The atmosphere in the DreamCorp war room was tense, the air thick with unease. High-ranking officials sat around a long, sleek metallic table, their faces grim as the holographic display flickered in front of them. Across from them stood the man responsible for making contact with Sol, his expression carefully neutral despite the weight of the words he was about to deliver.
"The conversation went as expected," he began, his voice measured but laced with underlying tension. "Sol didn't buy into our offer. He saw right through it. He knew exactly what we wanted from him—the core—and he made it clear he wasn't going to hand it over."
A murmur rippled through the room, some officials exchanging uneasy glances. They had anticipated resistance, but the sheer finality in the operative's tone unsettled them. One of the directors leaned forward, fingers interlaced. "Did he give any indication of negotiating? Any cracks in his stance?"
The man exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "None. His response was cold, deliberate. No sarcasm, no amusement. Just complete resolve."
Another pause, heavier this time. The lead strategist cleared his throat. "And his final words?"
The operative hesitated for just a second before answering. "He told me he's done playing nice. If we keep coming after him, he'll leave a river of blood in his wake. He said that if we think he's at the center of a storm, then we don't understand. He is the storm."
Silence stretched over the room, suffocating in its intensity. Some clenched their fists, others shifted uncomfortably. The weight of Sol's words settled like an iron chain around them.
"And you believe him?" one of the security heads asked, his voice skeptical but wary.
The operative met his gaze evenly. "Yes. Every single word. He wasn't bluffing. He wasn't trying to intimidate me for show. He meant it, he sounded tired but he couldn't hide the anger in his voice."
A cold shiver ran through the room. The directors, tacticians, and enforcers of DreamCorp were used to dealing with threats, manipulating power plays, and crushing rebellion before it could fester. But this was different. Sol wasn't just another loose end to be cleaned up—he was something else entirely, something unpredictable, something dangerous.
"If we escalate," another voice broke in, "what are our odds?"
The lead strategist's expression darkened. "With conventional methods? Dwindling. If we send another team, they'll fail just like the others. If we push too hard, we risk creating something worse—a force that will actively work to dismantle us. Sol isn't just fighting back. He's evolving. And if we don't adapt, we won't just lose—our entire structure could collapse."
The room fell into another weighted silence, realization dawning on each of them. Sol wasn't just resisting; he was becoming something more. And that terrified them.
But fear wasn't enough to change their orders.
The lead strategist straightened, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. "Regardless of his threats, we have direct orders from main base—no matter what, the core is needed. That directive has not changed."
One of the security heads exhaled sharply. "And what if it means all-out war? What if his warning isn't an exaggeration? We could lose more than we gain."
The director of operations leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "Then we adapt. We've underestimated him before, and that was our mistake. We won't make it again. We need a new approach. No more underestimating, no more assumptions. We take him seriously, and we take him down."
A murmur of agreement passed through the table, though unease still lingered. The operative who had spoken with Sol shook his head slightly. "You're all still thinking of this in standard terms. Sol doesn't fight like anyone we've dealt with before. He thinks ahead, manipulates the scene without ever being seen, and his abilities remain a complete mystery to us. Every piece of chaos he's caused—every operation he's sabotaged—was done without leaving a single trace of himself.
We don't even know what he's truly capable of. The only man who managed to get close to him ended up dead. The only concrete information we have is that he's cunning, meticulous, and entirely unpredictable. And that? That's more dangerous than any weapon we could prepare for."
"Which means we need something beyond just another tactical team," another voice added. "Something stronger. A specialist."
The strategist nodded. "Agreed. We'll assemble a high-priority strike force. Top-tier operatives. The best resources available. We'll give him no room to breathe. He may be a storm, but we'll bring the hurricane."
---
Meanwhile, in the shadows of Zenith-5, Sol moved through the underworld unnoticed, his expression set in cold determination.
At first, his goal had been simple—make a mess for DreamCorp before leaving. But that was before they pushed him. Before they reminded him just how much he hated them. Now, he wanted more than chaos. He wanted them broken before he was gone.
The ship was set to leave in a day, which meant he had to move fast. He knew DreamCorp had spread their forces across the station, but in the underworld? Things were different.
The air was thick with tension as he walked through the dimly lit alleys. The gangs, syndicates, and mercenaries that ran the lower districts were on edge, their hands hovering near their weapons, watching every shadow for threats. DreamCorp's forces weren't as concentrated here, but they were still present—hidden operatives, scattered squads, their presence aggravating the already volatile criminal ecosystem.
Sol intended to push that tension past its breaking point.
Moving unseen through the alleyways, Sol manipulated the streets with precision. Every time he spotted a DreamCorp troop, he cast an illusion of himself darting deeper into the underworld, ensuring their attention followed the fabricated trail. He wanted them drawn into the very depths of the criminal sector, away from their safe zones, away from reinforcements. The deeper they went, the harder it would be for them to retreat unscathed.
Reports began trickling in through DreamCorp comms. Operatives glimpsed a shadowed figure disappearing around corners, vanishing into the neon haze. Orders were strict: Do not engage. Wait for backup.
The frequency of these sightings escalated rapidly. Within the span of an hour, multiple teams across the underworld reported glimpses of the same figure—always just out of reach, always slipping further into the criminal sector. The tension in the war room back at DreamCorp's command center was palpable as the data streamed in.
"He's leading us deeper," one officer muttered, gripping the table as he examined the holographic display. "He's baiting us."
The lead strategist grimaced, knowing they had no choice but to respond. "We can't afford to ignore this. If he's here, we need to pin him down now. Deploy reinforcements."
Across the table, the operative who had spoken with Sol frowned, a deep unease settling in his gut. Something felt wrong. This was too easy—too obvious. Sol never acted without careful planning, never left himself exposed without reason. He had already proven his ability to manipulate DreamCorp's forces like pieces on a board. So why would he suddenly make himself so visible?
"Sir," he spoke up, his voice hesitant but firm. "I have a bad feeling about this. Sol doesn't make mistakes like this. If he's leading us somewhere, it's because he wants us there. We need to consider that we might be walking straight into a trap."
The strategist exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "Noted. But our orders stand. The core is priority one. No matter the risks, we must secure him."
Despite the decisive words, the operative couldn't shake the gnawing sense of dread creeping through his thoughts.
Within minutes, a heavily armed DreamCorp platoon was mobilized. Hundreds of troops descended into the underworld, their presence an overwhelming show of force. The gangs that ruled these sectors stiffened at the sight—mercenaries, smugglers, and enforcers eyeing the incoming battalion with growing unease. DreamCorp was already unwelcome in these streets, and their sheer numbers made it clear they weren't here to negotiate.
The underworld was a powder keg. And DreamCorp had just brought the match.
Sol smirked to himself. That was exactly what he wanted. The longer they hesitated, the more tangled they became in the underworld's grasp.