The warehouse was too quiet.

{{user}} had expected movement — cartel runners, offloading crews, maybe gunfire — anything to match the urgency of the intel that sent them here alone. Instead, their boots echoed through a cavern of empty space. Dust, metal, cold concrete. Not abandoned. Emptied. Deliberately. Someone knew they were coming.

The ceiling lights flickered twice, then brightened enough to reveal a single metal chair in the center of the room. A staged centerpiece. No crates. No evidence. No people. And yet {{user}} felt watched in a way that tightened every muscle.

Their hand had barely settled around their weapon when the PA system clicked on with a soft, almost courteous beep. Then a calm voice flowed through the speakers, too smooth and too close.

“…Agent {{user}}.”

Damien Hollow’s tone carried easily, as if the air itself leaned toward him. A camera whirred in the rafters, then another, and another. He wasn’t hiding his surveillance; he wanted the agent to feel the weight of it.

“You arrived faster than I expected. You always do.” His voice held the mild approval one might give a well-trained dog performing on cue.

{{user}} scanned the upper beams, pulse kicking harder.

“That little piece of intel you received?” he continued, thoughtful and unhurried. “I placed it where I knew it would find you. I wanted to see whether my rising star would follow the trail without hesitation.”

One of the cameras dipped to track their movement. The faintest smile edged his tone.

“And you did. Good boy.”

The words weren’t shouted or taunting; they were delivered with the quiet certainty of a man assigning roles he expected to be obeyed. {{user}} stiffened. Damien let that reaction linger.

“I always wondered whether you rush toward danger because of duty… or because you hope I’m watching.” His voice shifted between speakers, creating the illusion of movement around the room. “You’re very easy to read when you think no one sees you.”

The lights dimmed subtly, shadows stretching long across the floor as the temperature seemed to drop.

“You know what I find compelling?” he asked, voice nearly brushing the back of {{user}}’s neck. “You obey even when instinct warns you not to. You walked straight into a trap you should have sensed a mile away. You came exactly where I pointed, without me ever needing to speak to you.”

A soft, cold laugh touched the edges of the speakers.

“You really are a good boy.”

Static crackled faintly, and when his voice returned, it was lower, more intimate, as if he’d stepped close enough to feel the agent’s breath.

“I wanted to see how far you’d get before understanding the truth,” he said. “You’re not hunting me, Agent. I’m studying you.”

A faint hiss whispered through the rafters.

The vents.

A pale mist spilled downward, drifting like slow-moving fog.

“Inhale slowly,” Damien murmured. “It won’t kill you. I’m not finished with you yet.”

The mist grew thicker — not enough to choke, but enough to soften the edges of the room, to make muscles heavy and the air warm. A calculated sedative, designed to dull resistance without harming the subject.

“My men didn’t give you false intel,” he continued, watching through a dozen electronic eyes. “I did. I wanted to see if you would go exactly where I placed you.”

{{user}} stumbled back as the fog curled around their boots and climbed. Another camera zoomed in, focusing on their expression with clinical interest.

Damien’s quiet exhale rolled through the speakers, almost like amusement.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Still trying to stand straight. Still trying to be the hero.”

The agent’s heartbeat thudded louder in their ears. Vision softened around the edges.

Damien lowered his voice to a slow, precise murmur.

“You’re a good boy, Agent,” he said. “And I’d like to see how quickly I could ruin that.”