The world outside had turned to rain by the time Evan and Maya emerged from the tunnels.
Heavy, ceaseless rain, drumming against the broken asphalt like a slow, tired heartbeat.
They moved through the back alleys of the industrial district, staying low, keeping to the shadows.
No words passed between them.
The silence was necessary now — it wasn't just about hiding from their enemies anymore.
It was about survival.
Maya's jacket was soaked through.
Evan's boots squelched with every step.
They didn't care.
Finally, tucked between two rust-stained factories, they found it — a door with a faded red mark scratched into the metal.
The sign of a friend.
Maya knocked — a rhythm: two short, one long, two short again.
Inside, gears ground. Locks unlatched.
The door creaked open.
A man peered out — gaunt, wide-eyed, with a jagged scar down his temple.
For a moment, suspicion warred with recognition.
Then he stepped aside.
"In. Quick," he rasped.
They slipped inside.
The man slammed the door shut behind them, spinning the locks back into place.
The room was a machine shop — or had been, once.
Now it was a skeleton of its former self.
Tools lay rusting on workbenches.
Cables hung like vines from the ceiling.
The smell of oil, metal, and mold was thick in the air.
"You brought hell on your heels, you know that?" the man said.
His voice was rough, years of smoking etched into it.
"You're hot. Real hot. Whole district's talking about two ghosts running from black SUVs."
Maya shook rainwater from her hair.
"We didn't have a choice, Boone."
Boone grunted. His eyes flicked to Evan.
"Who's the kid?"
"My partner," Maya said.
Boone raised an eyebrow but didn't argue.
He limped over to a workbench, pulled out a cracked thermos, and poured black coffee into two mismatched mugs.
"You'll need a plan," he said.
"Whatever you've got, it's big. I can smell it."
Maya dropped into a battered chair, exhaustion pouring off her in waves.
Evan took the mug Boone offered, the heat burning his palms.
He didn't drink.
Just held it.
Grounding himself.
Boone leaned in, lowering his voice.
"You two need a network. A safe pipeline. Somewhere to move information without getting your heads blown off."
"And you know how to build that?" Evan asked.
Boone grinned, a jagged thing.
"Kid, I helped write the damn manual. 'Course, that was back when we thought we were fighting for something that mattered."
He tapped a cigarette out of a crumpled pack, lighting it with a battered zippo.
"First thing you need is trust. Second thing? Deniability. Third thing? Options. Always have options."
Maya leaned forward.
"You can help us?"
Boone blew smoke at the ceiling.
"Maybe. Depends what you're trying to do. If you're just leaking files, that's easy. But if you're trying to burn the whole house down..."
He looked at them — really looked — and something in his face hardened.
"You are, aren't you?"
Neither Evan nor Maya spoke.
They didn't have to.
Boone swore under his breath.
"You're both insane."
He stubbed out his cigarette with a savage twist.
"But I like insane."
He cracked his knuckles.
"Alright. Let's make a list."
He grabbed a grease-stained notepad from a drawer, slapped it onto the workbench.
"First: safehouses. You're gonna need at least three. Spread across sectors. Never sleep in the same place twice."
He scrawled a few addresses.
"You'll need burner phones. Dead drops. Anonymous cash stashes."
More scribbles.
"Second: people. You can't fight a war alone. You need allies. Disposables. Some loyal. Some just useful."
Boone looked up, dead serious.
"And you better be ready to cut loose anyone who so much as twitches wrong."
Evan felt the weight of that settle on his chest like a stone.
Trust no one.
Not even each other, if it came to that.
Boone kept writing.
"Third: Distraction. You need noise. Scandals. False flags. Make them chase shadows while you move."
He tapped the paper with a grease-blackened finger.
"And fourth... you need a way out. Always."
He looked up at them.
"You go into this thinking you're heroes, you're already dead. You fight dirty, you cheat, you lie, you run when you have to. Understand?"
Maya nodded grimly.
Evan swallowed hard and did the same.
Boone sat back, folding his arms.
"Good. Then let's talk about who's really hunting you."
He reached under the bench, pulling out a battered laptop.
With a few quick keystrokes, he brought up a map — a spiderweb of connections, names, photos.
"The Initiative," Boone said.
"Not just one company. It's a coalition. Government suits, private military, tech billionaires, media puppets. A shadow council pulling strings across the globe."
He zoomed in.
A cluster of faces appeared.
Senator Whitcomb.
General Marrow.
Elena Krauss — CEO of KraussTech Industries.
A half-dozen others Evan didn't recognize but instinctively knew were just as dangerous.
"They want stability," Boone said.
"Not justice. Not truth. Stability. Their version of it."
He leaned in, his voice low and dangerous.
"And if a few thousand people have to die screaming in the dark to keep the machine running? They'll call it collateral damage and move on with their day."
Evan stared at the screen, a slow, seething rage building inside him.
He thought of all the lives crushed under boots, all the lies sold like truth.
"They have black sites," Maya said.
"Places even the government pretends not to know exist."
Boone nodded grimly.
"And you've got proof. Enough to bring down half the pyramid if you play it right."
Evan clenched his fists.
"And if we don't?"
Boone gave him a humorless smile.
"Then you vanish. Just another whisper in the dark. Forgotten before your body even gets cold."
The rain hammered harder outside.
The world shivering on the brink.
Boone shut the laptop with a snap.
"You've got one shot at this," he said.
"One."
Maya stood, squaring her shoulders despite the exhaustion dragging at her bones.
"Then we don't miss."
Evan rose beside her.
Whatever fear remained inside him hardened into something sharper.
Colder.
Resolve.
Boone smiled, a flash of teeth in the gloom.
"Good. Then let's build you an army."
Outside, the storm raged on, drowning the city in water and ash.
Inside that ruined workshop, something was being born — a rebellion, fragile and furious, like a flame sparked in a hurricane.
It wouldn't be easy.
It wouldn't be clean.
But it would be unforgettable.
And it would burn.
---