The cruiser eased out of Suppressor HQ's bay doors with a soft pulse and a hydraulic hiss, its matte-black hull nearly silent as it slid free from the facility's magnetic clamps. Outside, Capella City appeared below them like a living circuit board. Towering skyscrapers cut into the haze like blades, stitched together by monorails and neon railways that pulsed with rhythmic light, like a city where parties never ceased.
The cruiser tilted slightly, banking southeast. Adrien stood near one of the side windows, his hand braced against the bulkhead as he watched the city pass beneath them. The sunlight broke through high clouds in fractured beams, painting parts of the skyline in gold while others simmered under a stormfront.
From this height, the upper levels of Capella felt still—but below, traffic moved like liquid light and rooftops buzzed with low-grade drones, laundry wires, and blinking warning lights. There was life everywhere. And somewhere in the middle of it, something else was stirring.
"It's always this loud," Daihatsu said behind him, quietly, tightening one of his bracers. "Even up here."
Gail, seated near the equipment rack, was cross-checking her arrows again with practiced efficiency. She didn't look up when she answered.
"The city doesn't sleep. It vibrates. Like a string waiting."
Daihatsu gave a dry exhale through his nose. "You're one line away from becoming a recruiting poster."
"I aim to inspire," she replied.
In the rear of the cabin, Iyato sat with his head leaned back against the wall, arms folded behind his head. His eye was closed—not asleep, but somewhere between rest and retreat. A soft tremor passed through the ship's floor. Lightning spidered faintly through the upper stormbanks above them, casting quick flashes of silver light into the cabin.
Adrien watched the sky roll like a coiled drum, quiet and charged.
"Storm's moving in faster than forecasted," he murmured.
"Capella's weather forecasts are like blind fortune tellers," Daihatsu muttered. "Always guessing and never listening."
"We're not here for the weather," Gail said with a small scoff.
The cruiser dipped lower, slicing through a thin shelf of mist that clung to the top of a curved tower. For a brief second, the view blurred—then cleared—to reveal the older districts below, where the shine gave way to forgotten concrete and rusted rails. That was where they were going. And whatever waited below hadn't blinked yet.
The mission beacon on the console pulsed once in amber.
"Drop zone approaching," came the autopilot's voice. "ETA: ninety seconds."
Adrien straightened, his hand tightening on the strap above him. His voice, steady and clear:
"Gear up and keep your senses sharp, team."
And then the ship descended—toward silence. Toward something breathing beneath the static.
The cruiser began its descent like a held breath finally exhaled. Its undercarriage vibrated with soft thrums of resonance stabilization, the lights inside shifting from a warm amber to a muted, surgical white. Outside, the Narrows district unspooled beneath them—rows of decaying buildings clung to each other like rusted bones, scaffolds bent over sun-faded rooftops, and tangled skywires trembled in the wind like forgotten veins.
The old substation came into view: a collapsed tunnel-mouth swallowed by concrete debris, its surface stained with soot, its base fenced off by temporary barriers. Police drones floated at fixed altitudes, scanning the perimeter, while a small swarm of news-reporters, videographers, and city agents gathered just behind the caution lines—kept barely at bay by Capella City's jittery police force.
Inside the cruiser, the four Suppressors moved in unison. Adrien pulled his half-mask down from the collar of his suit—a matte steel-black guard with silver lining that locked into place beneath his eyes. A quiet hiss sealed the filter.
Gail affixed her visor over her eyes, a slight glow activating along the frame.
Daihatsu adjusted the vent ports on his bracers and secured his mask—sloped and jagged, designed like a frozen breath caught mid-exhale.
Iyato slid his own half-mask into place wordlessly, still leaning back until the moment the ramp lowered. Only then did he stand, slow and fluid. The ship landed with a soft tremor. The side ramp hissed and dropped, metal folding into the ground with deliberate grace.
Wind met them before anything.
They stepped down together—four silhouettes emerging from the hold like rhythm-locked phantoms.
A young female reporter, holding a mic branded with CH-9 NEWS, immediately snapped to attention.
"N-Now we have Suppressor on site. Oh my God... It's them! It's-it'snBloodhound, I'm getting this—"
"Are they deploying full lockdown?" someone whispered behind her.
"God, that's Flashpoint They actually sent him! I bet he's hot under that mask..."
Across the barricade, a Capella City officer muttered into his wristpiece:
"Containment squad's here... go ahead and tell command we're not stepping in unless they drag that thing out."
Another civilian mumbled, "Why would they send all four? Oh gosh, we're not in a Dead Air zone are we?"
A younger officer near the edge of the line couldn't stop staring.
"They don't even look real..."
Daihatsu's eyes swept the crowd beneath his visor as they passed. Static buzzed softly in his earpiece as the environmental sensors activated.
"Feels like a play," he muttered, just loud enough for the others to hear. "Everyone waiting for the act to go wrong."
"It hasn't gone wrong yet," Adrien replied without turning his head.
"That's what worries me," Daihatsu said, frost hissing quietly from his boots.
Gail stepped ahead toward the cordoned police perimeter. The officers instinctively backed away, opening a clear path toward the collapsed tunnel where the substation waited like a yawning mouth.
"Keep them off our backs," she said to no one in particular—though one of the drone operators nodded, pale-faced.
Iyato stayed silent, eyes fixed forward beneath his mask, already reaching out with that sixth sense of his. The wind tugged at the back of his coat, a gust rolling across the lot.
Adrien's voice cut through the comms:
"We go in. Minimal Dead Air exposure. Call signs active. Anything breathes wrong—lock it down immediately. Don't wanna keep the General waiting."
The crowd behind the barrier faded to static as Bloodhound crossed the threshold and the city held its breath again.
The threshold of the substation yawned before them, half-swallowed by fallen concrete and corroded signage. Cracked tile and warped rebar framed the descent, while faint vibrations pulsed through the metal floor panels—subtle, too subtle for a healthy structure.
Before stepping inside, Bloodhound slowed as a lone Mechon detective unit emerged from behind a downed support beam. Its outer casing was scratched, one sensor lens flickering erratically, and a thin trail of burn scoring laced its left tread.
Its voice modulator clicked twice before it spoke.
"Designated patrol node: Detect-07," it said, voice more mechanical than personable. "Initial breach report submitted at 1102 hours. Organic movement patterns matched local narcotics ring behavior profiles."
Gail tilted her head slightly, scanning the Mechon. "Then why the escalation flag?"
The Mechon's remaining eye flickered toward her, then Adrien.
"Organic heat signatures vanished twenty-three minutes after entry. No contact has been made with patrol subordinates since. Internal motion data became… inconsistent."
Daihatsu narrowed his eyes. "Inconsistent how?"
The Mechon paused. Its voice lowered in pitch—not emotionally, but algorithmically.
"Motion records reflect hallways shifting. Walls appearing and vanishing mid-sweep. Audio logs suggest humming patterns not present in structural files."
"So… not a drug bust," Iyato murmured.
"Correct," the Mechon said. "This was not a narcotics operation. I… miscalculated."
Adrien took a step forward, his mask glinting faintly beneath light.
"We'll take it from here," he said, voice cool and assured. "Hold perimeter. Lock external comms. If we're not back in thirty, ping HQ."
Detect-07's voice cracked faintly. "Acknowledged."
Adrien reached to his belt and unhooked a small, disc-shaped device—KREED, compact and folded in travel form.
He gave it a subtle tap on its top casing.
"KREED. Deploy."
With a mechanical chime, KREED unfolded mid-air. Its stabilizers extended with a soft clack, and its blinking cyan eyes lit up in sequence.
"Scanning field," KREED intoned, "Establishing pathfinding routes. Warning: interior architecture reads fluid. Advising caution. And perhaps, therapy!"
Then it shimmered faintly—then warped as the hallway itself seemed to curve subtly, like space was folding in on itself just a bit too much.
"Whatever's in here," Daihatsu muttered, "it definitely doesn't want to be mapped."
"Then we'll make it visible," Adrien replied.
And with that, Bloodhound moved in.