The next morning, the air inside the Swindon HQ was unusually vibrant. The corridors buzzed with laughter, chatter, and clinking coffee cups as the word quickly spread—salary day. The junior agents wore slightly brighter smiles, and even the admin staff walked with an extra spring in their steps. One officer was spotted checking his bank app mid-step, another boasting about finally buying that gaming console he'd saved for months. The whole place carried the rare scent of brief relief.
But in the midst of all the chatter, Kiaan Varma walked in—quiet, collected, and a little pale around the eyes. The lightness in the air didn't touch him. He was back in his signature deep blue jacket, sleeves slightly rolled up, bandage still tucked neatly beneath his hoodie sleeve. His eyes, though softer from yesterday's collapse, were already razor-sharp again—fixed on his mission, tracing roots of something far darker than payday joy.
Inside the agents' main ops room, Dev, Tara, and Rehaan looked up as he entered. Dev, holding a protein bar in one hand and scrolling his phone with the other, grinned lazily. "The spider-slayer returns," he teased, standing up. "Wanna file a separate case for psychological trauma?"
Kiaan shot him a deadpan look. "You should file one for excessive alcohol flirtation," he muttered, dropping his backpack on the table.
Rehaan chuckled, spinning his chair around. "At least you're alive. The hospital trip gave me a mini heart attack, yaar. Don't do that again."
Tara, ever observant, slid a new file toward him. "Your charm doesn't cover everything, K. Take it easy today. The roots will still be here tomorrow."
Kiaan glanced at her for a second, then gave a small nod. But his fingers were already flipping through the papers. "We can't afford a delay. That Redfish port was a blind alley—but someone used it. And someone's still collecting drugs from a new point."
As he spoke, he pulled out his marker, uncapping it with purpose. A clean, fresh whiteboard was already waiting—his ritual. Despite everything, his mind was still his sharpest weapon.
"Look at this," Kiaan continued, pointing to a map Tara had pinned earlier. "If not Redfish, then one of these nearby ports—either Brentwater or Graykey—are being used for cargo laundering. I already checked satellite timings. A van left Redfish empty at 4:13 AM. It showed up at Graykey at 5:01, but no records of entry were filed."
Tara's brow furrowed. "Then Graykey's guards are compromised too."
"Most likely," Kiaan nodded. "I want access to their internal security. If they're rotating vans or changing plates, we'll need traffic CCTV from the highways too."
Dev sighed, leaning back with a grin. "Man, you don't stop, do you? It's salary day, bro. People are planning pizzas and pay splurges, and you're plotting traffic footage hacks."
Kiaan looked up briefly, lips twitching faintly. "I'll buy myself tea. That's enough of a celebration."
Tara snorted. "Such a minimalist."
"Not really," Kiaan replied, tapping the marker to the whiteboard. "I just celebrate after the devil falls."
The room fell quiet for a second.
Rehaan smirked, raising his cup. "To that then."
Outside, the HQ remained lively. But inside that room—within their corner of war and wires—the real battle continued to brew. Kiaan knew someone was watching. Someone playing silent, calculated moves.
And as he stared at the map of ports, red circles now drawn over Brentwater and Graykey, he didn't realize Rex was already a step ahead—armed with knowledge more dangerous than gun.