3rd Person POV
The room was dimly lit, the sound of the door clicking shut echoing as Agent Reynolds and the rest of the team filed in. They had just finished securing the perimeter and setting up the comms for the upcoming operation. Now, they stood in the shadowed corner, watching as Gerald worked.
The mercenaries were still bound in the center, their bloodied, bruised bodies slumped on the cold, steel floor. Gerald had already started. His voice was calm, deliberate, like he was merely having a conversation with an old acquaintance.
"You're going to give me names. Routes. Drop points. Or I'm going to teach your nervous system a new language."
The squad leader spat at his feet. Gerald didn't even blink. He was in his element now.
With one swift motion, Gerald jammed his thumb into the man's supraorbital foramen. The merc's body jerked, his mouth open in a silent scream. His eyes bulged, a mix of agony and terror flooding through his face.
The rest of the team exchanged uncomfortable glances, some of them flinching slightly at the soundless horror. Agent Reynolds, however, didn't look away. Her jaw was set, her focus unwavering. She had seen her fair share of brutality, but this? This was a level of precision and cold efficiency that left her speechless.
Gerald withdrew his thumb, and the man's body slumped, breathing shallow but alive. Gerald didn't waste time. He moved onto the next one.
Without a word, Gerald approached the second merc. His movements were fluid, calculating. The man tried to scoot back, his face flushed with panic.
"No-no, man, I'll talk, just—just wait—"
Gerald's face was impassive as he cut him off with a sharp motion—two fingers jabbing into the man's side, just beneath the rib cage. A scream tore from the merc's throat as Gerald twisted precisely between the ninth and tenth ribs, striking the intercostal nerves.
The merc convulsed violently, legs kicking against the steel floor. His body arched unnaturally, frothing spit bubbling from the corner of his mouth. The pain was blinding—raw, primal—designed not to kill, but to erase any ability to form coherent thought beyond survival.
Gerald leaned in, whispering into the man's ear. "Every second you waste is another nerve I'll isolate."
The merc's eyes were wild now, pupils dilated with panic. "Okay! Okay—Port Vance! Cargo came through Port Vance—section nine, under Forge clearance!"
Gerald didn't even nod. He pulled back and let the man fall like wet cloth, his limbs twitching, breath ragged. Then he turned to the third.
"Next," Gerald said simply.
This one tried to stay strong. He clenched his jaw, tried to look defiant—but his gaze kept flicking to the broken forms beside him. Sweat beaded on his temple. His knees were shaking even while seated.
Gerald knelt, eye level with him, and reached up slowly—methodically—pressing his thumb against the hollow just beneath the mandible.
The hypoglossal nerve.
A slight push, and the man's tongue seized in his mouth. Another inch deeper and his eyes rolled back, drool spilling from the sides as his jaw clamped uncontrollably, spasming.
"You're not going to die," Gerald whispered, tone neutral. "But in sixty seconds, your muscles will be screaming to tear themselves apart."
The merc tried to scream but couldn't. Every sound caught in his throat as his body betrayed him.
Across the room, one of the younger agents gagged and turned away, hand over mouth.
"That's not interrogation," one muttered under his breath. "That's a goddamn biology class from hell."
Still, Reynolds didn't flinch.
When Gerald finally let go, the man collapsed in on himself, sobbing, saliva drenching his collar. He didn't even wait for Gerald to ask.
"We ran the shipments through Vance, then up to Albury Station—no customs, no scans. Off-book."
Gerald stood.
Three down.
He turned to the fourth.
This one was already breaking, trembling so violently his shackles rattled.
"I—I'll give you everything," he choked out. "Just—please—don't touch me."
Gerald didn't answer. He only turned to Reynolds and motioned with a slight nod.
"Verify it."
She stepped forward, still wordless. Kneeling beside the broken man, she pulled out a notepad and pen.
As she began taking notes, one of the agents, still pale, muttered from the back of the room, "He's not even sweating…"
Gerald stood in the center of the carnage—calm, unshaken, his hands bloodstained but steady. His expression hadn't changed once. No pride. No anger. Just focus.
Reynolds glanced up at him briefly. "We've got enough. The intel lines up."
Gerald simply nodded.
Reynolds rose to her feet, snapping the notepad shut with a crisp motion. She gave the fourth merc a final look—he was weeping silently now, the aftershocks of pure terror still rippling through his system. He wasn't a threat anymore. None of them were.
"We move in twenty," she said, voice clipped and professional. "Strike team, prep gear. Comm silence until we hit Vance."
The agents responded immediately, some too eager to get out of that room. They filed out quickly, whispering among themselves, casting furtive glances back at Gerald as if he were something barely human. Something engineered, not born.
Only Reynolds lingered. She studied him for a long moment, then spoke low.
"You know they're going to ask questions. Command doesn't like methods they can't control."
Gerald didn't look at her. He crouched by the nearest table, methodically wiping his hands clean with a cloth. The red soaked into the fibers like ink.
"They don't have to like it," he said quietly. "They just have to use it."
Reynolds hesitated, then nodded. She couldn't argue with results—she knew that. But watching what Gerald had just done made her question whether results were always worth the cost.
He finally turned to her, wiping a speck of blood from his collar. "Did you flinch?"
She blinked. "No."
"Then you're already ahead of the others."
With that, he walked past her, movements fluid and quiet. There was no celebration in him. No triumph. Just motion. Purpose.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Port Vance – Section Nine22:03 Hours
The air was thicker here. Not just with the salt spray and diesel fumes—but with something older, heavier. Tension clung to the steel hulls and rusted walkways like oil on water. Section Nine wasn't just isolated—it was deliberately forgotten, a blind spot in oversight that only the right kind of people exploited.
Gerald stood motionless at the edge of the perimeter, eyes narrowed as he scanned the dockyard from the shadows. The others fanned out behind him, weapons lowered but ready, boots quiet against the soaked pavement.
Reynolds joined him, pulling up her hood as the rain started again—light, but cold. It hit the containers in rhythmic taps, the sound masking the movement of boots.
"Visuals confirm target container stacks near the Forge markers. Thermal's dirty, but there's heat. Could be shielding," she murmured.
Gerald said nothing. He tilted his head, listening—not with ears, not just. He could hear them: muffled movements, quiet engines, the stifled pulse of heat cycling through metallic lungs.
"Three guards rotating, two drones sweeping every twenty seconds," he said, eyes still scanning. "They're expecting a hit. Not from us."
She raised a brow. "Who then?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward into the dark.
Inside Section Nine – Target Zone
A hollow clang echoed as Gerald gripped the edge of a cargo container and hauled himself silently onto the upper level. Rain slicked the surface, but his movements were effortless, precise.
Below him, a man in a thick jacket spoke hurriedly into a handheld. "Negative. No customs tonight. Only Forge personnel allowed. If it's not listed, it's not real. That's the chain."
Gerald crouched, watching. His eyes scanned not just for people, but for habits. For patterns.
He found one.
A worker—jittery, underdressed, eyes scanning the shadows. Not a guard. Not cargo crew. A runner.
Gerald descended without sound, landing just behind him.
The man froze mid-step. Didn't even have time to turn.
Gerald's hand clamped over his mouth. The other slid a blade beneath his jacket.
"No screaming. Just nod."
The man nodded, trembling.
"You're the courier," Gerald whispered. "You've seen what's in the containers."
Another nod.
"Tell me."
The man's eyes darted around, panicked. "They said... they said it wasn't weapons. Not normal stuff. Bio-something. But it screamed—inside one of them."
Gerald's eyes hardened. "Which one?"
The runner lifted a shaking finger. "Row D... black seal. Not Forge standard. It came in three days ago. No manifest."
Gerald knocked him unconscious with a quick nerve tap and eased him down gently. He keyed his comm.
"Reynolds. Row D. Secondary payload. Non-standard seals. Possible live cargo."
There was a pause.
"Acknowledged. Confirmed thermal signatures—faint. Too faint."
Gerald was already moving.
Row D – Black Seal
The container was taller than the rest. Reinforced. Scorch marks traced along one edge, like something had burned its way in—or out. Gerald approached slowly, scanning.
The lock was a biometric override—custom work, not standard shipping fare.
He placed a device over it, watched the lights flicker.
Then, with a hiss, the door creaked open.
The stench hit him first.
Not death. Not rot.
Sterile.
Like antiseptic and ammonia—and something wet.
Inside, under blue lighting and vibration-dampened harnesses, lay a single cylindrical chamber. Frosted. Humming. And inside...
A shape.
Humanoid.
No clothes. No scars. Just skin—translucent, too perfect.
And eyes.
Open.
Watching him.
Gerald stepped closer. His breath clouded slightly—the temperature drop was unnatural. Not for preservation. For containment.
He keyed his comm again, slowly.
"Reynolds. You need to see this."
"We're en route. ETA two minutes."
Gerald didn't take his eyes off the figure.
It didn't blink.
Didn't move.
But he felt it. A pressure behind his eyes. Like a whisper through glass.
A message not spoken aloud:
You're late.
[Power Stone]