The walls sweated. Somewhere in the distance, a rusted pipe groaned under its own weight. Deep beneath the abandoned NATO outpost, buried in a bunker the world had forgotten, Blake sat chained to a steel chair. Limbs restrained. Mouth gagged. The air tasted like copper and mold.

The lights didn’t fail. They dimmed — in rhythm. First one, then another, until only the emergency strips glowed faintly red. No sirens. No footsteps. Just a mechanical hum, like static clinging to silence.

Then: impact.

Not a bomb — too precise. A wall somewhere above collapsed in on itself, calculated and quiet, like a building exhaling for the last time.

A minute passed. Then another.

Then the door opened.

No shouting. No flurry of boots. Only one set of footsteps — slow, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm. Black combat boots cut through dust without sound. A long matte coat swept behind her, untouched by the filth in the air.

She stepped into the room like she had always belonged in it. One gloved hand rested on the handle of a suppressed sidearm, still warm. The other held nothing — she didn’t need it to.

She said nothing at first. Just scanned the room. The guard stationed in the far corner lay in a spreading pool of blood, throat collapsed inward. Efficient. Silent. Her gaze landed on Blake.

The kind of gaze that didn’t ask if he was the objective — it declared it.

She walked over, crouched, and removed the gag. Her expression didn’t shift. Not pity. Not urgency. Just precision.

Then she spoke — voice low, flat, and cold as surgical steel:

“Mr. Blake.”

A pause.

“You’re coming with me. No questions.”

She rose without waiting for a reply.

“If you can walk, do it now. If not… I’ll drag you.”

Another pause.

“Move.”