The sizzling of meat on a grill echoed faintly through the dim-lit diner, mixing with the low hum of jazz spilling from rusted ceiling speakers. Neon signs painted the walls in hues of blue and red, their reflections rippling across the greasy glass of the window.
Riven poked at a half-eaten burger, his appetite dulled by a mind still heavy from their encounter with Cipher.
Across from him, Lucy twirled noodles around her fork with a strange calm.
"You look like you're trying to beat that meat into submission," she said without looking up.
Riven huffed. "I just keep thinking about what he said. Cipher. About the system... about us."
Lucy slurped the last of her noodles, wiped her mouth, and leaned back.
"Yeah. Me too."
Before the silence between them could grow, a system message blinked into existence in midair—binary letters scrolling across the screen like a command line:
[MISSION ALERT – CODE 14-BETA]
OBJECTIVE: Retrieve stolen briefcase.
Target located in Lower Manhattan.
Execution - unauthorized
property. Priority Level: RED.
Lucy sighed. "Well, so much for digestion."
The streets of Lower Manhattan were soaked in rain, light bouncing off puddles like fragments of broken mirrors. The team stood huddled in an alleyway near the marked building—a six-story office complex scheduled for demolition.
Riven. "Still feels weird we're not executing anyone."
James shrugged. "I'd rather it be weird than bloody. We've had enough of that lately."
Kelvin adjusted his visor, flicking through layers of security data. "Briefcase should be on the third floor, inside a reinforced vault. Five hostiles detected. All armed."
Lucy looked to each of them. "This is a clean retrieval. In and out. No need for heroics. We lost Moses because we underestimated the unknown. Not again."
Riven nodded. "Got it."
The infiltration began smoothly.
Lucy led the charge, moving with fluid precision. Her digital blade shimmered in her hand, slicing through lock mechanisms like butter. Riven followed close behind.
James took a rooftop position, watching through a cracked skylight.
Kelvin jammed local signals, scrambling any outbound transmissions.
They reached the third floor without alerting the guards.
Then the vault door loomed before them—three feet of reinforced steel, humming with low-grade tech shielding.
"Give me sixty seconds," Kelvin muttered, kneeling beside the console. Streams of binary danced across his system, displayed like a hologram.
Riven watched the corridor. "Any word on who stole it?"
Lucy shook her head. "Doesn't matter. Orders are orders."
The vault hissed open.
Inside sat a single black briefcase, glowing faintly with digital locks swirling across its surface.
"Got it," Kelvin said. "Let's move."
Alarms blared.
"Guess we took too long," Riven growled.
Footsteps thundered from the stairwell. Armed men poured in, their guns modified with outdated cybertech—clearly not professionals.
"Engage," Lucy ordered.
Riven moved, cutting down two in a blink. Lucy's strikes were precise, disabling limbs without killing. James took out hostiles from above with tranquilizer rounds, knocking them out cold.
Kelvin used non-lethal binary pulses to scramble their HUDs and jam weapons.
It was over in minutes.
Lucy grabbed the briefcase. "Everyone out."
The team emerged into the night, breath fogging in the chill. They boarded a black van that had been waiting two blocks down.
Inside, Riven stared at the briefcase resting between them.
"What the hell's in it?"
Lucy shrugged. "We're not paid to ask."
Back at the main office—a generic high-rise in Midtown that masked the real nature of Death Protocol—Cigar waited for them in the lobby, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"You got it?"
Lucy handed him the briefcase.
He nodded once. "Good. That'll be all for tonight."
No questions. No debrief.
Just... gone.
But Cigar didn't take the briefcase to his desk.
He took the elevator to a level not listed on any blueprint. Below the parking garage. Below sub-basement one. Into the unknown.
The elevator opened to a wide chamber dimly lit by pale white lights.
At the center was a massive round table. And seated around it—eight figures in high-backed chairs, their faces obscured by shadow. Only the faint glint of implants or masks showed through the gloom.
Cigar approached the center, placed the briefcase on the pedestal before them.
A voice, gravelly and cold, broke the silence.
"Hope the dogs secured the evidence."
Cigar didn't flinch.
"They did."
Another figure leaned forward slightly.
"Good. The project continues."
Cigar turned away, face hard as stone.
And above, far above, unaware of the secrets below, Riven stood near the edge of the rooftop, watching the city, wind brushing his hair.
Something inside him told him—this mission wasn't just about a briefcase.
It was about something far bigger.
And they were right in the middle of it.