Dawn crept slowly on the eastern horizon, but the sky of Port Daven was still covered in ash and salt fog.
Inside the messy warehouse, Joe Bondurant was sprawled among metal fragments. His breath was heavy; his skin felt burned, and blood dripped onto the steel floor, mixing with coolant from a broken drum.
Marcus Vale was lying across the room; his body was no longer moving. But Joe didn't have time to confirm the death. From outside came shouts and hurried footsteps—additional guards were starting to arrive.
Joe grabbed Marcus's pistol which was not far away, then pressed a cloth from his black jacket against the wound on his ribs. Every touch of the cloth on the wound felt like being sliced by a dagger. Red alarms flickered on the wall, making the room feel like a mechanical hell chamber.
"I have to... get out of here," he muttered to himself.
Joe swallowed, forcing his body to move even though his vision began to blur. Every step felt like carrying the entire burning world on his back. A faint voice echoed in his head—cold, like a machine's echo: "Wake up... get out. They are coming. They won't let you live."
He dragged his feet to the emergency exit on the west side of the warehouse. The sound of bullets started whistling, hitting the iron wall behind him. Joe returned fire wildly a few times, enough to break the rhythm of the pursuing guards.
When he reached outside the building, the cold sea air hit his face—piercing his bones. Refrigerated trucks were still lined up on the pier, some engines still running, white smoke dancing in the morning air.
Joe ran between the stacks of containers, towards the location of the fishing boat he had targeted earlier. He held back the pain every time the muscle in his ribs pulsed. He stumbled over an oil drum and fell; his body was almost unable to stand again. But for some reason, as if pushed by something from within him—that resonance pulse—he kept moving.
From behind the fog, vehicle lights approached. Joe decided not to think anymore; he jumped into the sea. The freezing saltwater actually felt like a savior. He held his breath, sinking under the shadow of the pier, while the sounds of footsteps and guard shouts echoed above his head.
He swam slowly towards the darkness. His muscles throbbed; blood flowed warm in the cold water. In the distance, he could see the silhouette of the small boat he was heading for—not a coincidence, but the only remaining escape plan.
Joe gripped the side of the boat, pulling his heavy body up. The boat was empty, swinging slowly in the harbor waves. Inside were fishing nets, a broken flashlight, and a worn jacket. He put the jacket on; his body shivered violently.
Then, with his remaining strength, he started the small engine at the stern. The hoarse sound of the engine broke the morning fog, carrying the boat away from the harbor which was starting to get crowded with guards.
Several hours passed like a nightmare. The sky slowly changed from black to pale gray. The sea water sparkled gently in the first light of the sun, and in the distance, the coastline of Blackridge began to appear. Joe was barely conscious when the boat hit the small wooden pier on the edge of the town.
He got off, dragging his feet along the rocky road, every step like breaking through the distance between life and death.
Towards morning, Blackridge welcomed him with cold silence. The streets were still wet with dew, and in the distance, the sound of crows sounded hoarse.
Joe almost fainted in front of Rick's garage door, knocking softly before his body fell to the ground.
Rick opened the door and stared in surprise, holding back panic while patching Joe's wounds with makeshift bandages.
"Calm down first," he said quietly.
Joe's vision was blurry; his focus was on the black access card that had fallen from his pocket onto the floor—the faint N.O.I.R engraving wrapped in a card case. Through his half-closed eyes, he saw Rick take the card and insert it into the computer.
From the chair, Joe heard the sound of the fan roaring loudly. The screen shook. He couldn't see the screen, but he could hear Rick tinkering with the system. Joe tried to focus on Rick's voice, which now sounded tense.
"I've seen that logo repeatedly since the first day you came," Rick muttered, his voice strained.
But this time was different.
Joe heard Rick take a sharp breath.
"Daniel Vaughn — Logistics Medical Division / Classified Project N.O.I.R." Rick read the name in a voice that was almost inaudible.
Although passed out, the voice in Joe's head pulsed. He felt Rick's pain, as if it were his own.
File MIL-ARCHIVE/REDACTED.
Status: Deceased – Classified.
Cause: Suicide (asphyxiation).
Note: Case sealed under N.O.I.R internal directive.
Joe felt cold anger creeping up alongside the pain from his wound.
"If my brother died because of this project… then we are both the same victims," Rick said.
Joe closed his eyes, feeling that connection. On the screen across the room—which Joe couldn't see—another line appeared, making his blood run cold:
[SUBJECT 07: Bondurant, Joe — Status: ACTIVE]
[SIGNAL DETECTED – BLACKRIDGE SECTOR]
Joe turned to Rick, his face pale, as if trying to understand something beyond his own mind's reach.
"They know where I am... even here…" he said, his chest tight.
Rick stared back at him; their eyes met between the flickering monitor lights.