "Maybe keep this for the room," Hustin suggested, his voice pragmatic as his gaze flicked to the crowd. The group nodded, falling silent as they continued on.
Minutes later, they reached the entrance to their assigned room—only to find someone slumped against the wall beside the door.
A familiar figure.
Amy Williams "Kai?" Amy's voice carried both recognition and concern.
Kai sat like a discarded doll, his back pressed against the wall, knees bent, head hanging until her voice coaxed it up. His eyes, bloodshot and ringed with heavy bags, met hers sluggishly.
He looked terrible. His clothes were rumpled, his once neat black hair disheveled into a tangled mess. His lips were cracked, his skin pale, and his posture radiated exhaustion. He looked like a man ground down by endless nights of caffeine and despair.
Hustin Bright "Dude…" Hustin muttered, his tone low, "you look horrible."
Kai's gaze drifted over the group, dull but searching. Then it locked onto one person.
Hannah.
Her hand trembled as it rose to cover her mouth, her eyes wide and already glossing with tears.
Kai struggled to his feet, nearly stumbling but steadying himself with sheer will. He took one step forward, then another, closing the space until he stood before her, his eyes pleading.
Kai Renji "Hannah," his voice cracked, hoarse and raw, "can I talk to you?… Please."
Her heart clenched painfully at the sight of him. He looked broken. And yet—she said nothing.
She turned, wordless, and walked back down the hallway, her steps quick but not harsh. Kai followed without hesitation, a shadow chasing the only light left to him.
As she passed Marcus, Hannah glanced briefly at him. For a fleeting second, something flickered in her eyes—a reaction she was expecting—but Marcus didn't return the look. His jaw was clenched, his gaze locked forward at the noisy intersection ahead.
Damian's eyes tracked the exchange, lingering on Marcus before flicking back to the retreating pair. His expression gave nothing away, but inside, his judgment was cold.
'This… this is what love does to you,' Damian thought, shutting the door on the moment as he turned his attention away.
---
-
| A Couple Of Minutes Ago |
---
Location: Johannesburg - Fort Sentinel - Sector A - Third Barrack.
POV: Third Person.
Time: 7:36 PM.
--
The third barrack of Fort Sentinel was quieter than most parts of Sector A. While many of the barracks were loud with chatter, training noises, and the occasional outburst of laughter, this one carried a more professional air. Offices lined the hall, each belonging to different personnel, but one in particular was about to set into motion a chain of events with unforeseen consequences.
The office was relatively well-kept compared to the rest of the offices in the underground bunker. A ceiling fan rotated lazily above, cutting through the cold evening air, while wide windows allowed faint gusts of cool night breeze to sweep in. The walls were painted a flat military green, worn but clean. Against one side stretched a large bookshelf stacked with binders, manuals, and official documents. At the heart of the room sat a wide wooden desk, its surface cluttered with reports—neatly stacked to one side, but spread haphazardly before the man who occupied it.
That man was Sergeant David Mbeki, a seasoned officer in his late thirties. His square jaw was shadowed by a rough stubble, and his posture carried the weight of years in uniform. Dressed in standard military fatigues, his rank insignia gleamed on his chest. Resting on the corner of his desk was a military walkie-talkie, its faint static occasionally breaking the silence.
Before him stood a new recruit—Private Jackson, a young, dark-skinned soldier whose nerves were still obvious in his rigid stance. Arms glued to his sides, shoulders squared, he stood at full attention as though carved from stone. Today had been his first official day in service.
Private Jackson "I've ended my last shift for the day, Sergeant, sir," Jackson said, his voice steady but edged with the stiffness of someone unused to speaking freely to superiors.
The sergeant glanced up from his paperwork, studying him for a beat before nodding. "Good work, Private Jackson. How was your first day?" His voice was calm, measured—carrying that balance of authority and mentorship seasoned officers often held.
"It was fine, sir," Jackson replied crisply.
A short chuckle rumbled from the sergeant's throat as he flipped another page of his report. "Relax, Private. No need to be wound so tight in here. You can clock out for the day."
"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" Jackson saluted, already turning toward the door with relief flashing in his eyes. But as he moved, his gaze flicked toward the desk—specifically toward one document spread across it.
He froze.
The sergeant, noticing the pause, lowered his pen. His eyes narrowed. "Private… is there a problem?"
Jackson swallowed. "N-no, sir. It's just… that image, sir." He pointed hesitantly at the sketched diagram on the page. "It looks similar to a crystal I saw earlier today. A civilian had one."
A silence dropped heavy over the room. The fan above creaked as it spun, the only sound filling the space.
The sergeant's eyes sharpened. Slowly, he rose from his chair, his boots scraping against the tiled floor. "What?" His voice was quiet, but carried weight.
Jackson straightened further, nerves sparking in his chest. "Yes, sir. I saw a crystal like that this morning… and again this evening. With the same man."
The sergeant snatched the document from the desk, his movements sudden. He approached Jackson, holding the page up to him, his brows furrowed in controlled intensity. "Private. Are you telling me a civilian is in possession of something like this?" His voice betrayed the effort it took to keep his composure.
Jackson flinched but did not back down. "Yes, sir. Though… there were multiple crystals. They aren't identical, but definitely of the same kind."
Sergeant Mbeki 'Multiple?' His mind raced through possibilities—each more concerning than the last.
"What do you mean 'they aren't identical'?" The sergeant's grip on the paper tightened slightly.
Jackson continued, words tumbling out with a mix of honesty and unease. "The crystals I saw were similar to that one without a doubt, sir. But they looked… different. Almost like upgraded versions. Higher quality. More refined."
The sergeant's expression hardened, though his pulse quickened beneath the mask of discipline. His eyes flicked toward the walkie-talkie resting on his desk.
He crossed the room in two strides, lifted the device, and pressed down the transmitter.
*Kchhh*
Sergeant Mbeki "Iron Sergeant One reporting. Priority report—code purple. Connect me to the Lieutenant Colonel. Over."
The air in the office seemed to tighten. Jackson's throat went dry at the mention of the Lieutenant Colonel. A knot of dread formed in his gut.
*Kchhh*
"Iron Sergeant One acknowledged. Stand by."
Moments later, the walkie crackled again.
*Kchhh*
??? "What is it?" A commanding voice cut sharply through the static. The tone carried authority so sharp it seemed to pierce the air.
The sergeant straightened instinctively. "Sir, a private under my command claims to have seen several Oblivion Shards… in the possession of a civilian male."
The silence that followed was more suffocating than before. Every second felt stretched, each one pressing down on Jackson like a physical weight.
Finally, the Lieutenant Colonel's voice returned, calm but cold.
??? "Bring him to me."
*Kchhh*
The channel closed.
The sergeant lowered the device, his face unreadable as he set it back onto the desk. Then his gaze lifted to Jackson—sharp, expectant, unrelenting.
"Where is he?"
---
-
| Present Time |
---
Location: Johannesburg - Fort Sentinel - Sector A - Room HT-43.
POV: Third Person.
Time: 7:54 PM.
--
Blissfully unaware of the storm in front of him clouding an even greater storm, Damian sat in the bunk of Marcus having a discussion on their plans for the next day, plans that might not come into fruition.
Marcus Hale "Alright — let's hear it." Marcus was cross-legged on his own bed, casual as a landlord, waiting for someone to justify a decision.
Damian Derulo "Hear what?" Damian asked, leaning back with Lunar Fang propped against the wall beside him like a silent argument.
Marcus shrugged a shoulder and propped his chin on his fist. "Your reason for not trading for a transport. We're not walking the whole way."
Damian's answer was flat. "Because I can't."
Marcus blinked, clearly annoyed. "What do you mean 'can't'? Is it that you don't want to trade Or you don't have anything to trade with?"
Damian rubbed at his face beneath the mask and let out a soft, weary sigh. "It's that I don't want to."
"Because?" Marcus pressed, fingers tapping the mattress. He wanted details. He wanted logistics.
"The items I have are too useful to part with." Damian's voice was careful; it revealed just enough to be truthful without inviting questions.
Marcus's expression shifted — calculating, then resigned. "Fine. Then I'll handle the trading." He was thinking fast, inventory running over in his head: the Necroglyph stashed in a Fort warehouse, other goods that could buy a vehicle, a driver was not needed since he could drive. Logistics — Marcus loved the language of logistics.
The bunkroom door opened. Sofia, Kai and Hannah drifted in like a small weather front. Marcus watched them, then turned back to Damian.
Kai Renji "Marcus, Hannah says you're leaving the Fort tomorrow." Kai's eyes flickered with an awkward brightness — he looked a touch steadier after whatever conversation he'd had with Hannah earlier.
Marcus Hale "That's right." Marcus didn't bother hiding the tilt in his voice.
"Why?" Kai asked. He had been better after talking to Hannah; now something in the air tightened again.
Marcus exhaled, a tiny, rueful laugh hiding in the words. "Because I have feelings for Hannah. And I can't stand the sight of you two together."
Silence dropped like a curtain. Hannah froze, her face an open question, she hadn't expected Marcus to say those words. Sofia's eyes widened, then narrowed, trying to parse the confession. Kai's posture collapsed inward — shock and betrayal punctured him.
"What did you say?" Kai asked, hoping his ears had misheard.
"Oh? She didn't tell you?" Marcus smiled — the kind that reached the lips but not the eyes. "I told her. I told her everything."
Kai's face tightened. He moved without thinking and grabbed Marcus by the collar, hauling him upright.
"Why her?" Kai's voice cracked. "Why not anyone else? Why her?"
Marcus sneered and let a cruel grin draw slow across his face. "Why you ask? Man, you can be such an idiot sometimes. I mean look at her — she's fucking pretty, great rack, and that ass *whistles*… Is something else" His gaze blatantly roved over Hannah like a scavenger assessing spoil. "I thought if I told her about your cheating she'd dump your sorry ass."
The room reeled. Hannah's jaw slackened; Sofia's expression flickered between disgust and disbelief. Damian, arms folded, legs crossed, arched a single eyebrow — detached, a stone watching a river of emotion.
Damian's thoughts were icily controlled. 'What are you doing, Marcus?' he wondered, watching the predator play his hand.
"Shut up." Kai's fingers dug into Marcus's shirt until his knuckles went white.
Marcus kept talking, the grin widening with the cruelty of it. "But damn I underestimated how foolishly in love she was with you, man I could have smashed that ass for days—" He didn't finish. Kai's fist answered for him.
The first punch sent Marcus stumbling to the floor. But Kai didn't stop there. He rose and drove more blows in, over and over, a flurry of anger. Hannah covered her mouth with both hands, trembling, tears brimming with the kind of shock that breaks softly from the eyes. She wanted to say something — anything — but the words lodged like stones.
Sofia's face was hard, carved clean of all other emotion but anger. She glanced at Damian, expecting for him to act. He didn't. He sat, still and composed, his dark eyes unreadable. A cold amusement played across his masked features.
Damian Derulo 'Is that anger I see?' Damian watched Sofia's face with slight surprise. "How disgustingly hypocritical," he muttered under his breath; the sound was small, venomous.
Kai's fists came again, driven by a grief that tasted of betrayal and shame. On the ninth strike the bedroom door opened wide and a voice cut through the chaos.
Suddenly the bedroom door was opened by Riko stood frozen in the threshold, mid-sentence about Hannah's Title and a ridiculous notion of a hot tub. The sight of Kai battering Marcus stole the frivolity clean away.
Hustin barreled in behind her and yanked Kai off, hauling him away from slaughter. "What the hell, man? You trying to kill him?" Hustin's voice was both incredulous and panicked, a pull back to whatever restraint remained.
Amy was already kneeling by Marcus, her fingers delicate and urgent. "Marcus — are you okay?" She tried to sit him up, support him, voice shaking.
Blood ran down Marcus's face, dampening his hair and matting along his jaw. He coughed once, small and rattled, the sound ragged.
Amy whispered the name of a Facet under her breath: "[Lunar Bloom.]" Her glowing palm brushed the floor; silver light shimmered and moonflowers spiraled up through fissures, blooming in a pale circle around Marcus. The effect soothed, knitting flesh with a quiet, clinical precision. His jaw reset with a sick, sharp pop; bruises cooled in the bloom's light.
Riko's voice was high, thin with fury. "Why didn't you do anything? You just stood there while Marcus was being beaten!"
Damian's reply was calm and cold. "First, it isn't my business. Second — I said the next time one of you was in danger I'd look the other way." Each word fell like a verdict; those who knew his old promise felt it strike home.
The room went quieter than before. A few looked stunned, a few horrified. Some had long suspected Damian's capacity for detachment; others had never believed he would follow through.
"And besides," he added, uncrossing his legs, "I was about to do something before you spoke."
Riko blinked, thrown off balance. "What?"
Damian's eyes cut to Marcus, watching the healing take a visible, antiseptic pace. He rose, walked to the wall, and set his hands on Lunar Fang. The blade slid free with a hush like steel through silk.
"I'm going to cut off his arm," Damian said, flat as a budget report, and the room felt the gravity of it like a dropped ledger. The cold weight of the threat moved through them — a real boundary crossed.
Sofia's face drained of color. "What did you just say?" Her voice trembled between disbelief and alarm.
Damian's patience snapped like a brittle wire. His voice hardened, dangerously calm. "Shut up. One more word from you and your boyfriend's arm won't be the only thing I cut off."
For a second Sofia's spine stiffened and Hannah flinched at Damian calling Kai "Sofia's boyfriend." The misnaming sliced — an offhanded, deliberate humiliation. Every face in the room registered the same dread: Damian's words were not idle. They were a contract signed in steel.
--
| With Amy |
--
The silver glow of the moon-infused flowers gradually faded, the petals wilting back into the floor as their magic was spent—vanishing without a trace. The air grew still again, carrying only the faint scent of night-blooming lilies. Marcus's injuries had vanished — bones set, flesh knitted — but his body still sagged unconscious, streaked with blood like paint on a broken canvas. Amy exhaled softly, brushing damp strands of hair from her temple; the cost of pushing Lunar Bloom to its limit weighed visibly on her.
[Lunar Bloom] -
Even if the Facet's description stated that it can either heal or harm—depending on the thoughts of the user, it was more oriented towards harming, so pushing it's healing capabilities was consuming way more Atherium than needed.
--
| Back With Them |
--
Kai — the one in question, the man whose fists still trembled with fury and panic from his actions — unconsciously staggered back when Damian's cold eyes settled on him. It was not just a look. It was a weight, an intent that pressed against the room like an executioner's shadow.
Hustin, ever the steady one, stepped forward, sliding between them like a shield. "Damian, calm down. I don't know what the hell went down here, but cutting off his arm isn't going to help anyone." His voice carried authority — firm, level, the tone of someone who had learned how to cool tempers before steel was drawn.
Damian didn't so much as blink. He advanced two steps, his height casting a shadow over Hustin until they stood face-to-face. His voice was low, deliberate. "Move."
Hustin braced, jaw tight.
"Damian, please." Amy's voice cracked from across the room. She had just laid Marcus gently onto his bed and now stood with her hands hovering helplessly in front of her. Her cheeks were slightly pale, her breathing labored from exertion. "Listen to him. Let's talk this out."
But the room grew hotter, sharper, and all eyes turned toward Sofia. Flames licked alive in her palm, a growing sphere of fire hovering above her hand. Her face was flushed with anger, lips curled back in a snarl.
"I can't believe this." Her voice trembled with wrath. "He threatened me — he threatened Kai — and you're all just standing there? Doing nothing?"
"Sofia, stop!" Amy raised both hands in alarm. "Put that away, you're making it worse!"
Sofia's eyes burned hotter than the fire she conjured. "No one threatens me and walks away from it." Her arm rose, the fireball swelling until its light painted their faces orange, ready to launch toward Damian.
But the door slammed open before she could release it.
Four armed soldiers stormed in, rifles raised, boots pounding against the metal floor. "Nobody move!" barked the lead man, his rifle sweeping the room. Behind him entered a broad-shouldered sergeant, steps measured, gaze sharp as he surveyed the chaos.
A second soldier followed close, halting just behind the sergeant. Damian's eyes locked on him — and for the first time in a few hours since the bird incident, something flickered beneath the Hollow Veil. His grip on his sheathed sword tightened. That soldier's presence meant complication, meant trouble.
Sergeant Mbeki "Is that him, Private?" the sergeant asked without looking back.
Private Jackson snapped to attention. "Yes, sir." His eyes flicked once to Damian before fixing forward, expression iron-still.
"Alright, you can go."
"Yes, sir!" Jackson saluted crisply, spun on his heel, and marched out without so much as a glance at the others.
The sergeant stepped forward, posture unshaken, voice calm yet commanding. "Young man, put that sword away."
Instantly, the four rifles in the room angled toward Damian, triggers itching for the smallest excuse.
Damian's mind calculated in silence. His eyes narrowed, but after a breath, he slowly slid Lunar Fang back into its sheath. The metallic click was soft, but it cut through the air louder than any shout. He let his stance ease, though the tension never left his frame.
"Miss Sofia," the sergeant said, his tone shifting to a surprising shade of respect.
Damian frowned, noting the subtle deference in his voice.
"Why should I listen to you?" Sofia shot back, her flame still burning though smaller now. "He threatened me and Kai — in front of everyone."
"Because the Lieutenant Colonel demands his presence." The sergeant's words carried finality, a stamp of authority none in the room could refute.
At the name, the fireball flickered and then shrank, collapsing into nothing. The weight of the Lieutenant Colonel's title was enough to smother even Sofia's pride.
Shock rippled through the group. The Lieutenant Colonel — the highest authority in Fort Sentinel. If he had called for Damian, then whatever it was about was no minor squabble.
"What does my father want with him?" Sofia's brows furrowed, her voice laced with visible distaste as her eyes flicked toward Damian.
"I'm sorry, Miss Sofia, but that's strictly confidential." The sergeant didn't flinch as he turned back to Damian. His voice cut clean and sharp. "Damian Derulo. You will come with us. Bring your bag." His tone with a hint of finality.
Damian's grip tightened on the sheath at his hip. Behind his Hollow Veil, his thoughts turned like the cogs of a machine.
Option one: Fight. Strike fast, let Nyxi unleash hell. But soldiers don't hesitate. They would fire, bullets cutting through flesh before he cleared a path. Even if he managed the impossible — dropped them all — more were outside the door. Also escaping the Fort would be suicide.
Option two: Flee on the way. Pretend to comply, then vanish into the shadows. But he wasn't faster than lead. He wasn't arrogant enough to believe he could sprint past a fortress lined with guns.
Option three: Comply. Walk into the lion's den, face the Lieutenant Colonel, and pray an opportunity presented itself — maybe even take him hostage. Risky. If the Colonel was stronger — and he likely was — then best case, Damian walked out. Worst case… he tests whether his [Undying] Resonance was truly what it is said to be.
A grim calm settled over him. 'Seems like I'll be testing the validity of that Resonance tonight,' he thought, his emotions, fear, panic, and anxiousness were all dulled to a hum by the Hollow Veil.
He strapped his sword at his side, bent down, and retrieved his bag from under Marcus's bunk, giving a once over Marcus unconscious figure before slinging it across his chest, he rose and gave the sergeant a small, wordless nod.
The sergeant's eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to measure him, but he didn't comment. "Follow."
Damian stepped past the threshold into the corridor. Six more soldiers waited outside, three on each side of the door, rifles raised and ready. The black-skinned Private Jackson was absent, already gone — perhaps reporting, perhaps disappearing into the shadows with knowledge Damian currently wished he did have.
"To the Lieutenant Colonel's office," the sergeant commanded.
"Sir, yes sir!" the soldiers answered in unison, the metallic chorus of rifles shifting back into order.
And so Damian walked forward, the storm inside the Fort closing around him with each step.
---
-
---
Location: Johannesburg - Fort Sentinel - Sector B - A Quiet Hall-way.
POV: First Person - David Mbeki.
Time: 8:49 PM.
--
The walk toward the Lieutenant Colonel's office felt almost leisurely, yet beneath that calm veneer, unease gnawed at me. The civilians scattered through the hallway instinctively moved aside when they saw us coming. Some whispered to one another in hushed tones, their eyes darting toward the figure at the center of our formation. Others pretended not to notice, but their stiff posture betrayed their curiosity.
They were all wondering the same thing I was—who exactly is Damian Derulo, and why does he move as though this entire Fort belongs to him?
The ten [Nameless] soldiers surrounded him in an H-shaped formation: two flanking his sides, four leading the way in a sharp triangular wedge, and another four behind in a mirrored, inverted triangle. I brought up the rear, my gaze fixed on him, studying every subtle shift of his body.
My eyes lingered on the duffle bag slung across his shoulder. A heavy weight seemed to hang in the air around it, pressing on my nerves. I already knew what it carried. Oblivion Shards. Enough to change the fate of entire battalions, maybe even the entirety of Fort Sentinel. The thought alone tightened my jaw, and before I realized it, a frown had carved its way onto my face.
"He's calm," I muttered under my breath, though only in thought. 'Too calm.'
It was unnatural. Ever since we'd escorted him from Room HT-43, he hadn't resisted, hadn't tried to bolt, hadn't so much as twitched with impatience. He simply followed, step for step, as if this was a casual evening stroll. No tension in his shoulders. No fear in his eyes. Just… composure.
That composure unsettled me more than any act of defiance could have.
I caught myself narrowing my eyes. Is it possible he was expecting this?
The idea sent a ripple of unease down my spine. No. No, that's impossible. Any normal man, after what happened, would've fled the Fort the first chance he got. No one would walk into the lion's den so willingly.
And yet, I couldn't shake the thought. If he was expecting us, if this was all part of his plan… then what is he up to?
I exhaled slowly, trying to ease the tension building in my chest. My mind sought the safest explanation, one that didn't paint Damian Derulo as some unfathomable threat.
Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he doesn't even realize the value of what he's carrying. That must be it.
I nodded to myself, forcing the thought into place like a fragile bandage over a festering wound. Yes, ignorance. That's the only thing that makes sense.
But deep down, in the hollow of my gut, I already knew I didn't believe it.
--
--
We marched on, the sound of our boots echoing off the steel walls as the hallway shifted into the deeper guts of Sector B. Here, the air was different—heavier, disciplined. The chatter of civilians faded, replaced by the rhythmic clatter of soldiers patrolling or standing guard. Their eyes snapped to us the moment we appeared, conversations breaking off mid-sentence.
Every single one of them stopped what they were doing and saluted. Some stiff, formal. Others quick and nervous, their gazes flickering between me and Damian.
I acknowledged a few with curt nods. The rest, I ignored. My focus stayed locked on the man in the middle, calm as ever, walking as though none of this mattered.
We passed through checkpoint after checkpoint, ID confirmations at each. My squad moved with flawless efficiency, never breaking formation, never dropping their guard. Each 'barrier' we cleared only heightened the tension coiling in my gut.
Finally—after what felt longer than it should've—we arrived.
The Lieutenant Colonel's office.
A heavy steel door loomed before us, reinforced with layered plating. The insignia of command gleamed faintly in the fluorescent light above it. Two guards stood stationed outside, their rifles at the ready, their posture sharp as blades.
We had arrived at last.
And still… Damian looked calm.
Too calm.
.
.
.
.
.
.
To Be Continued.....