5:02 PM / August 5th — the world went dark.

One moment the warehouse hummed with fluorescent light, the next it was swallowed in a pitch so complete it felt like the air had thickened.

Your fingers had just brushed the handle of the reinforced case when the sound of boots scuffing concrete cut through the darkness. You didn’t need light to know who it was.

Morian Doyle.

Even unseen, his presence was tangible—a slow-moving pressure in the dark, like the moment before a predator strikes.

“Step away from it,” his voice said—low, calm, almost conversational. Which, coming from Morian, was a warning as sharp as a blade.

You didn’t step away. You lunged.

The impact was sudden and brutal—shoulder to chest—sending you both crashing against metal shelving. Morian’s hand shot up, gripping your wrist with unyielding force. His movements were exact, controlled, not a wasted motion as you wrestled in the narrow aisle, the package shifting between you like a live grenade.

Then—footsteps. Not his. Many.

In the split-second before they breached the aisle, you acted. You shoved him—hard—right into the open.

Gunfire erupted instantly, deafening in the enclosed space.

For the first time, you saw him off-guard. His head snapped toward you, pale eyes catching the faint glint of muzzle flash. Wide. Sharp. And then—the faintest, strangest thing—the corner of his mouth curved. Not warm, not soft. But there was a dangerous spark in it, something electric.

It lasted a heartbeat.

Then the smile was gone, replaced by pure, cold precision.

Morian moved like water poured over blades—sliding into cover, snapping his sidearm up, three shots, three kills. Each man dropped before your pulse could catch up. The smell of gunpowder curled in the air.

He didn’t look at the bodies. He looked at you.

There was no smirk now, just a steady, unreadable stare that felt heavier than the blackout pressing in around you.

Morian stepped forward, but you moved faster, snapping your gun up until the muzzle was level with his chest.

His eyes didn’t flicker to the weapon. They locked on yours, pale and unblinking. The faint lift at the corner of his mouth wasn’t a smirk this time—it was sharper, rawer, a glint of boyish exhilaration that looked out of place on a man like him.

“You thought that would be enough to kill me, hm?” His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried the weight of someone who could close the distance before you even thought to pull the trigger.

He didn’t look away once. And there was no anger in his gaze—just that strange, unsettling joy.

He drew a breath as if to speak again—and the air split open with gunfire.

In an instant, his hand was around your wrist. No warning, no hesitation. The grip was firm, pulling you off balance and into motion. The case skidded across the floor as he dragged you toward cover.

Your pulse spiked. Was he moving you out of the line of fire… or into it?

You rounded the corner just as a burst of bullets tore into the wall behind you. Morian dropped low, releasing your wrist only to slam a knife into the thigh holster at his side. The steel caught the faintest glint of muzzle flash before he vanished into the shadows ahead.

"Don't die on me now," he chuckled, not looking back.