The biscuit factory's back door creaked as Aadi eased it open, the rusted hinges groaning into the night like a warning. The hum in his chest thrummed sharp and insistent, a live wire sparking against his scars as he gripped the cracked comms unit marked with a faint "7." Manisha slipped out first, rifle raised, her braid a dark slash against the moonlight filtering through the trees. Neha followed, notebook clutched tight, her glasses glinting as she cast a quick glance back into the factory's shadowed depths. The air outside was cool, heavy with the river's damp breath, but the silence felt wrong—too thick, too deliberate.
Aadi stepped into the brush, the comms unit cold in his hand, its dead light a taunt. The factory had been a husk—rusted machines, crumbling motors, biscuit dust ground into the floor—but that scrape, that fleeting shadow, had turned its emptiness into a threat. Ramesh's note burned in his pocket: "Cell 7 moved—new drop, unknown. Watch your back." They'd found a clue, a whisper of Axiom's shift, but something—or someone—had found them too.
"Keep moving," he whispered, nodding toward the riverbank. "Stick to the trees—quiet."
Manisha led, her steps light despite the rifle's weight, weaving through the overgrowth with a predator's grace. Neha stayed close, her breath shallow, the notebook pressed against her chest like armor. Aadi brought up the rear, knife ready, the hum guiding his senses—every rustle, every snap of a twig amplified in the stillness. The factory loomed behind them, its broken silhouette fading as they slipped deeper into the woods, the river's murmur a faint guide.
They reached a cluster of gnarled trees, their roots twisting into the earth like claws. Aadi motioned them down, crouching behind a thick trunk. The hum pulsed, scars tingling, urging him to listen. He strained his ears—no footsteps, no voices, just the wind brushing the leaves and the river's steady flow. Too quiet. His grip tightened on the comms unit, its edges digging into his palm.
"Anything?" Manisha murmured, her rifle resting against her shoulder, eyes scanning the dark.
"Nothing," Neha whispered, adjusting her glasses. "But that shadow—it wasn't the wind."
Aadi nodded, the hum a steady drumbeat now. "Someone's out there. Watching, maybe tracking.
The factory was empty, but not abandoned. They left that comms unit—could be bait."
Manisha's jaw tightened, her voice low. "So we're the mice now? Great. What's the call?"
Aadi turned the comms unit over, its casing scratched but intact. "We use it. If it's got a signal, a memory—anything—we can trace Cell 7's new drop. But we can't stay here. They're close—I feel it."
Neha frowned, her fingers brushing the notebook. "How do we even turn it on? It's dead—no power, no lights."
"Doesn't mean it's useless," Aadi said, pocketing it. "We get back to the warehouse, dig through Dad's stash. He had tools, maybe a charger, something to crack it open. If we can't, we find someone who can."
Manisha smirked faintly, though her eyes stayed sharp. "Back to base, then. Hope your gut's right about this."
"It's not my gut," Aadi said, tapping his chest where the hum buzzed. "It's this. Saved us before."
She nodded, rising with the rifle ready. "Lead on, then. Let's not give them a free shot."
They moved again, tracing the riverbank south, the factory shrinking into the night behind them. The hum guided Aadi's steps, a compass he couldn't explain, pulling him through the tangle of roots and shadows. His shoulder ached from the earlier graze at the mill, a dull throb he ignored—scars were piling up, but he'd push through. For Ramesh. For them.
The warehouse came into view after an hour's trek, its rusted frame a dark blot against the sky. They slipped inside through the side door, the familiar stench of damp rot greeting them. Manisha swept the main floor with the rifle, her boots crunching glass, while Neha checked the loft stairs. Aadi headed straight for the back room, the lockbox still open where he'd left it. He rummaged through the duffel—ammo, the folded knife, the scratched-up phone. No charger, but the phone's battery flickered to life when he pressed the power button—half a bar, enough to try.
"Anything?" Neha called, descending the stairs with her notebook in hand.
"Maybe," Aadi said, plugging the comms unit into the phone with a frayed cable from the bag. The unit's light stayed dead, but the phone buzzed, a faint signal icon blinking. "It's connecting—weak, but something's there."
Manisha joined them, leaning over his shoulder. "What's it saying?"
Aadi squinted at the screen—static, then a garbled string of numbers and letters: "Freq 142.7—loc pending—Cell 7 active." The signal cut out, the phone's battery dropping to a sliver. He cursed under his breath, the hum spiking with frustration.
"Frequency," Neha said, her voice quickening. "142.7—radio band. If we had a receiver, we could listen in."
Aadi's mind raced, the hum syncing with a plan. "Dad's stash didn't have one, but the factory—those machines, some had control panels. Old tech, maybe a radio built in. We go back, find it."
Manisha raised an eyebrow, slinging the rifle down. "Back? After that shadow? You're nuts."
"We've got no choice," Aadi said, standing. "That comms unit's our only lead. If Cell 7's talking, we hear it—we find the new drop. We rest here till dawn, then move. They won't expect us to double back."
Neha nodded slowly, her pencil tapping the notebook. "It's risky. But if Ramesh marked that factory, it's not random. There's something there."
Manisha sighed, rubbing her neck. "Fine. Dawn it is. I'll take watch again—yell if that phone does anything else."
She climbed to the loft, settling into her perch, while Neha spread the notebook on a crate, sketching the factory's layout from memory—machines, doors, the desk. Aadi sat beside her, the comms unit in his lap, its dead light a challenge he'd crack. The hum lulled him into a tense rest, eyes half-open, tracking shadows that didn't move.
Dawn broke gray and heavy, the sky a smear of clouds as they trekked back to the biscuit factory. The river glinted dully, the air thick with mist that clung to their clothes. Aadi led, the gun holstered, the knife in his belt, the comms unit a weight in his pocket. Manisha followed, rifle at the ready, her breath visible in the chill. Neha brought up the rear, notebook tucked away, her glasses fogging slightly.
The factory emerged from the haze, its rusted shell eerily still. No shadows, no sounds—just the creak of wind through broken panes. They slipped inside, the biscuit dust crunching underfoot, the machines looming like silent sentinels. Aadi headed for a control panel on a rusted conveyor—wires spilled out, buttons cracked, but a small speaker grille hinted at a radio. He pried it open with the knife, exposing a tangle of circuits and a dusty dial.
"Got it," he said, twisting the dial to 142.7. Static hissed, then a voice—low, clipped, cutting through the noise: "Cell 7 to base—drop relocated, quarry active. Confirm pickup, 3 a.m., east ridge."
Aadi's pulse surged, the hum roaring. "East ridge—tomorrow night. That's it."
Manisha grinned, a rare flash of teeth. "We've got them. Actual coordinates?"
Neha scribbled in the notebook, her voice steady. "East ridge is past the bridge—hills, old trails. We can scout it today, be ready."
Aadi nodded, the hum a war drum now. "We hit them there—small, fast, like we planned. Supplies, intel, whatever they've got. If it goes bad, I reset."
A snap echoed from the factory's far end—a sharp crack, like metal on metal. They froze, the hum screaming, scars flaring. A shadow moved—tall, deliberate, a blade glinting in the dim light. Shade's voice rasped through the stillness: "Sloppy, kid. You should've stayed gone."
Aadi gripped the knife, the hum a live wire. They'd been hunted, not hunting. Reset loomed, but he'd fight first—for the lead, for the edge, for them all.