Darkness swallowed the room. Karn didn't hesitate. He tore the Black Drive from the reader, jammed it into his pocket, grabbed his pistol, and checked the magazine. Eight rounds left.
The footsteps stopped outside. Silence.
Then, the door exploded inward.
Five Rounds, Three Men
Three figures in black tactical gear and half-masks stormed in, armed with suppressed weapons.
Karn dove behind his heavy wooden desk. The first round missed; the next two splintered the wood inches from his head.
He didn't wait. He instantly pulled the memory of a purchased mercenary skill—Combat Proficiency 4.0—and let the instinct flood his brain. His body moved with a jarring, alien grace.
First Attacker: Karn fired two quick shots, targeting the leader's center mass. The man dropped.
Second Attacker: The remaining two split, executing a perfect flanking maneuver. Karn spun, kicking the second attacker's gun away, following with an elbow to the temple, and a short-range shot to the head.
Third Attacker: The last man was smarter. He retreated and threw a flashbang grenade. Karn squeezed his eyes shut just in time to avoid the searing light and deafening CRACK, but the mercenary instinct allowed him to move through the disorientation. He lunged, driving his knee into the man's stomach before pressing the muzzle under his chin. The third man collapsed, silent.
Three men. Five rounds. Less than thirty seconds.
Karn stood, breathing hard, his hands trembling. The skill wasn't his—it was the purchased memory, driving his muscles.
He quickly searched the bodies. No ID, no phones, but a small collar tag beneath a shirt carried a familiar logo: the stylized, tilted brain of Mnemosyne.
His father's company.
A cold dread washed over him. Had Araya truly sent his own corporate cleanup crew to execute his son?
Siren wails cut through the night—police were coming.
Karn grabbed essentials: the laptop, the Black Drive, cash, and his weapon. He sprinted to the window, threw it open, and scaled the fire escape. He dropped from the second-floor landing, rotating his body into a practiced roll—another borrowed reflex saving his knees.
He reached his old Camry, slammed the door, and sped out of the alley just as the first police cruiser screamed to a halt outside the apartment building.
Karn merged onto the main road. His hands were still shaking, adrenaline coursing through him. He was on the run, a murder suspect in a room full of corporate assassins.
He couldn't go back to his life. He needed cover, information, and a way to fight back.
Karn knew exactly one person who might help him now.