Raynor knew, of course, that he was being watched; it wasn't hard to tell once the skin started to crawl with the sensation of invisible eyes. The only thing he couldn't understand was where he had gone wrong.
Despite the internal panic, he continued to perfectly portray "Inspector Raynor"—a capable, slightly weary, and moderately greedy bureaucrat typical of the lower-level Imperial administration.
He was punctual for work, meticulously reviewed documents, and balanced a strict yet soothing demeanor with his subordinates. He maintained a superficial politeness with his colleagues, keeping them at a professional distance.
When he reported to Cassius, his tone was always respectful but tinged with the slight tension befitting a mortal standing before the Astartes.
All his expense records were carefully disguised, especially the massive sums spent on "feeding" Sarah. These costs were broken down and buried under various categories of official reimbursements, equipment procurement, and "private investments." Within the chaotic, paper-heavy bureaucratic system of the Hive, the accounts looked perfectly normal.
At least, they would until the actual bomb detonated.
On this day, Raynor arrived at the Sons of Medusa's stronghold for duty as usual. He seemed to be adapting to the oppressive feeling of constant surveillance. But the moment he arrived, he was hit with a piece of news that made his blood freeze.
The Astartes had independently discovered an area where a Tyranid hive node was suspected to be hidden. When Raynor saw the coordinates on the display, his heart nearly stopped.
"This was my oversight; this was the first area I inspected," Raynor said, his voice a practiced mask of shame. "I did not expect another xenos infiltration. Please forgive my incompetence, esteemed Angels."
The coordinates Cassius had highlighted pointed directly to Sarah's current hiding place.
Seeing how quickly Raynor reacted, Cassius felt a flicker of grim admiration for the "little inspector." The man was an exceptional performer.
But the Sergeant had noted that when Raynor first saw the data, his pupils had contracted for a mere ten milliseconds. It was a tell that only an Astartes—or a machine—could catch.
This man definitely had a secret.
Although Raynor continued his work while struggling to remain calm, the knowledge that they were hunting his "partner" forced subtle changes in his behavior that he himself could hardly perceive.
When he reviewed reports that mentioned traces of the swarm, his right index finger and thumb would unconsciously rub the metal edge of the data-slate at his waist—a subconscious tick born of extreme tension.
While waiting for Cassius to issue instructions or during tedious data handovers with the Tech-Priest, Raynor's vision would occasionally go out of focus.
His eyes would stare ahead, but nothing was reflected in the depths of his pupils. It was as if he were "listening" to a distant, faint sound, or reading text that only he could see.
This state usually lasted only half a second before he would blink and refocus. In reality, he was desperately trying to sense if any of Sarah's units were nearby.
But he had personally ordered Sarah to keep her swarm far away from the Sons of Medusa's stronghold. Now, reaping the consequences of his own caution, he was paralyzed by the inability to send her a warning.
Cassius's cold logic processor correlated these anomalies with the previous battlefield data. His judgment was final: Jim Raynor was hiding something. Furthermore, the secret was highly relevant to the Tyranid movements and might be the key to solving the infiltration of the Hive World.
Based on conventional Imperial cognitive frameworks, Cassius leaned toward two possibilities: A: Raynor was secretly colluding with the leader of a cunning, undiscovered Genestealer Cult. B: Raynor himself was a high-level, covert Genestealer hybrid.
The idea of a mortal directly cooperating with a self-aware Tyranid node was too heretical, too far beyond conventional understanding even for an Iron Hands successor.
To verify his hypothesis, Cassius decided to stop waiting passively. He could have used more extreme methods of interrogation, but he was curious about the nature of Raynor's relationship with the anomaly.
He would take the initiative to apply pressure, set the trap, and observe Raynor's instinctive reactions.
When the day's work neared completion, Cassius called Raynor over—an unusual move.
"The recent crackdown has been efficient, Inspector Raynor. Furthermore, our current target appears weak, so we plan to rest for twenty-four hours before commencing the purge."
Cassius paused, his white helmet turning slightly toward the man. "That is all for today. Go back and rest. Keep your communication channels open."
Raynor felt a chill run down his spine, but his face immediately displayed the perfect amount of fatigue and gratitude. "Thank you for your compassion, Your Excellency. I am ready to serve at a moment's notice."
He bowed respectfully and turned to leave the warehouse. He walked with steady steps, but his heart was hammering against his ribs.
Why aren't they taking immediate action? That was highly irregular. The Sons of Medusa were known for relentless, continuous combat and cold efficiency. Why would they suddenly need a long "rest period"? This wasn't a break; it was a lure—a deliberately left, seemingly safe window.
Raynor's nerves were pulled to their breaking point.
After he left, Cassius stepped into the shadows. "Follow him," he commanded two figures on standby.
These were auxiliary specialists equipped with the latest optical camouflage and sound-dampening systems. Their forms distorted in the dim light before vanishing into the environment.
At the same time Raynor exited the stronghold, three other Sons of Medusa warriors, along with Martian auxiliary forces and a contingent of combat servitors, were already quietly moving into position near Sarah's lair. Raynor, consumed by his own anxiety, failed to notice that three of the "Angels" were missing from the base.
After leaving the base, Raynor did not rush back to District 7. He forced himself to act like a typical bureaucrat winding down after a long shift.
He went to the District 6 market, stopped at several stalls, and bought synthetic protein blocks and some fruit. He even engaged a used-book stall owner in a brief conversation about a popular, trashy novel.
His smile was natural, his tone relaxed, but his peripheral vision scanned every shadow. The clamor of the crowd, the roar of machinery, the distant sirens—everything seemed normal. Yet he felt a gaze fixed on his back, cold and persistent.
Realizing he couldn't shake the feeling, he returned to District 7. Once there, he began a desperate search for any of Sarah's lurking units to establish contact. He had to tell her that the Astartes had found the lair.
Normally, there were always a few Tyranid units linked to Sarah's consciousness in his territory. As long as they were within range, he could use the System to bridge the gap.
But today, no matter how hard he searched or reached out, he couldn't connect to her. The silence from her end was deafening, and the feeling of unease grew into a terrifying certainty.