The streets of Valmara stretched out before them, a labyrinth of decayed buildings and flickering streetlights. Specter moved like phantoms, sticking to the alleys and avoiding open spaces. Kane led the way, his rifle tight against his chest, ears tuned to every distant sound. Behind him, the others followed, each one carrying the weight of the mission—and the firepower to start a war.

Then, behind them, the explosion hit.

A muffled boom rolled through the city, followed by a brief flash of orange light reflecting off the rain-slicked streets. Sledge's distraction. The armory wasn't destroyed, but the concussive force would be enough to send every nearby patrol scrambling.

"Time to disappear," Ghost muttered.

They pushed deeper into the slums, weaving between crumbling buildings and abandoned markets. This part of the city had been left to rot—a graveyard of forgotten people and forgotten hopes. Starving families huddled in doorways. Hollow-eyed men watched them from the shadows, too beaten by life to care who passed through their territory.

Then, from up ahead, came a scream.

Kane froze, fist raised to stop the team. Down the street, past a rusted-out car, a woman was on her knees—her arms held behind her back by a soldier in Velkan's black-and-red uniform. Three more guards stood around her, their weapons slung, laughing as one of them pressed a boot to the back of her head, forcing her into the mud.

Viper cursed under his breath. "Checkpoint enforcers. Bastards do this all night."

Kane felt his fingers tighten around his rifle. They didn't have time for distractions. The mission came first. The revolution came first. But as the soldier raised a pistol to the back of the woman's head, laughing as he toyed with the trigger, Kane felt something snap.

He exhaled. "We're making time."

Ghost smirked. Sledge cracked his knuckles. Doc muttered, "Damn right."

Then Specter moved.

Kane didn't wait for approval. He signaled once—quick, silent, decisive. Ghost peeled off to the right, slipping into a side alley for a flanking angle. Viper crouched behind cover, lining up a suppressed shot. Sledge rolled his shoulders, his shotgun already raised.

Five targets. Five seconds to end them.

The soldier holding the woman down was first. Kane's rifle let out a whisper-soft pfft as a suppressed round punched through his skull. The body crumpled, and before the others could react, Ghost's bullet took the second guard in the throat. He went down clawing at the wound, choking on his own blood.

The third spun, reaching for his rifle. Too slow. Sledge fired once, the shotgun's silencer barely dulling the thump as the blast took the man off his feet. The last soldier panicked, fumbling with his sidearm—only to be yanked backward by Viper's blade, the knife sinking deep between his ribs.

Five seconds. Five bodies.

The woman gasped, staring at the carnage around her. Kane crouched beside her, scanning for wounds. "You hurt?"

She shook her head, eyes wide with shock. "I—I don't understand. Who are you?"

Viper wiped his blade clean. "Nobody."

Kane rose, his voice low but firm. "Run. Get somewhere safe. Things are about to get worse before they get better."

She hesitated, then nodded, disappearing into the darkness.

Doc let out a breath. "We just started a fire."

Kane glanced down at the dead enforcers, their uniforms still soaked from the rain. This wasn't just an execution. This was a message. The city had been living in fear for too long. Tonight, Specter had just told Valmara that the fear belonged to Velkan now.

He checked his watch. Five minutes before the patrols came looking.

"Move," he ordered. "We're just getting started."

Velkan

The palace stood like a fortress at the heart of Valmara—a brutalist slab of steel and concrete, designed to inspire fear, not admiration. From the highest window of his command center, General Rasmus Velkan looked out over his city, hands clasped behind his back.

Below him, Valmara pulsed with artificial light, but he saw only decay and weakness. The people were docile, beaten into submission. That was how it had to be. Order was built on control, and control was built on fear.

A knock at the door.

"Enter."

The steel doors hissed open, and Colonel Adrian Marek stepped inside, his black uniform pristine despite the rain outside. He saluted sharply, his expression tight. "Sir, we have a problem."

Velkan turned, eyes narrowing. "Speak."

Marek hesitated—a mistake. Velkan despised hesitation.

"The armory in Sector Seven was hit," Marek said quickly. "A precision strike. No alarms, no survivors. A distraction bomb was set off nearby to delay response time. And just minutes ago, five enforcers were killed near the market district. Execution-style. No witnesses."

Velkan's fingers curled into a fist. So. It begins.

"Who?" His voice was calm, controlled. Deadly.

Marek swallowed. "We don't know yet. But these weren't common insurgents. This was tactical. Professional."

Velkan exhaled slowly, turning back to the window. Rain streaked against the glass, distorting the city below. A slow smile crept onto his face.

"Then it seems," he murmured, "we have guests."

He turned back to Marek, his expression hardening. "Lock down the checkpoints. Double patrols. Set a curfew and execute anyone who disobeys. And find me the names of the men responsible."

His smile disappeared.

"I want their heads on my desk."

Velkan

Marek saluted and turned to leave, but Velkan wasn't finished.

"Wait."

The colonel stopped mid-step, stiffening.

Velkan walked to the sleek, glass-top table in the center of the room. Embedded within was a live tactical feed—a map of Valmara overlaid with patrol routes, surveillance cameras, and security checkpoints. The city was a machine, its people cogs in his design. But something had just jammed the gears.

"Who do we suspect?" Velkan asked, running a gloved hand over the map. "The old resistance?"

Marek shook his head. "Doubtful. We crushed them last year. Any survivors wouldn't have the resources for an attack like this."

Velkan tapped his fingers against the table. He already knew that. So who had the capability, the training, and the nerve?

"Show me the footage," he ordered.

Marek hesitated. "There is none, sir."

Velkan's jaw tightened.

"All camera feeds in Sector Seven were looped. The armory logs were erased remotely. Even the checkpoint soldiers' radios were compromised. It's—" Marek exhaled. "It's a level of precision we haven't seen before."

Velkan leaned forward, studying the city map. He wasn't angry. Not yet. No, this was something else. Something he hadn't felt in years.

Interest.

If these were soldiers, they weren't local. They weren't rebels. This was foreign training, possibly ex-military. And that meant whoever they were, they weren't just here to cause chaos. They had a goal. A mission.

His eyes darkened.

"They're coming for me."

Marek shifted uncomfortably. "Sir?"

Velkan straightened, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. "This wasn't random," he said. "They took weapons, explosives, and intelligence. That means they're planning something bigger. And if they're this skilled, they won't waste time with minor targets."

He turned to Marek, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "They want my throne."

Marek swallowed. "Then we need to find them first."

Velkan nodded. "And we will." He turned back to the cityscape, eyes narrowing. "Increase the bounty on insurgents. Bring in every informant, every street rat willing to sell information. Someone knows something."

He exhaled, his fingers curling into a fist.

"Send word to the Red Hand. Tell them I want results."

Marek tensed. Even he knew what that meant. The Red Hand—Velkan's most ruthless enforcers—weren't soldiers. They were hunters. Torturers. Assassins. If anyone in Valmara had ever dreamed of resistance, they'd seen what the Red Hand did to traitors.

Marek nodded. "I'll see to it personally."

As the doors hissed shut behind him, Velkan remained by the window, watching the storm roll over his city.

Whoever they were, they had just made a fatal mistake.