The subterranean concrete walls carried the dull, muffled thump of a silenced drop, followed instantly by a scream from upstairs that tore right over the bass of the record player. It was a sharp, sudden noise, unmistakable and violent. The kind of sound that signaled the onset of a slaughter.
Sebastian Shaw did not look up from his briefing papers, though his pen paused over the margin.
Azazel stood near the heavy steel doorway, his tail flicking with rhythmic, lazy irritation against his tailored slacks. A thin, self-satisfied grin pulled at the edge of the teleporter's mouth as he tilted his head toward the ceiling, listening to the frantic scurry of feet overhead.
"Patience, demon," Riptide murmured from the corner, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the blank concrete. "The boss gave the order. Clean entry, zero premature alarms until the perimeter is secured."
"The perimeter is secured, Janos," Azazel rasped, his voice smooth and laced with sadistic amusement. "Those little CIA mice in their underground warren don't even know the door is unlocked. Or rather... that I am already inside it."
Shaw finally set his pen down, the click sharp in the quiet room. He adjusted the cuffs of his immaculate suit, his expression cool, calculating, and utterly detached. To Shaw, this wasn't an assault; it was an extraction of assets, a pruning of lesser intellects who dared stand between him and the evolution of the species.
"Azazel," Shaw said softly, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room without needing to raise a decibel. "Begin."
The red-skinned mutant grinned, showing a flash of sharp teeth. "Gladly."
Riptide pushed away from the wall and fell into step beside Shaw as they crossed the room together. Along the raw concrete edge of the far wall, a pool of shadow suddenly hitched—shifting with a sharp, unnatural jerk before settling back into place. Riptide's gaze snapped toward it, his jaw tightening as he stared at the empty corner for a fraction of a second too long. Shaw didn't even blink, entirely unbothered by whatever phantom anomaly brushed the edges of the room, entirely too convinced of his own absolute control to care.
"If they've moved the files since our last report, we may lose time," Riptide muttered, tearing his eyes away.
"We won't," Shaw replied without breaking stride. "Men under pressure cling to procedure. They will try to protect the records before they protect themselves."
Riptide rested one hand against the steel frame, waiting for Shaw to pass before following him into the corridor.
In a blink of sulfur and smoke, Azazel vanished from the room.
A heartbeat later, the first heavy thump echoed through the foundation above—the sound of an armed CIA operative meeting the lawn at terminal velocity. Azazel was working quickly, dropping them from the night sky just to watch their resolve fracture before the real work even began.
Riptide uncrossed his arms, rolling his shoulders as a low, ambient pressure began to build around him. The air in the room grew dense, the barometric drop whispering of the hurricane he was about to unleash outside.
"They're panicking," Azazel's voice hissed, echoing back into the room for a split second before he jumped again, his red tail flashing out of existence.
Above them, the automatic gunfire started—frantic, uncoordinated bursts rattling down the stairwell like a string of firecrackers. It was the sound of trapped men firing blindly at shadows. Shaw rose from his seat, buttoning his jacket with slow, deliberate precision.
"They shoot because they are afraid," Shaw noted, a calm, clinical satisfaction in his eyes. "And they are afraid because they recognize their obsolescence."
He stepped toward the exit corridor, gesturing for Riptide to follow. The storm outside was rising, Janos's winds howling against the glass walls as the entire compound shuddered under the dual weight of Azazel's terror tactics and Riptide's gathering cyclone.
"Let's go greet our hosts," Shaw said, a cold smile touching his lips. "And see what these children have managed to build in the dark."
The late-night conversation between Raven and me was shattered by a sound—a low, muffled thump that reverberated straight through the subterranean concrete walls. And then came the scream—raw, sudden, and cutting straight through the bass of the record player upstairs. It was terrifying and unmistakable. The kind of scream you hear in horror movies when everything has gone to hell. I thought our guest would be more civil. The shadows should have warned you enough. Oh, well, so much for a quiet evening with cheap wine.
As the needle skipped across the vinyl with a faint, dying scratch, the lingering warmth of the room abruptly turned to ice.
Raven's head snapped toward the noise, her eyes wide with alarm. She didn't speak, her posture tightening instantly. She moved closer, wrapping her arms around me in a protective motion. The tension in her muscles was rigid, her fingers trembling slightly as she tightened her grip. The calm, collected Raven was gone, replaced by a woman bracing for impact.
"Raven?" I asked, raising an eyebrow even as my pulse spiked. "Are we bracing for the apocalypse, or did someone just drop a really heavy filing cabinet?"
She didn't answer right away, her gaze still fixed on the hallway leading up toward the ground floor like she expected the concrete walls to burst open any second. Her breath was rapid. My own heart was starting to race, carrying the cold sweat on her skin straight through her shirt.
"What's happening?" I asked, nudging her arm playfully, trying to inject some much-needed lightness into the suffocating air. "Come on, talk to me. Is the cheese plate that offensive?"
Her hold on me only tightened, cutting off any more jokes. She wasn't looking at me anymore, her focus fully on the chaos unfolding above us. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, but when she spoke, her voice was a low whisper, almost to herself. "It's... too quiet. I don't like this."
Oh, wow. Talk about an understatement. That scream meant someone's ribcage had just met terminal velocity out on the lawn. I could feel the storm building in the air, a familiar electric tingle prickling right along my arms.
No doubt about it, it's Shaw and his merry band of mutants, rolling in way earlier than I expected. Rude, honestly. Did they not check our calendar?
"I can help," I muttered, flashing a quick, confident grin as I tried to wriggle out of her suffocating grip. "Seriously, I'm great at parties."
But Raven didn't let go. Instead, she pressed her cheek against my shoulder and tightened her arms around me like she was trying to stuff me back into a suitcase. "No, Sarah. You don't even know what's out there."
I let out an exaggerated sigh, rolling my eyes heavenward. Honestly, her protective streak was getting ridiculous. Next thing I knew, she'd be wrapping me in bubble wrap.
"You're not a shield, you know," I murmured, nudging her gently with my elbow. "And I'm definitely not fragile."
She flinched, but before she could reply, the noise above reached a whole new level—shouting, the unmistakable crackle of automatic gunfire echoing down the stairwell, and then the sound of a heavy body hitting the concrete courtyard above with a wet thud.
With a look of pure, unadulterated frustration, Raven finally loosened her grip just enough for me to slip free, her yellow eyes flashing. "What the hell is that noise?"
"Azazel," I said flatly, though I couldn't resist a dry smirk. "The man has zero respect for property values."
That muffled thump? Classic Azazel. A teleporting jerk who uses gravity as a murder weapon. Bungee jumping without the cord. The CIA upstairs definitely didn't have a manual for this. How many poor agents had he already bounced off the lawn? Judging by the soundtrack, a lot of them.
Raven's eyes flicked to me, still clouded with that mix of concern and fear. "Azazel?" she asked, her tone tight. Her hands were still trembling, but she wasn't backing down.
She glanced toward the stairwell again, listening as another scream echoed through the bunker. Her shoulders tensed, and for a moment it looked like she was about to run after the others. Instead, she stayed where she was, her attention snapping back to me as if making sure I hadn't already bolted.
Through the high, reinforced window well at the top of the wall, the telltale flashes of light confirmed my suspicions.
A figure sprinted across the narrow strip of ground outside the window well, and I caught Hank for only a second before he disappeared behind the concrete edge. He had one arm wrapped around a shaken CIA technician whose security badge bounced wildly against his chest while Hank practically dragged him toward cover. The technician stumbled halfway there, but Hank caught him without slowing down and shoved him behind a parked transport just as another flash lit the yard.
Another flash lit the yard long enough for me to catch Hank turning back instead of continuing toward cover. He shoved the technician down behind the transport with one hand and looked toward the main entrance as another pair of CIA agents stumbled into the open. He motioned them over with a sharp wave, waiting just long enough to make sure they reached the vehicle before he finally moved himself, disappearing again into the darkness.
Azazel's teleporting was fast, but messy. Another body hit the lawn right after the characteristic thump. Then he reappeared in a flash near the treeline, his feet barely touching the ground before he was gone again.
"Well," I said, leaning casually against the desk with a half-smile. "Looks like we've got front-row seats to the circus. You'd think they'd RSVP first."
The second I finished speaking, the storm outside hit with full force. The wind picked up, a whirling vortex rattling the heavy glass, kicking up dirt and debris across the grounds. Riptide. Figures. I could practically feel the gusts of wind in my bones, the barometric pressure dropping so fast my ears popped. The wind spiraled faster, and the crackling tension in the air made my heart give a happy little flutter. Oh, I've missed a good brawl.
Down in the main corridor, the immediate space was already bottlenecking into a claustrophobic panic. The air smelled of ozone, gun oil, and rising sweat.
The next shout cut down the hall—Darwin's voice, ringing with hard urgency. "Azazel's on a rampage! We need to stop him now!"
The sound of hurried boots followed him as Alex rounded the corner, his jaw set, flanked by one of the senior CIA officers who looked entirely out of his depth.
"Seal the lower access!" Alex shouted, his voice cracking slightly over the rising din. "If he gets below us, we're boxed in."
The officer answered with a sharp, frantic nod, pivoting toward the heavy hydraulic security door. But the mechanism whined and stuttered, the lights above the control panel flickering as the facility's grid took a micro-surge from the brewing storm outside.
Darwin didn't wait for the door to close. He caught the sleeve of a young CIA agent who was scrambling blindly toward the stairs and physically hauled him back against the raw concrete wall.
"You're walking straight into a kill zone," Darwin said, his voice dropping an octave, steadying the terrified kid by the shoulders. "Turn around. Find cover down the lateral wing."
The agent stared at him, chest heaving under his tactical vest, before nodding numbly and ducking back down the corridor. Darwin released him without another word, turning his gaze upward toward the stairwell where the concussive thuds of fighting were growing dangerously close.
A few yards away, Moira stood rigidly beside a reinforced alcove, clutching a field radio that emitted nothing but a harsh, crackling hiss.
"Control, respond," Moira repeated into the handset, keeping her tone meticulously level despite the boots pounding overhead. Static answered her—a flat, unyielding white noise. She lowered the radio for a fraction of a second, her eyes catching Alex's as he jogged past toward the front lines. She didn't bother shouting over the noise; she just gave a sharp, grim nod, knowing the comms were dead. They were entirely on their own.
Classic tactical disaster. They were expecting a conventional assault from the treeline, never imagining the threat was already walking the halls above them.
Alex's voice carried down the corridor again, barking a fresh set of directives that cleared the bottleneck in seconds. The agents peeled away into defensive pockets, leaving the main approach open just as Darwin vaulted up the first few steps toward the storm.
I glanced over at Raven, letting out a soft, amused huff. Is she going to run out there and play savior or stay put? The hesitation in her eyes gave her away. She wanted to protect me, as always. But sweet as it was, I wasn't about to play the wallflower. Not tonight.
"Appreciate the concern, Raven," I said, flashing her a quick, wicked little grin. "Really, I do. But I'm—"
I stopped myself before I could say anything too cliché. No need to sound like a bad action movie. Instead, with a grin that bordered on mischievous, I leaned up and pressed a quick, teasing kiss right to her cheek, leaving my mark before she could even process it. She froze completely, her eyes widening.
I didn't wait for her to recover.
"Keep the wine warm for me," I tossed over my shoulder, already breaking into a sprint toward the exit stairwell leading up to the heavy steel doors.
I heard her shout after me from the common room, her voice cracking with pure panic. "Sarah, wait! It's too dangerous out there!"
I couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. Since when did she become such a world-class worrier?
"Relax, I'm just going to say hi!" I shouted back over my shoulder, my tone light even as the adrenaline started singing in my veins.
The heavy steel exit doors burst open under my palm, and the wild night air slammed into me like a physical blow. The wind whipped my hair across my face, and I could already feel the electricity humming wildly beneath my skin, my lightning swelling and crackling, eager to play. I was a storm ready to break, and honestly? I couldn't wait.