The journey from Blackridge to Port Daven took almost two hours. The road was quiet, a thin fog covered the wet asphalt, and only the roar of the car engine accompanied him. Joe looked at the map on his phone screen; the red coordinates trembled faintly at the edge of the sea line.
"This is it… the old harbor," he muttered softly.
From his jacket pocket, he took out the small radio Rick had given him.
"I'm on location," he whispered.
Rick's voice crackled on the other end, "Be careful in there. If the data is correct, Marcus is inside one of the storage warehouses in the east sector. The warehouse with the biohazard symbol on the door."
"Alright," Joe replied, closing the radio.
Upon arrival at the pier, Joe pulled over behind a pile of old containers. He turned off the engine, then observed the situation around him for a few hours. Night enveloped Port Daven. A thin fog moved between the containers and the half-collapsed pier. Orange lights hung from the high poles, reflecting in the puddles of water covering the cracked asphalt.
While observing, Joe's eyes caught the silhouette of a small fishing boat moored at the end of the southwest pier, looking worn but likely functional. He noted that location as an emergency option in his mind.
Joe held his breath, staring at the dark activity that was starting to become visible: several men in black uniforms moving containers labeled "BIOHAZARD" onto a refrigerated truck. No logo, just a red code: N.O.I.R-Σ4.
What are they hiding here? Joe wondered.
He took a deep breath, then moved.
Without keys or official access, the only way in was a service ventilation shaft on the side of the pier. The bolts were rusty, but Joe used the tip of a small screwdriver from his car's dashboard to pry them open one by one.
The metal screeched faintly; there was enough room for his body to crawl inside.
The corridor inside was dark and damp. Water dripped from old pipes, creating small echoes.
At the end, he saw a dim light—a gap leading to the main warehouse. Joe peeked from behind the ventilation grille:
Joe crept in the shadows, measuring each step carefully. Every breath was held; his lungs felt tight. From the iron stairs in the corner of the warehouse heavy footsteps were heard—Marcus Vale emerged with two guards, checking the stacks of containers. Joe ducked behind an oil drum.
"Found you," Joe whispered.
He waited for the moment when Marcus was separated from the other guards, entering the basement area. The guards returned to their duties; Joe crawled after them from the shadows.
Marcus went down to the basement alone, turning on a flashlight that reflected off the cold walls. Joe stared from the gap in the door: Marcus carried a large pistol, looking trained and ready to face threats.
Marcus turned, his eyes staring at Joe in the shadows. "I know you're there. Don't try to fight."
Joe stared at Marcus while advancing slowly, holding the Glock from Rick. His heart pounded fast. This is it… and I have to stay calm.
"So that's you, the one they call Subject 07," Marcus said quietly.
"I know who you are," he continued.
"You... a failed project saved by the love of a stupid woman."
Joe clenched the Glock in his hand; the veins on his neck bulged. "Clara wasn't stupid."
Joe's hand trembled—not because of anger, but because of the coldness behind those words.
Before Joe could continue, Marcus shot first.
The bullet shattered the metal wall behind him; Joe jumped to the left, rolled, then fired back. A loud explosion filled the iron room, echoing in all directions.
Marcus swung his heavy fist. Joe dodged; his back hit a rusty oil drum. The smell of gasoline and sweat mixed together. Marcus's pistol fell into a puddle of water with a loud clunk. Marcus grinned, then grabbed an iron pipe from the wall. "Come on, show me what you can do, Subject 07!"
Joe blocked the pipe attack with his arm, feeling the hard jolt that made his bones scream, but his body reacted strangely: his muscles pulsed hot, his reflexes increased sharply, making him feel like a spectator in his own body.
The steel pipe slammed into Joe's shoulder with a loud thud. Sharp pain spread, paralyzing his right arm for a moment. Joe flinched, stumbling backward, hitting a stack of wooden boxes that collapsed.
Marcus showed no mercy. He charged.
Joe snapped back to reality. This... isn't me! Joe jumped, avoiding the second swing, and landed a hard kick to Marcus's stomach.
The kick struck back with a force that sent Marcus sprawling against the steel wall.
Marcus coughed up blood, but his eyes widened in shock. He wiped the blood from his chin. "Good," he muttered.
Marcus tried to get up, gripping his iron pipe again, his eyes burning with vengeance. "Die, you damn subject!"
Joe didn't give him a second chance. He lunged forward.
Joe pressed, hit, subdued; every punch felt cold, calculated. Not anger, but brutal efficiency. Marcus's body finally collapsed, gasping for breath.
Joe checked Marcus's suit and found an access card with the N.O.I.R. symbol. A small lamp in the basement flickered, as if marking something Joe would follow.
Marcus, dying, whispered:
"You were supposed to die in Ashford. But Clara… she activated something that should have been buried."
Joe stared at the access card in his hand, feeling its weight like both proof and a curse. He realized that the next mission would be bigger than he had imagined.
From the data log table nearby, one monitor was still alive—text scrolled slowly across the screen:
[CLEANER STATUS: TERMINATED]
[TRANSFER PROTOCOL — INITIATED]
Joe stared at the screen. He didn't know it, but something in his head started throbbing—like a memory that wasn't his was trying to surface. A few seconds before the warehouse lights completely died out.
New footsteps were heard from above—many, heavy, and simultaneous. He knew he didn't have time.
He ran out toward the pier; the sea fog swallowed him slowly.
Behind the darkness, a single CCTV camera rotated, pointing toward his departure.
A small red light blinked on the lens.
[SUBJECT 07 – TRACKING ACTIVE]