The titanium latches clicked open.
Cold vapor spilled over the metal lip of the unmarked crate. The heavy white fog curled around Caleb's boots in the intake yard.
He reached through the freezing mist. His taped fingers closed around the hilt of a black phase-dagger. The grip was machined from porous Kaiju bone, designed to absorb sweat and blood without slipping. He lifted the weapon. It weighed almost nothing. A contained hum vibrated through the steel core, distorting the air around the edge. It radiated a biting chill against his palm. An ice dagger built for close-quarters butchery.
A restricted execution asset. The military embargoed this hardware from anyone below senior strike clearance.
The polished recruit in the adjacent lane stopped adjusting his branded gloves. The arrogance drained from his face while he stared at the weapon.
Purple text flashed across the cracked glass of Caleb's visor.
[PRIMARY RIGHTS HOLDER: DO NOT DULL THE EDGE ON CHEAP METAL.]
