The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time Luka reached the edge of the manufacturing district, though a thick mist lingered, hanging like a silent warning. Hulking shadows surrounded him—abandoned factories, decaying warehouses, and skeletal remains of Iron City's industrial past, left to rot under years of grime and neglect. The stench of oil and decay clung to the air, as if Iron City's dying veins still pulsed with some twisted life.
He moved cautiously, each step muffled by the damp ground, senses sharp. This part of Iron City was more than just a wasteland of forgotten structures; it was the syndicate's playground, a place where their secrets festered. And tonight, Luka was here to uncover one of those secrets—something they called Project Exodus.
His hand brushed the edge of his coat, where a crumpled note from Ratchet still sat in his pocket. "Find out what's in the old factory," it had said in Ratchet's hasty scrawl. Ratchet had been jittery when he'd handed it over, practically shoving it at Luka before disappearing into the haze of The Rusty Nail. Whatever Ratchet knew, it was enough to spook him. Enough to make him act like he was doing Luka a favor.
Project Exodus. The name alone made Luka's skin crawl. He'd heard it whispered in dark corners, a secret as elusive as it was dangerous. But if it was what he suspected—a means to turn people into obedient shells under syndicate control—then it was more than just another job. Luka couldn't shake the memories of the syndicate's experiments, not after what he'd seen, the hollow eyes and empty voices of their victims. The syndicate had taken too much from him already. He wouldn't let them take the rest of Iron City.
The buildings around him seemed to lean in, as though they, too, were watching, waiting for him to make a mistake. Flickers of neon light cast faint glows through the mist, warping the shadows into shapes that slithered along the cracked pavement.
Luka adjusted his collar, feeling the chill seep into his bones. This part of Iron City felt like a graveyard—not just of industry, but of people. The forgotten, the disposed, those the syndicate had used and discarded without a second thought. He was walking through their ghosts now, tracing the path of lives destroyed.
The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of metal or the drip of water echoing off rusted beams. He moved lightly, eyes sweeping from side to side, cataloging details. To most, this place would look abandoned, but Luka could spot the signs of recent life: fresh boot prints in the mud, the faint smell of cigarettes lingering in the air, a broken latch on a door that hadn't yet rusted over.
"Not as dead as it looks," he murmured, gripping the handle of his flashlight, though he kept it off. The shadows were his allies here, as much as his enemies.
He paused at an intersection between two looming structures, scanning his surroundings. To his left, a row of rusted barrels leaked an oily sludge, staining the ground in dark, viscous pools. To his right, a pile of debris—broken pallets, twisted metal, and what looked disturbingly like bones. He didn't want to check closely.
A faint shuffling sound reached his ears, somewhere in the shadows ahead. Luka froze, his body tense, his hand drifting toward the knife in his boot. The sound came again—soft, rhythmic, like footsteps brushing the ground. Whoever was out there wasn't just a vagrant or some low-level thug; they were moving with purpose.
He crouched low, easing into the darkness of a doorway, his eyes straining to catch any movement. The footsteps grew closer, then stopped, replaced by a low murmur, too faint for him to make out the words. He held his breath, listening, catching fragments—a laugh, the scrape of metal, a faint electrical hum.
They're close.
Luka's heart beat steady, his senses sharp. Whoever was out there wasn't just a random syndicate patrol. They were here for a reason. The manufacturing district wasn't just a hideout—it was part of the syndicate's operation, and tonight, it was alive.
Taking a steadying breath, he crept forward, hugging the wall as he edged toward the sound. The murmur of voices grew louder, punctuated by the occasional crackle of static, like a radio or comm device. He moved forward, eyes narrowed, hand resting on his gun.
Peering around a corner, he spotted them: two men, dressed in black, the syndicate insignia gleaming on their jackets. They stood by the entrance of one of the larger factories, focused on a device mounted to the door—a scanner or security system, judging by the soft beep it emitted as one of them keyed in a code. The heavy metal door creaked open.
So, they're not just hiding here—they're securing it.
The men disappeared inside, the door clanging shut behind them. Luka waited, counting the seconds in his head, ensuring they were gone before he moved. Whatever was happening in that factory, it was locked down tight. The syndicate wouldn't go to these lengths for just any project; they were protecting something big. Something worth Ratchet's fear.
Luka approached the door, keeping out of sight of a small security camera mounted above it. The glint of the camera's lens reminded him of a predator's eye, ever-watchful. It was tempting to shoot it out, but he resisted, knowing it would only draw attention. This place wasn't just guarded—it was monitored.
A nearby window, cracked and grimy, caught his eye. Large enough to slip through, but high enough to avoid notice. Getting inside without setting off alarms would be tricky, but if he wanted answers, he couldn't stay out here. He'd have to risk it.
With one last glance around, Luka moved toward the window, hand brushing the grip of his gun. This was the kind of moment that could go wrong fast—the kind that separated survivors from corpses in Iron City.
He pushed the window open carefully, slipping inside and landing softly on the concrete floor. The scent hit him immediately—sharp and medicinal, curling under the stale tang of oil and rust. Rows of decaying machinery stretched into the darkness, interspersed with crates stamped with a syndicate insignia he didn't recognize.
The shadows were thick here, twisting across the cavernous space, broken only by the faint glow of sporadic lights. Luka straightened, senses on high alert. He was deeper than he'd been before. Whatever lay at the heart of this place, he was getting closer.
The factory's darkness was suffocating, broken only by faint lights that cast sickly glows over rusted metal. Luka moved carefully, each step deliberate as he slipped deeper into the building, every creak and murmur sharpening his focus.
A low hum vibrated through the walls, constant, like the heartbeat of something malignant. It reminded him that this wasn't just another relic—it was alive. Whatever the syndicate was doing here, it was dangerous, secretive. And that only made Luka more determined to find out.
He passed rows of rusting machines, their metal warped and stained. Rounding a corner, he froze at the sight of a series of metal tables lined up against the wall, each covered with grim instruments. Surgical tools, syringes, and vials of murky liquid lay scattered across the tables, as though someone had left in a hurry.
A faint metallic odor lingered in the air, mingling with the sharper scent of chemicals. Luka clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. This wasn't a factory—it was a lab. And judging by the bloodstains on the tables and floor, it wasn't one where volunteers worked.
His gaze drifted to a tray of syringes, their contents varied—some clear, others cloudy, a few faintly glowing. He reached out, fingers brushing one syringe, feeling a faint hum in the liquid.
They're creating something—or someone.
Luka's gut twisted. This wasn't enhancement. This was control.
His gaze fell on drag marks in the dust, leading to a door at the far end. Someone—or something—had been pulled through here recently, leaving dark smears in their wake.
He followed the marks, each step careful. The door was ajar, swinging as if it had been left open in haste. The darkness beyond swallowed all light, consuming everything. Luka took a breath, bracing himself, and stepped through.
The room beyond was smaller, walls lined with shelves cluttered with equipment and binders stuffed with notes. A faint blue glow emanated from a monitor, casting flickering shadows.
Luka approached the screen, data scrolling across it. Phrases like "Neural Conditioning," "Biochemical Compliance," and "Subject Degradation" leaped out. His stomach clenched. This wasn't just experimentation—it was programming. The syndicate was making more than augmented people. They were creating puppets.
A muffled sound came from behind a set of crates. Luka's hand moved instinctively to his gun as he crept closer. The faint beam of his flashlight fell on a figure—a man slumped against the wall, barely breathing.
Luka knelt, keeping his distance, light revealing a pale, gaunt face. Tubes and wires protruded from his neck and arms, linked to a device strapped to his chest, pulsing faintly.
"Hey," Luka murmured. "Can you hear me?"
The man's eyes flickered, a glimmer of awareness. His lips moved, barely a whisper. Luka leaned in to catch the words.
"They… they took everything… hollowed me out… nothing left… but obedience…"
Luka's jaw tightened. This was worse than he'd imagined. The syndicate wasn't just altering people; they were erasing them, turning them into shells.
As the man's head slumped forward, Luka spotted a clipboard on a nearby shelf, filled with notes. The top line read: "Project Exodus - Phase II."
His pulse quickened. Project Exodus. Whatever this was, it went beyond Iron City's borders.
He slipped the clipboard into his coat, ready to leave. But a loud clank echoed through the factory. Luka's body went rigid, instincts snapping into survival mode.
He wasn't alone—and whoever was here wasn't going to let him leave easily.