The door creaked open like a coffin's hinge.
I froze, one hand still holding Elliot against the metal cabinet, the other curled around a stapler I found on a desk. The silhouette stepped into the archive with the kind of quiet that only came from years of training or the kind of madness that didn't require it.
Armored. Not bulky—streamlined. No insignia. Weapon drawn, a sleek compact rifle with a silencer longer than the barrel itself. A faint glow blinked on their visor like a pulse, scanning the dark in arcs.
Then came the light.
The beam licked across the wall, over overturned boxes, scattered pages from that cursed dossier, and then—almost—Elliot's hand.
He trembled. A quake behind his teeth.
I tapped his arm in an attempt to calm him down.
The figure's breath was steady. No tension. No nerves. A professional killer, I thought. One who didn't need adrenaline.
He muttered into a comm, low and clipped. "Archive clear. Moving to sweep corridor four."
