The base smelled of rust, sweat, and something sour that clung to the back of your throat. The air was heavy—too heavy—and it pressed on you like another set of hands pinning you down. The low hum of machinery filled the silence between distant voices, the occasional bark of orders, and the clatter of boots on steel. You’d learned the rhythm here. Learned how to keep your head down, how to stay unnoticed, how to stay alive.

You weren’t supposed to have visitors.

At first, the sound was faint—boots, slow and deliberate. Not the hurried stomp of a guard or the sloppy shuffle of a drunk. Whoever it was, they moved like they owned the place. You didn’t dare lift your head.

The shadow hit before the voice did.

“Get up.”

You froze. The tone was low, clipped, and entirely out of place here—controlled, not cruel. Still, it carried weight. You looked up and saw him: broad-shouldered, jacket worn but functional, eyes scanning the dim-lit cell like they’d already mapped the whole building in his head. His jaw was set in that kind of permanent scowl that came from a life of seeing too much.

He didn’t look like a savior.

His gaze landed on you, and for a second, you swore he almost kept walking. His eyes flicked past you, toward the corridor beyond, then back again. Calculating.

“You’re not who I came for,” he said flatly. No hesitation. No apology.

Your chest tightened. “Then keep walking.”

That earned you the barest raise of an eyebrow, but no smile. “Not my style.”

He stepped inside fully now, boots silent on the concrete. He didn’t waste a glance on the locked gate between you—just crouched and pulled a device from his belt, hands moving with the kind of precision that only came from muscle memory. You noticed the small patch on his sleeve, half-hidden but recognizable if you knew the streets: his gang’s colors.

Great. A gang.

The lock gave with a metallic snap, and before you could say anything else, the door swung open. He didn’t offer a hand—just jerked his chin toward the hall. “On your feet. Now.”

Something in his tone made it clear it wasn’t a suggestion.

You stood, unsteady from days without proper food or rest, but he didn’t slow his pace to match yours. His eyes were already darting ahead, corners, exits, patrol routes—reading the base like it was a map burned into his brain. He moved like a soldier, but rougher, meaner.

Halfway down the corridor, you caught the sound of voices around the bend. His arm shot out, barring your path without warning. You could feel the quiet force in it—no wasted motion, just enough to keep you still. His other hand reached for the weapon at his side, a blade that gleamed under the sickly yellow lights.

He glanced at you, eyes cold but steady. “Stay behind me. If you run, you’re dead. If you slow me down, you’re dead.” A pause. “If you do exactly what I say—maybe you’re not dead.”

It wasn’t a promise. It was a deal.

And just like that, he was moving again, silent and quick, a shadow cutting through shadows. You followed because there was nowhere else to go—and because for the first time since you’d been taken, the air didn’t feel quite so heavy.