Chapter 132: Kill Through Smoke
The stairwell reeked of hot coolant, rusted blood, and something older — burned polymer maybe.
Hernan descended first, slow and steady, boots ghosting over the metal steps. Above them, neon vent shafts pulsed sickly green, carving jagged shadows across his jaw and long coat. Each flicker of light revealed just enough — a cold gleam in his eye, the tension in his jaw, the silence wrapped around him like armor.
Aya followed. Sparks twitched along her fingertips, subconscious tells bleeding into her skin. Her face said what her mouth didn’t: she didn’t trust this place. She didn’t trust this silence. She didn’t trust him.
Iro came last, silent as ashfall. He moved like shadow-mist — one moment there, the next half-phased into smoke, echoing footfalls soft and wrong. Watching Hernan’s back. Or maybe waiting for it to turn.
They reached the bottom.
A square chamber. Concrete walls lined with ancient maintenance panels and signage in five alien dialects. One panel blinked with motion. A figure leaned against it — hooded, faceless, posture too casual.
"You’re late," said the figure, voice filtered and dry.
"We weren’t sure you were real," Hernan replied, tone level.
The figure gave a quiet, humorless chuckle. "Black Halo doesn’t play ghost. We play knife."
Aya shifted. "This doesn’t feel like a knife. Feels like a stage."
The figure tilted their head. "That’s what nerves do to people with pretty faces. You always spark when you’re nervous, Sparks?"