Ethan limped through the narrow, dimly lit corridors, his shoulder screaming with pain. The dislocated joint throbbed with every step, the sensation like hot needles digging into his flesh. He gritted his teeth, his breath ragged, but he forced himself forward. He had no time to stop and no luxury to fix the injury, not when every second mattered, not when Raeth's men were closing in from all sides.
The Syndicate's facility seemed to twist and turn endlessly, the stark, metallic walls closing in on him. Every corner felt like a dead end, and the cold steel under his boots echoed like a death march. The air was heavy with the tension of a trap waiting to spring. But Ethan had no choice but to push forward.
Suddenly, Raeth's voice crackled over the facility's intercom system, his words thick with sarcasm and venom. "You really think you're making progress, Ethan? You're just a fly caught in the web. My men will tear you apart piece by piece. You'll never leave this place alive."
Ethan winced at the taunt but ignored it, focusing on the task at hand. His HUD flickered slightly, running diagnostics on his suit, compensating for the dislocated shoulder. The advanced armor he wore was state-of-the-art, complete with reactive plating and enhanced endurance systems. His helmet's filtration and HUD systems were more than capable of protecting him from the dust and debris of the facility, but none of that could ease the relentless pain in his shoulder or the oppressive sense that time was running out.
He tried once again to reach Malek through his comms, but only static buzzed in his earpiece. The Syndicate had jammed all communications. He cursed silently. The thought of Malek and the survivors crossed his mind, but there was no time for doubt. He had to assume they were fighting their own battles, surviving just as he was. Still, the uncertainty gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the stakes.
The sound of metal grinding on metal jerked Ethan from his thoughts. Ahead of him, a door slid open with a menacing hiss, and a squad of Syndicate soldiers stormed in, their rifles raised and glowing with lethal energy. They wasted no time, unleashing a barrage of plasma fire. The confined space of the corridor turned into a kill box.
Ethan dove behind a stack of crates, wincing as the sudden movement aggravated his dislocated shoulder. His vision wavered briefly, but something inside him pushed back against the pain. A flicker of endurance that seemed unnatural, yet unnoticed. His heart pounded, adrenaline surging through his veins, sharpening his reflexes. It felt almost like a second wind, but Ethan had no time to think about it.
Plasma bolts ricocheted off the walls, the blue-white streaks illuminating the dim corridor in bursts of blinding light. His HUD flashed warning after warning as the enemy fire closed in. Ethan's armored suit could take some hits, but not a direct plasma shot. He needed to act fast.
Gritting his teeth, he yanked out his dual laser pistols. His right arm protested with every movement, but he steadied his aim with his left hand. Popping out from behind cover, he squeezed the triggers. Twin red beams shot through the air, precise and lethal. The first two soldiers went down instantly, their helmets vaporized by the high-energy blasts.
But more Syndicate troops flooded the corridor, moving like a well-oiled machine. They had the numbers, and in this tight space, Ethan knew he couldn't afford a prolonged firefight.
He needed a plan.
His fingers brushed against the EMP grenade strapped to his belt. Perfect.
Ethan primed the device, then hurled it into the center of the advancing squad. The grenade detonated with a sharp crackle, and a surge of electromagnetic energy rippled through the air. His HUD dimmed momentarily as it adjusted to the burst, but the Syndicate soldiers weren't so lucky. Their gear short-circuited, rifles going dead in their hands, and several collapsed as their neural links fried.
With the enemy disoriented, Ethan sprung into action. His movements felt smoother, faster than they should have been given the state of his body, but there was no time to question it. His pistols blazed as he darted forward, taking out the stunned soldiers one by one. His aim was almost unnaturally precise, his shots landing perfectly between the gaps in their armor. He didn't miss a single target.
But even as the last soldier hit the ground, Ethan knew more were on the way. The Syndicate had numbers, and they would keep sending wave after wave until he was overwhelmed. His breathing was ragged, and the pain in his shoulder flared again, reminding him just how close to the edge he was.
He retreated down the corridor, his eyes scanning for anything he could use to buy more time. That's when he saw it, a support beam running along the ceiling, right above a junction in the corridor.
An idea clicked in his mind.
Pulling out a plasma grenade, Ethan quickly rigged it to the support beam. He retreated further down the corridor, glancing over his shoulder as the next wave of Syndicate troops rounded the corner. They barely had time to react before he detonated the grenade.
The explosion was deafening. The plasma blast vaporized the support beam, and the ceiling came crashing down, sealing off the corridor behind him in a cloud of smoke and rubble. The Syndicate soldiers were cut off, buried under the collapsed section of the facility.
Ethan didn't slow down. His HUD filtered the dust and smoke from his vision, allowing him to push through the haze without hesitation. The pain in his shoulder gnawed at him, a constant reminder of how fragile his situation was. His suit's medical system could only do so much to stabilize the injury, and it was only a matter of time before it became too much.
But as he pressed forward, something deep inside him began to stir. His movements, while painful, felt… sharper. His reflexes seemed quicker than usual. His perception of time, his awareness of the space around him, all of it felt heightened as though his body was responding in ways it had never done before.
Ethan chalked it up to adrenaline. It had to be adrenaline. But deep down, something whispered otherwise.
His focus snapped back as he rounded another corner and found himself face to face with another squad of heavily armored Syndicate soldiers. These weren't the standard grunts, these were elites, outfitted with plasma shields and high-energy rifles.
"Damn it," Ethan muttered.
Without hesitation, they opened fire, and the corridor lit up in a cascade of plasma bolts. Ethan barely had time to dive behind a bulkhead, the energy rounds searing the air around him. His HUD flashed warnings, tracking the incoming fire, calculating the odds of survival. Not good.
His mind raced. He couldn't take them head-on. His shoulder was wrecked, his stamina fading. But something inside him, whatever had been quietly boosting him this whole time, pushed him to move. His instincts screamed at him to take action, and for once, he didn't question them.
Grabbing a smoke pellet from his belt, Ethan tossed it into the corridor. Thick, opaque smoke filled the space in seconds, clouding the Syndicate soldiers' vision. His HUD compensated instantly, switching to infrared, revealing the outlines of the soldiers through the haze.
The soldiers fired blindly into the smoke, their shots missing by wide margins.
Moving with newfound precision, Ethan slipped through the haze like a ghost. He aimed his pistols with cold efficiency, taking down the soldiers one by one. His body moved almost on its own, his reflexes faster, his aim sharper. He didn't understand it, but he wasn't about to question it either.
As the last of the elite soldiers fell, Ethan stood alone in the smoky corridor, breathing heavily. His body was wrecked, his shoulder hanging uselessly by his side, but somehow against all odds he was still standing.
The final push was coming. Raeth was waiting. And Ethan was ready for whatever hell came next.