Under the cold Black Sea, the Veils were moving closer to the ship ,The Leviathan was a haunted ship. Having breached the hull below the waterline, The Veils ascended through waterlogged service shafts, moving like ghosts into the vessel's massive central cargo decks. The emergency lights cast a sick, red glow over the stacked containers and heavy machinery put there.
"Something's wrong," Lina whispered over the comms, securing a rooftop position above the containers. "No engine power. No active defenses. It's too easy."
"It's a trap, Lina. Assume maximum hostility," Michael responded, his heavy weapon already shouldered. He led Amanda, Asher, and Kai along the lower deck, with Kyros operating as their tactical hub, scanning for heat signatures.
Kyros's warning was simultaneous with the ambush. "Three groups! Flanking left, right, and above! They're using thermal blockers—they were waiting!"
Before Michael could issue a command, Syndicate mercenaries—clad in heavy black armor and armed with suppressed rifles—poured out from behind stacks of containers. The sheer number of assailants negated The Veils' stealth advantage instantly. They were surrounded.
"Contact! Go loud!" Michael roared, opening fire.
Amanda and Asher immediately moved back-to-back, engaging the close-range threat, but the mercenaries' armor was dense, designed for sustained assault. Asher dropped one, but two more took his place. The team was pinned down, their position quickly becoming untenable.
A blur of white and black dropped from the shadows above. It was so fast that the human eye registered only a chaotic disturbance in the light, not a man.
Alex Radekov landed directly in the center of the mercenary formation. The sound was not a gunshot or a yell; it was the sickening, high-pitched crunch of composite armor collapsing under impossible force.
He was a hurricane of controlled violence. Two mercenaries crumpled as Alex hit them with what seemed like a single, kinetic punch. He spun, his movements too fast for the Syndicate to track, eliminating targets with surgical precision. One mercenary tried to raise his weapon, only for Alex to snap his wrist and then his neck in a single, fluid motion.
The ambush collapsed in seconds. Alex Radekov, the terrifying, superhuman anomaly of the Predator Protocol, had just single-handedly saved The Veils.
"Hold fire! Cease fire!" Amanda shouted, lowering her weapon, staring at the chaos. "He's neutralizing the threat!"
Alex stood in the center of the carnage, his chest heaving, his blades held low. He glanced at The Veils—a cold, indifferent professional assessing a mission status—before refocusing on the hallway leading to the bridge.
Just as Alex prepared to move, a voice, amplified over the ship's emergency system, cut through the silence of the cargo bay. It was smooth, refined, and instantly recognizable.
"Alex, my magnificent Catalyst. I knew the moment those useless mercenaries went silent you'd be the reason. You always do sweep up the trash so efficiently."
He had been watching. Elias Thorne has been watching.
Alex Radekov went rigid. The cold indifference instantly fractured, replaced by a surge of consuming, visible rage. He spun toward the nearest speaker grille, his eyes wide and silver.
"You!" Alex roared, his voice thick with trauma, a raw sound of pure betrayal.
A monitor flickered to life on a nearby container, showing Elias Thorne in a small, shielded room, a smug, almost regretful look on his face.
"Did you really think a little surgical intervention was all it took to save you, Alex?" Thorne's voice was laced with malice. "I needed you alive, yes, but not because I love you. Because your biology—your very existence—is my greatest proof of concept. The ability to break the human mind and reforge it as a weapon."
The color drained from Alex's face. The Predator Protocol instability—always a dull ache beneath his control—spiked violently, bringing a memory to the forefront: a screaming woman, a small boy, and the agonizing realization that he was the one standing over the bodies.
Thorne saw the memory hit and pressed the attack. "You hated the Division's moral code, but I liberated you. I gave you the power to kill what you loved! You didn't just walk away, Alex; your accelerated synapses failed, and you killed your wife and son! That pain, that loss—it fuels your instability! It is the core of my design!"
The Misdirected Fury
The trigger was set. Alex Radekov lost himself entirely. The superhuman strength, speed, and cognitive power that kept him functional collapsed under the weight of his guilt and misdirected rage. His world narrowed to one goal: eliminate the immediate threat. He didn't see Elias Thorne; he saw only the people who represented the system that had ruined his life.
His silver eyes locked onto The Veils.
"All of you! All of you deserve this!" Alex screamed, a guttural sound that was half human, half machine.
He launched forward, not toward the monitor, but toward Amanda.
"He's loose! Everyone, scatter!" Michael shouted, shoving Amanda out of the way just as Alex's boot ripped the steel deck plate where she had been standing.
The Veils scattered, desperately trying to avoid engaging their terrifying savior-turned-assailant. Asher took a defensive posture, raising his armored arms to block an attack. Kyros was desperately trying to calculate Alex's velocity and trajectory. Alex was too fast; he was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of fists and fury.
He struck Michael with a controlled, open-palmed blow to the chest that didn't penetrate the armor but crumpled him against a stack of crates, shattering his comms unit.
Amanda, recovering her balance, realized the danger: Alex was fighting the Protocol, and his rage was overloading his sense of who the true enemy was.
"Alex! Stop! It's Thorne! He's the one!" she yelled, pointing at the monitor.
The sound of her voice broke through the haze. Alex staggered, the silver in his eyes retreating momentarily. He looked at Amanda, then at the monitor of Elias Thorne's smug face, then back at his trembling hands. The hesitation was enough.
He turned, the last remnants of his fury focusing on the man who orchestrated his trauma. He gathered himself, preparing to execute a devastating charge toward the command bridge where Thorne was broadcasting from.
"Good effort, Alex," Elias' voice chirped through the speakers. "But you forget: I am still the only one who knows your shutdown sequence."
The voice triggered a device. A high-frequency, barely audible sonic pulse—specifically tuned to the frequency of the Predator Protocol's artificial neural network—flooded the cargo bay.
Alex Radekov seized up instantly. His muscles locked, his spine bowed backward, and a horrific, silent spasm shook his entire body. He stood frozen, a statue of agony, before collapsing forward onto the steel deck, completely inert.
The high-frequency pulse didn't just target Alex. It was designed for the entire Division. The Veils—though protected by their insulated helmets—were slammed by a systemic wave of nausea, disorientation, and intense neural pain. They dropped their weapons, their knees buckling as the world dissolved into static.
His final words, before the screen went dark, were chillingly casual: "I'll send cleanup for the ship. Enjoy your nap, old friends."
The cargo bay fell into complete silence. Alex Radekov lay motionless beside the disabled operatives of The Veils, all equally defeated by the superior intellect of the traitor.