The room is colder.
Not dramatically, but enough to register after the heat outside, the air dry and controlled, the scent of electronics stronger here, sharp and sterile. Rows of storage units line the walls, each one pulsing faintly with internal activity, and a central console sits at the far end, its interface already active.
“Jackpot,” I breathe, moving quickly toward it.
My fingers move across the surface, pulling up directories, scanning for anything that matches what we’ve been chasing.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Show me something real.”
The data loads fast, too fast, layers of information stacked over each other, and I start pulling files, anything tied to off-record operations, border anomalies, unauthorized movement logs.
“There you are,” I say, zeroing in on a cluster of flagged entries.
The patterns match.
Controlled breaches.
Scheduled gaps.
Manipulated patrol routes.
“They’ve been orchestrating it,” I whisper as I pull the data into the device.
The transfer begins.
Ten percent.
Twenty.
“Come on,” I mutter, glancing toward the door.
The electronic noise shifts.
Subtle.
But wrong.
“Damn it,” I breathe.
Thirty percent.
Forty.
A faint tone cuts through the room, barely audible, but enough to tell me something’s tripped.
“They know,” I say, my voice tightening.
Fifty percent.
The door panel flashes red.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Of course they do.”
Sixty.
The tone sharpens, louder now, more insistent, and I hear movement in the corridor outside, boots hitting the floor in controlled, rapid patterns.
“Come on,” I growl, gripping the edge of the console.
