The reinforced hallway hummed with low, electric tension. Lights embedded in the steel floor pulsed a dull red beneath Adrian's polished boots, casting shadows that elongated with each step.
His coat flared behind him like a cape as he strode, dark and angular.
Six guards flanked him, expressionless behind mirrored visors, rifles held tight, loyal to a fault. At least for now.
They knew better than to speak unless spoken to.
"Sector Twelve lost contact at 0300," said Captain Rennic, his most senior shadow and glorified watchdog. The man fell into step beside him, face hidden beneath his visor, voice clipped. "Seventeen men gone. One trace left: residual pheromone disruption. We think it's one of the older mimics."
Adrian didn't stop walking.
He inhaled through his nose. Clean air, recycled through triple-filtered vents. He missed the smell of blood and carbon. It told the truth.
