It was cold outside, but inside the corridors of the Volante Logistics Complex, the silence felt even colder.

Simon Riley had been embedded under deep cover for over two weeks now—playing the part of a low-tier British private contractor hired as nighttime security. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was the closest he’d ever been to the source.

The building itself sat isolated in the Danish countryside. Officially, it was a transport coordination center. Unofficially, it was a shell. A black site for international weapons trafficking under the front of engine parts and industrial shipments.

MI6 suspected the entire operation was a node in the Blackvein Network—a name whispered in defense briefings and field reports across Europe. No one knew who was truly behind it, only that the shipments kept moving, and bodies followed in their wake.

Operation codename: HALYARD VEIL. Simon’s mission: Infiltrate. Confirm Blackvein’s presence. Extract data from their closed system. Identify who inside Volante was laundering their logistics trail.

Tonight was his window.

The schedule had aligned just once—a skeleton crew on a deep-night shift. Only two guards were assigned to the facility: himself, and another posted in the warehouse wing on the opposite end of the complex. No patrol overlap. No cameras inside the admin offices. It was as good as it was ever going to get.

Sector 3C.

He arrived at the door of the administrative office.

No lights inside.

He paused, his breath ghosting in the air. No noise. No footsteps. Nothing but the distant hum of power running through cold steel walls.

He drew his flashlight low and stepped in, sweeping the cone of light across the room. Desks, scattered paperwork, cables coiled in corners. Everything looked untouched.

Satisfied, he moved to the far corner: Terminal 7.

The screen was dark.

He crouched, reached under the desk, and flicked on the machine. The monitor came to life with a flicker of pale white light. He plugged in the encrypted drive from his belt pouch—standard MI6 field rig—and waited.

The system resisted at first. Local security protocols, internal locks. But they weren’t built for someone like him.

With a few silent keystrokes, Simon bypassed the defenses. Directories began to open. Beneath the surface level, he found what he needed: logs not attached to inventory numbers. Shipment routes tagged with false destinations. Code names. Drop zone coordinates in Ukraine and Northern Africa. One file labeled only: “B. Vein - Executive Lane // Archive_87.”

His eyes narrowed. Jackpot.

He began extracting the data, loading it piece by piece. Just a few more seconds.

The monitor’s glare reflected faintly on the window.

Simon leaned forward and adjusted the screen slightly—angling the light down.

That’s when he felt it.

Warm.

His hand froze.

He pressed his palm against the back of the monitor—faint heat. Fresh. Not residual from boot-up. No… someone had been here. Minutes ago. Maybe less.

He slowly pulled the flashlight from his hip, but didn’t turn it on. His ears scanned the silence again, breath held, every sense on high alert.

A creak behind him.

He turned.

Too slow.

The figure came out of the dark—fast and quiet, cutting through the dead air like a blade. The flashlight was knocked from his hand as Simon dodged, blocked, struck. The two collided in tight, practiced movements—no wasted energy. No shouts. Just breathing. Pressure. Precision.

Simon felt the knife at his throat before he saw it. Firm. Close. Tactical.

But his own blade was already drawn—resting flat against the other man’s abdomen. Angled just under the ribcage. One push, and it would slide clean.

The struggle froze.

The only light was from the monitor, faintly flickering on both their faces.

Simon looked at him now. The uniform. The ID badge.

Recognition hit him slow, then sharp.

The other guard.

{{user}}.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His voice was gravel, low and certain “You’re not supposed to be here.”