The radio crackled, spitting out dry static and distorted noise.
That voice, emerging like a specter, still hung in the air.
"...Thorne... we need to talk..."
Elias remained still.
His finger hovered over the response button, but he didn't press it.
Not yet.
In the silent darkness of Haven-17, the echo of the voice was more unsettling than gunfire or explosions.
It wasn't fear that paralyzed him.
It was recognition.
That voice.
That damned voice.
---
Elias knew it was impossible.
The man behind that voice was dead.
Dead for decades.
Buried — or at least supposed to be — along with the horrors that created monsters like Elias.
His mind began to work, cold and methodical, sorting through the possibilities:
1. It was a trap.
2. It was an automated recording, a leftover contingency.
3. Or, against all reason, it was real.
None of these options were good.
---
Grimm and Ash stood alert, growling low, their eyes fixed on the radio as if they too sensed the invisible danger.
Elias rose slowly.
He approached the table.
The radio hissed again, a hideous distortion, like nails scraping metal.
And then the voice returned:
"...not much time... they already know... need to see you, Thorne..."
A pause.
Then, a sequence of numbers was transmitted.
Coordinates.
Latitude. Longitude.
A remote place.
Very remote.
---
Silence returned to dominate Haven-17.
Elias shut off the radio, disconnecting the transmitter to avoid tracking.
Then he sat.
Thoughtful.
Frowning.
Old memories surfaced like ghosts in his mind.
Experiments.
Augmented soldiers.
Desperate attempts to turn death into a weapon.
He and a few others had survived.
Most had not.
And as far as he knew, all involved in the project were dead.
Executed.
Or silenced.
---
"They already know..."
Who were they?
The New Order?
A new faction?
Or something even worse?
---
Elias remained seated for a long time, unmoving, staring into the shadows.
Choosing between ignoring the call or following the invitation was like deciding between poisoning himself slowly or throwing himself into an unknown abyss.
He could simply ignore it.
Seal Haven-17.
Fortify the defenses.
Survive, as he always had.
But he knew.
Deep down, he knew.
The past would not stop hunting him.
Even locked inside the safest shelter, the ghosts would find him.
Because Haven-17 could protect his body.
But not his history.
---
At last, Elias made a decision.
Not out of bravery.
Not out of nostalgia.
But because, in a condemned world, the only real choice was to move forward.
Always.
---
With swift, silent steps, he began preparing for departure.
He selected light, silent weaponry.
An automatic pistol, a combat knife, a precision rifle.
Smoke and fragmentation grenades.
Rations for three days.
Purified water.
A medical kit.
Spare batteries.
He moved like a shadow, packing each item with military efficiency.
Grimm and Ash watched closely.
They knew.
They felt the shift in the air.
They, too, prepared — nervous, restless.
---
Before leaving, Elias reviewed every defense system at Haven-17.
Armed the mines.
Sealed the inner passages.
Reprogrammed the traps.
If he didn't return, anyone attempting to breach the shelter would die before finding anything of value.
The only guarantee he could leave behind.
---
At pale dawn, riding his reinforced motorcycle with Grimm and Ash running beside him, Elias left Haven-17 behind.
Dust kicked up under the tires.
The cold wind slashed at his skin like blades.
But Elias no longer felt the cold.
Nor pain.
Nor fear.
He was part of that broken world now.
As shattered as the land he crossed.
---
The path to the coordinates was treacherous.
Abandoned territories.
Landmines from forgotten wars.
Ruins of cities that would never rise again.
Elias moved carefully.
Each mile covered was a silent victory against the world.
Grimm and Ash took the lead at strategic points, sniffing out invisible dangers.
---
Hours passed.
The sun, hidden behind eternal clouds, barely lit the devastated landscape.
The road turned to trails.
The trails into nothingness.
Yet Elias pressed on.
Guided only by the coordinates burned into his mind.
And the growing feeling that he was approaching something that would change everything.
---
Finally, by dusk, he spotted the site.
An old transmission station.
Twisted metal towers.
Collapsed cabins.
Scattered remnants of antennas like skeletal remains.
The wind howled between the dead structures.
A true graveyard of technology.
Elias stopped the motorcycle at a safe distance.
He dismounted silently.
Gestured for Grimm and Ash to spread out defensively.
Approached the station carefully.
---
Nothing.
No visible movement.
No sound but the wind and the echoes of a forgotten world.
Then, from inside one of the ruined cabins, a figure emerged.
Black hood.
Calm posture.
No visible weapons — but Elias knew better than to be deceived.
The figure raised both hands, signaling peace.
Elias didn't lower his weapon.
He approached cautiously.
---
At a few meters' distance, the stranger pulled back the hood.
And Elias felt the world tilt for a moment.
The aged face.
The scars.
The hardened eyes.
But still recognizable.
Viktor Hale.
General Hale.
The man who had commanded the project that created Elias.
The man missing for more than fifty years.
The man everyone believed dead.
---
"You..." Elias began, but his voice faltered.
Hale gave a tired smile.
"I thought I was dead too," the old general said. "In many ways, maybe I am."
A tense silence hung between them.
Grimm and Ash remained still, on high alert.
Elias pressed the rifle tighter against his chest.
Every instinct screamed to pull the trigger.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
---
Hale spoke first:
"They're coming, Thorne."
"Who?" Elias growled.
"Those who inherited the project. Those who want to finish it... and you along with it."
Another silence.
Dense as lead.
---
Elias knew.
Without needing to hear more.
The mission ahead would be unlike anything he had faced before.
It wouldn't just be about surviving.
It wouldn't just be about fighting.
It would be about... choosing.
Sides.
Destiny.
Truth.
---
He slowly lowered his weapon.
Eyes locked onto Viktor Hale.
"Talk," Elias said. "And choose your words carefully."
Because in that dead world, words could still kill.
Or save.
---
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