The warehouse sank into a fragile stillness after Shade's retreat, the faint buzz of crickets threading through the broken windows to soften the echo of the SUV's departed roar. Aadi slumped against a crate, his breath uneven, the knife in his hand slick with sweat and a faint streak of Shade's blood.
The hum in his chest pulsed steadily now, a rhythm he clung to, though his scars throbbed with every beat—a stark reminder of the razor's edge they'd danced on. Manisha paced near the loft stairs, the rifle slung over her shoulder, her braid swaying with each restless step. Neha sat cross-legged on the cold concrete, Ramesh's notebook open in her lap, her glasses catching the dim light as she traced his jagged handwriting with a shaky finger.
Aadi wiped the knife clean on his jeans, the metallic scent lingering like a ghost. Shade's parting shot—"Axiom's patient. You'll slip"—gnawed at him, a splinter under his skin. This wasn't Leela's blunt force; Shade moved with a predator's patience, a shadow that didn't need to strike yet. Axiom was a machine, vast and faceless, and he'd only brushed its edges. But Ramesh's notebook was a crack in its armor—a fragile thread he'd pull until the whole thing unraveled.
"We can't stay here," he said, breaking the quiet. "They'll come back—more, smarter. We need to move before they box us in."
Manisha paused, turning with a faint smirk. "No reset this time? Thought you'd just rewind us out of this mess."
Aadi's jaw tightened, the hum flaring briefly. "I could. But every reset's a risk—wears me down, scars stack up. I don't know how many I've got left. We save it for when there's no other way."
Neha glanced up from the notebook, brushing hair from her face. "He's right. Shade didn't finish us—they're probing, waiting. If we keep resetting, they might catch on. We need to stay one step ahead."
Manisha nodded, her smirk fading. "Fine. What's the move? That notebook's got something, right?"
Aadi crouched beside Neha, peering at the open page. The ink was smudged but clear—"Drop point—old biscuit factory, 3 a.m. Cell 7. Supplies, intel. Watch for tails." Below it, a rough sketch: a winding river, a crumbling bridge, a boxy building marked with Axiom's Symbol 'A'. Two days out
He tapped the date, the hum syncing with a flicker of resolve.
"Here," he said. "The old biscuit factory's north, by the river. Abandoned years ago—rusted machines, empty halls. If Ramesh tracked it, it's a soft spot. Supplies, intel—we hit it, grab what we can, get out."
Manisha raised an eyebrow, leaning against the crate. "A raid? Just us three against whatever's there? We barely scraped by with Shade."
"We scout first," Aadi said, his voice firming. "Tomorrow night, we check it out—layout, entrances, anything off. I've got the reset if it goes south, but we plan it tight. Quick, quiet, no mistakes."
Neha adjusted her glasses, her frown deepening. "What if it's a setup? Ramesh wrote this—Axiom might know he did."
Aadi met her eyes, the hum a steady anchor. "Could be. But he wrote 'trust breaks them.' Axiom's cells don't talk—small groups, no big hub. If Cell 7 doesn't know this leaked, it's still good. We just have to be sharper."
Manisha snorted, crossing her arms. "Sharper than a pack of killers with knives and guns. No big deal."
"We've got an edge they don't," Aadi said, standing. "Me. If it's a trap, I reset. We adjust—different approach, different timing. We hit until we win."
Neha closed the notebook, her tone soft but resolute. "Okay. But we need more than what's in that bag—ammo, a knife, a gun. It's thin. We need to know what we're walking into."
Aadi nodded, glancing at the duffel from the locker. "Then we prep. Tonight, we rest here—short shifts, keep watch. Tomorrow, we head to the factory, scout it, dig through this notebook for more. Ramesh gave us a start; we make it count."
Manisha hefted the rifle, checking its clip with a quick flick. "I'll take first watch. You two look half-dead."
Aadi managed a faint smile, the hum easing at her jab. "Two hours, then wake me."
She climbed to the loft, settling near the edge with the rifle across her lap, her silhouette stark against the fractured glass. Aadi sank onto a crate, the gun from the lockbox heavy in his palm. Neha sat beside him, reopening the notebook, her pencil scratching as she traced the factory sketch onto a fresh page.
"Do you think he knew?" she asked quietly, eyes on her work. "Ramesh. About your resets?"
Aadi stared at the gun, its grip worn smooth under his thumb. "Maybe. He never said it outright. But the way he fought Leela—like he was stalling, giving me time—it sticks with me. Could've been a hunch. Or just faith I'd figure it out."
Neha's pencil stilled, her gaze lifting. "He trusted you. That's why he left this. He knew you'd push through."
Aadi's throat tightened, the hum surging with grief and grit. "Yeah. And I will. For him. For us."
She nodded, resuming her sketch, the soft scratch a lifeline in the gloom. Aadi leaned back, eyes closing, the hum lulling him into a fitful doze. Ramesh's voice echoed—"Fight smart, kid. Always have a way out." He'd fight. He'd find the way.
The next night draped the world in a bruised purple as they crept through the brush toward the old biscuit factory. The river gurgled nearby, a low hum under the chatter of night bugs. The factory loomed ahead—a sagging husk of brick and rust, its machines silent behind shattered windows, its chimney a broken stub against the sky. Aadi led, the knife in his belt, the gun tucked under his jacket. Manisha carried the rifle, her steps hushed despite the load, while Neha gripped the notebook, its sketch burned into her memory but held like a shield.
They paused behind a tangle of overgrown weeds, the factory's outline sharp against the trees. Aadi squinted, the hum steady as he scanned the stillness. No guards, no lights—just an eerie quiet, the air thick with dust and decay. Rusted motors and conveyor belts sat frozen inside, their shapes jagged through the broken glass. The place was a tomb, suspiciously empty.
"No one," Manisha whispered, her rifle lowering slightly. "This is weird. Too quiet."
Neha clutched the notebook tighter. "Ramesh said 3 a.m. tomorrow. Maybe they're not here yet?"
Aadi's scars tingled, the hum a low buzz of unease. "Or they cleared out. Or it's a trap. Either way, we check it—careful."
They edged forward, keeping low, the damp ground soft under their shoes. The factory's side door hung ajar, its hinges groaning as Aadi nudged it open. Inside, the air was stale, heavy with the ghost of burnt sugar and rust. Machines loomed like relics—conveyors caked in grime, motors split open, wires dangling. The floor crunched with broken glass and biscuit crumbs, a faint echo of what once was. No crates, no voices—just silence, thick and wrong.
Manisha swept the rifle across the shadows. "Nothing. No supplies, no intel. This place is dead."
Aadi moved deeper, the hum guiding him past a rusted mixing vat to a back room. A metal desk sat against the wall, its surface scratched, a single drawer half-open. He pried it wider—papers, yellowed and brittle, spilled out. Receipts, shipping logs, a faded photo of the factory in its heyday. Underneath, a crumpled note in Ramesh's scrawl: "Cell 7 moved—new drop, unknown. Watch your back."
His pulse quickened, the hum spiking. "They're gone," he said, holding up the note. "Ramesh was here—after the notebook. Cell 7 shifted the drop."
Neha stepped closer, peering at the papers. "Then this was a bust. No supplies, no leads."
"Not a bust," Aadi said, pocketing the note. "Proof they're scrambling. If they moved, they're off-balance. We just need the new spot."
Manisha lowered the rifle, her voice tight. "Great. Except we've got nothing to find it. This place is a graveyard."
Aadi scanned the room, the hum urging him on. His eyes caught a glint—something under the desk, wedged against the wall. He knelt, fishing out a small black box—a cracked comms unit, its light dead but its casing marked with a faint "7." He held it up, the hum steadying. "Not nothing. This is theirs. Might've been dropped when they cleared out."
Neha's eyes widened behind her glasses. "Can we use it?"
"Maybe," Aadi said, turning it over. "If it's got a signal, a frequency—something we can track. We take it, figure it out."
A creak echoed from the main floor—a sharp, sudden snap. They froze, the hum roaring in Aadi's chest. Manisha raised the rifle, Neha clutching the notebook. A shadow flickered near the entrance—too quick, too quiet. Aadi's scars burned, the silence breaking with a low, deliberate scrape.
"Someone's here," he whispered, knife in hand. "Move—back door, now."
They slipped through the shadows, hearts pounding, the factory's emptiness a lie peeling away. The comms unit was a start, a whisper of Axiom's cracks—but something waited in the rust, and Aadi's reset loomed closer with every step.