The air around the blazing manor was heavy with the acrid smell of smoke and scorched wood as a fleet of firetrucks and police cars arrived at the scene. Their flashing lights bathed the surrounding forest in hues of red and blue, contrasting sharply with the orange glow of the flames. Firefighters worked tirelessly, directing high-powered jets of water onto the collapsing structure, while forensics teams combed through the debris and the twisted, grotesque bodies of the crooked cultists scattered around the manor's perimeter.
"We're close," Orwen muttered to himself, his voice low and full of conviction. "So close to finally unraveling whatever the hell is going on here."
He turned to one of his agents, who handed him a secure satellite phone. With some difficulty due to his cast, Orwen dialed the number of a CounterMercs (CM) operative, the call connecting after a brief pause.
"Status report," Orwen demanded, his voice sharp.
The CM member on the other end hesitated before responding, their tone uneasy. "Sir, we're still sweeping the forest, but Zughaib's trail goes cold near the river. No sign of him yet."
Orwen's jaw tightened, his frustration evident. "Double the patrols and widen the search perimeter. I don't care how many hours it takes—find him."
Before the operative could respond, Orwen ended the call abruptly, sliding the phone into his pocket. His focus shifted as a senior detective, Judas, and his assistant, Mao, approached him. Judas was a seasoned investigator, his grizzled features and weathered trench coat giving him an air of authority. Mao, by contrast, was younger, sharp-eyed, and efficient, her every movement precise and deliberate.
"Detective Judas," Orwen greeted, his tone formal but edged with impatience. "I trust you've been briefed on the situation?"
Judas lit a cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke as he nodded. "Yeah, I've seen the reports. What the hell kind of circus are you running here, Orwen? The locals are already asking questions."
Orwen smirked, shaking his head. "That's exactly why you're here. I need this... incident contained. The public can't know about the crooked cultists or anything tied to the manor. It would only create panic—and we both know how bad press reflects on you and your department."
Judas raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear. "And what do I get out of this? You want me to bury something this big, you'd better have a damn good offer."
Orwen leaned in slightly, his casted arm resting awkwardly against his side. "I'll share intel from our investigation. This isn't just a local issue, Judas. Whatever's happening here has roots far deeper than this forest. Help me keep this quiet, and you'll have access to information that could make your career—or bury anyone who stands in your way."
Judas exchanged a glance with Mao, who nodded subtly. After a moment, Judas extended his hand. "Fine. We've got a deal."
Orwen shook his hand, his smirk widening. "Good. Make sure your people keep their mouths shut. This is just the beginning."
---
Meanwhile, deeper in the forest, Rex stumbled through the underbrush, his hand pressed against the wound hidden beneath his coat. Blood seeped between his fingers, leaving a faint trail behind him as he moved. His face was pale, his breaths labored, but he refused to stop. The glow of the manor's fire faded into the distance, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.
As he reached the forest road, his relief was short-lived. The growl of an engine echoed through the trees, and before Rex could react, a black-grey station wagon screeched to a halt in front of him. The doors flew open, and several men clad in DARKCON outfit emerged, their faces obscured by masks.
"Rex," one of them sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "You thought you could run from us?"
Rex's eyes darted around, searching for an escape route, but his injuries had slowed him down too much. The Anarchy men closed in, grabbing him roughly and shoving him into the back seat of the station wagon.
As the car sped off into the night, Rex's head lolled back against the seat, his vision swimming. He knew he was in trouble, but he also knew something they didn't—something that could turn the tables if he played his cards right.
---
Far from the chaos of the manor and the forest road, in a secluded part of the oasis city, The Cleaner sat in a dimly lit sandstone apartment, the faint hum of a scrapped police radio filling the room. The walls were bare, the furniture minimal—a small table, a single chair, and a workbench cluttered with an array of weapons and tools. The Cleaner, now out of his usual attire, moved methodically as he cleaned and reassembled a sleek semi-automatic pistol, his movements precise and practiced.
The radio crackled, the faint voices of BIF operatives filtering through the static.
"...fire under control... evidence collected... several unidentified bodies at the scene. Cultist remains confirmed."
The Cleaner's expression remained unreadable as he listened, his hands never pausing in their work. He placed the pistol down and picked up a long, serrated blade, inspecting its edge with a critical eye.
"Zughaib," he murmured to himself, the name carrying a weight that only he could understand. He had been keeping tabs on the mute operative for some time now, watching as he navigated the tangled web of alliances and betrayals. There was something about Zughaib—his resilience, his ability to survive against impossible odds—that intrigued The Cleaner.
The radio crackled again, this time with an update from one of the field agents. "No sign of Zughaib in the forest. His trail's gone cold."
The Cleaner leaned back in his chair, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good," he muttered. "Keep them chasing shadows. The real game is just beginning."
He stood, stretching his arms before picking up a small case from the workbench. Inside was a neatly organized set of tools and vials, each one carefully labeled. The Cleaner selected one of the vials, holding it up to the light as he examined its contents—a viscous, dark liquid that seemed to shimmer with an unnatural glow.
"Time to see what you're really made of, Zughaib," he said quietly, slipping the vial into his coat pocket.
With that, he donned his familiar attire, the black gloves sliding over his hands like a second skin. The Cleaner's movements were calm and deliberate as he prepared to leave, his mind already focused on the next step in his plan. The radio continued to crackle in the background, but he paid it no mind. The pieces were moving into place, and soon, the lines between ally and enemy would blur even further.
---
Back at the manor, the fire was finally extinguished, leaving behind a smoldering skeleton of what had once been a twisted sanctuary. Orwen stood near the perimeter, his sharp eyes scanning the wreckage as forensic teams worked tirelessly to collect evidence. He knew this was only the surface of something much deeper, much darker.
One of his agents approached, holding out a charred journal they had recovered from the rubble. "Sir, we found this near the main altar. It's damaged, but some of the pages are still legible."
Orwen took the journal, flipping through its blackened pages. The writing was cryptic, filled with strange symbols and phrases written in a language he didn't recognize. But one word stood out, repeated several times throughout the text:
"Ascension."
Orwen's brow furrowed as he closed the journal, his grip tightening. Whatever the cultists were planning, it was far from over. And he would stop at nothing to ensure he uncovered the truth—even if it meant crossing lines he had sworn never to cross.
As the night wore on, the flames of the manor's destruction faded, but the shadows they cast lingered, stretching far and wide.