Chapter 99: Before the Storm

Chapter 99: Before the Storm
The scent of heated metal hung in the Narak’Tharr’s workshop, mixed with the softer notes of an insulating solvent Skye preferred to standard lubricant. A personal choice. Like her rifle, which gleamed under the pale ceiling lights, carefully stripped down piece by piece. Beside her, Rax was bent over a holographic screen, his ocular implants flickering with every scan.

“The Master’s complex,” he began, “is a tangle of compartmentalized networks. He rerouted segments of obsolete military satellites to build a digital shield. It’s genius… twisted. But genius all the same.”

“And you can break it?” Skye asked without looking up, focused on realigning the trigger mechanism with obsessive precision.

“Of course. I’m a less twisted genius.”

He smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. He was pretending. Skye knew it. So did he.

“We’ll need at least two boosts from the inside. We can’t hit the core of the system without unlocking two physical access points.”

“Then we split into two teams. You’ll lead one of them.”

“That’s cute,” Rax said flatly. “You shoot. I hack. Not the other way around.”

Skye straightened, gloves smeared with oil, and locked her eyes on his.

“If you go down, I’m salvaging your modules. So try not to go down.”

Rax gave a slow nod, and the air hardened. No more sarcasm. No more smiles. It was a preemptive goodbye, the kind people exchange before missions they’re not sure they’ll walk away from.

Further down the corridor, sitting cross-legged against the reinforced wall, Zeynn watched.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

His pale, almost luminescent eyes tracked everyone’s comings and goings, but they always returned—relentlessly—to one particular silhouette.

Evelyn.

She was talking to Griffin on the gangway. Restrained gestures. Averted glances. Their voices didn’t carry to him, but Zeynn didn’t need them to. He knew that kind of silence. The kind that tightens your throat. The kind where every word is a blade between the ribs.

He drew his knees to his chest, resting his chin on his folded arms. It wasn’t fear of the mission that iced his stomach.

It was the sense that something was coming—something too big, too heavy, to be contained by weapons alone.

And that if Evelyn fell… it would be him carrying that emptiness. Again and again.

He closed his eyes slowly. Just for a moment.

“I won’t let you fall,” he murmured.

At the far end of the room, the lights dimmed in sections as the Narak’Tharr entered tactical standby. Preparations moved forward. Weapons were ready. Plans were set.

All that remained was the final heartbeat before the drop.

Projection Room

The Narak’Tharr’s strategic projection room lay in half-darkness. Screens were powered down, holograms folded away. Only a discreet overhead auxiliary light remained, casting long shadows across the metal walls.

Vykhor stood with arms crossed, motionless at the center of the room. Spine straight. Gaze fixed.

Griffin entered without a sound and closed the door behind him. He stopped a few steps away, taking a moment to study the man who had shifted the careful balance Evelyn had rebuilt.

“You asked to see me,” Griffin said simply.

“Yes. So we can talk. Just you and me.”

Griffin nodded. He didn’t sit. Neither did Vykhor.

A heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation systems.

Then Vykhor spoke, without detour.

“You’re the one who pulled her out of hell. The one who raised her. Taught her how to survive. I will never question that. Not once.”

Griffin listened without moving. But something in the tension of his jaw said he was waiting for the next sentence.

“But you left her,” Vykhor continued. “You left her a letter. And you walked away.”

“To protect her,” Griffin cut in, sharper than he meant to be. “You think it was an easy choice? That I just turned my back and erased everything?”

“No,” Vykhor said. “But you did it anyway.”

One beat. Then another. Two men, two trajectories, two opposite kinds of pain.

“You didn’t see what state she was in after you left,” Vykhor went on, calmer now—almost a growl. “She wasn’t a little girl. She was a survivor with scars you never fully measured. And you taught her how to live. Not how to love. Not how to trust. That… she learned on her own. And now you’re back.”

Griffin lifted his chin slightly.

“You think I came back to reclaim a place? To become the missing father again? That’s not it. I came back because she needs me. Because the man we’re about to face is more dangerous than you still realize. And if I can keep her from suffering any more, then I’ll take your looks, your accusations—whatever you throw at me. It means nothing.”

He paused, then added quietly:

“What matters to me is her.”

“That’s all that matters to me too,” Vykhor replied, voice lower, rougher. “She’s my My’Lari. My bonded soul. And I’m telling you this, Griffin: if she suffers because of you again… I won’t spare you.”

The words snapped like a promise forged in steel.

Griffin didn’t answer at once. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I believe you.”

And for the first time—maybe—a hard, painful kind of mutual respect settled between them.

Not friendship. But a silent alliance.

When the door opened again behind Griffin, the room’s metallic cold remained.

And Vykhor, alone once more, let out a heavy breath, as if he’d just fought a battle without weapons.

Because deep down, he knew he would never erase Evelyn’s past.

But he could, at least, protect her future.

Infirmary

The infirmary’s dim lighting had given way to the cold glare of analysis modules. Evelyn was alone, seated across from Marn Sevil’s case, resting on a metal table. Her reflection trembled on the dark surface, amplifying the feeling that she was being watched… or judged.

She’d spent hours staring at it. Scanning it. Searching for a weakness in its security without truly believing she’d find one. Nothing opened. No code responded. No logical sequence fit.

But the lock wasn’t there.

It was inside her.

Her fingers slid once more over the metal. A near-invisible line. A discreet engraving. The same symbol as on the lab’s old experimentation modules. That detail… she’d seen it before. And ignored it. From exhaustion. From denial. From fear.

Unease crept under her skin. What if it wasn’t just protected technology?

What if the case held something other than illegal tech? Something alive, or far more dangerous than a simple prototype? A residue of the past? A reminder of what she’d run from?

Her jaw tightened. Her breathing slowed. The Narak’Tharr’s air, perfectly regulated, suddenly felt heavier.

“Why are you still refusing to open it?”

Griffin’s low voice rose behind her, steady but gentle. He’d approached silently, as always.

Evelyn didn’t answer right away. She stayed frozen. Then she straightened slightly without turning around.

“Because I’m afraid… it’s worse than I think.”

Silence.

“And what do you think?”

She finally turned. Griffin’s dark eyes watched her, not pushing. Not judging. Just… there.

“I think Marn knew. And I think he left this case on purpose, for me. It’s not an accident. Nothing ever was with him. He knew the lab. He knew who I was. And if… what he locked in there is a weapon? A horror? A copy of what the Master wanted to make of me?”

Her voice wavered. No tears. Just a knot. A slow fracture.

Griffin stepped closer and set a hand on her shoulder. She felt the weight of his years, his human warmth, almost forgotten. A father’s hand—solid, protective.

“You’re not that child anymore, Evelyn. And this time… you’re not alone.”

She nodded slowly, unable to speak.

The case, still sealed, gleamed faintly between them. A taut silence stretched.

Somewhere inside her, Evelyn knew the moment would come. She would open that coffin of shadows. She would face what it contained.

But not tonight.

Not yet.