The alley breathed, damp and restless. Rain whispered against the pavement, turning the streets slick, reflecting fractured halos of streetlights like dying stars. The air carried the scent of wet asphalt, rot, and something waiting to be spilled.
Michael Connors' pulse hammered against his ribs. His fingers flexed, hovering near the grip of his gun—but he didn't touch it. Not yet.
Something was wrong.
The city was never this quiet. Not even in the dead of night. It wasn't just the rain—something unseen was watching.
Then came the footsteps.
Deliberate. Steady.
Eric Nolan stepped into the dim light, rainwater dripping from the hem of his coat. His face was pale, jaw tight, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. His eyes met Connors', and for the briefest moment—hesitation. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
"You have it." His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
Connors didn't know what it was. But it didn't matter. Nolan had already made up his mind.
The moment shattered.
Nolan lunged.
No words. No hesitation.
His fist crashed into Connors' shoulder, raw power behind it. Pain exploded down Connors' arm, but he twisted with the blow, minimizing the damage. The next punch came fast—he barely ducked, feeling the rush of air as it grazed his temple.
Then he retaliated.
Connors drove his forehead into Nolan's face. A wet, sickening crunch. A spray of blood. Nolan reeled, stumbling—but didn't stop.
A sharp elbow slammed into Connors' ribs. A crack. The breath fled from his lungs. He staggered, vision swimming.
Survival.
He drove his knee into Nolan's gut, catching him mid-step. A ragged grunt. They collapsed onto the rain-slick pavement, limbs tangled, grappling.
Then—a flash of metal.
The gun.
It skittered across the alley, swallowed by shadows. Gone.
Nolan moved first.
He was on top. Hands around Connors' throat.
Tight. Squeezing.
Connors' lungs burned. His veins screamed. His vision blurred at the edges, tunneling. He thrashed, but Nolan's grip was relentless—iron fingers crushing his windpipe.
No air. No time.
His hands clawed at the ground—desperate—searching—finding.
Glass.
Jagged. Slick with rain.
He drove it into Nolan's side.
Flesh ripped. Muscle tore. A wet, tearing sound filled the alley, followed by a strangled gasp.
Nolan's grip faltered. His body shuddered.
Connors didn't stop. He twisted the glass deeper, feeling the resistance give way, warm blood spilling over his fingers.
Nolan's breath hitched. His strength drained.
Connors shoved him off, rolling away, gasping, sucking in air like a drowning man breaching the surface.
Nolan was on his knees, swaying. One hand clutched his side. Blood poured through his coat, staining the concrete below.
But his eyes…
They weren't angry. They weren't afraid.
They were confused.
Like he had just realized something. Something terrible.
His lips parted. He tried to speak.
Tried to say why.
But the words never came.
His body slumped against the wall, leaving a dark streak as he slid down.
The rain kept falling.
Washing the blood down the alley.
Washing it from Connors' hands.
But he could still feel it.
The warmth.
The proof that he had survived.
As Connors methodically erased every trace—wiping surfaces, scattering debris, and disposing of every remnant—a lone marble slipped free, striking the wet pavement with a soft, hollow clatter.
The sound broke the stillness—sharp, small, and wrong.
It rolled, weaving through rain-slick cracks, tracing a lazy, uncertain path—before finally settling in a shallow puddle.
The water rippled outward.
A tiny disturbance.
A reminder that something had happened here—something the rain could never wash away.
---
Jason knew things were bad when he walked into the office and saw Sarah pacing.
It wasn't just pacing—it was caged-animal pacing. And the usual "pleasant when caffeinated" team lead was currently running a choir practice of stress-induced profanity that could shatter human vocal limits.
It got worse.
Their manager was already there.
Jason barely had time to drop his bag before Sarah turned on him.
"I want this virus dead. I don't care if you have to sacrifice a goat to the firewall gods—fix it."
Jason exchanged a glance with Arnon.
This wasn't over.
They thought they'd contained 75% of it last night. But something had changed.
"It adapted," Arnon muttered, eyes scanning his monitor. "The patterns—it's not acting like it did before."
Jason slid into his chair, fingers flying over his keyboard. Logs scrolled in front of him. Something was wrong.
"We boxed it in," Jason murmured. "We should've suffocated it. But…"
"…it's not playing by the same rules anymore," Arnon finished.
Jason exhaled sharply. "Then we change the rules."
They moved as one, their synergy razor-sharp.
Sophia pulled up forensic traces. Every time the virus shifted, she flagged it.
Diego locked down outgoing traffic, cutting off possible escape routes.
Robert scrambled to fix corrupted user accounts while fielding very confused employees.
Jason and Arnon worked in perfect rhythm, finishing each other's sentences, bridging gaps before they even spoke.
"It's not spreading traditionally," Jason said.
"…because it's rewriting logs before we can track it," Arnon added.
"Meaning it's—"
"—predicting us."
Jason's heart pounded. They weren't hunting it anymore.
It was hunting them.
The virus wasn't just moving through systems—it was choosing its targets.
An AI? No. This was something else.
Something aware.
He exhaled. "We need to force it into a cage."
Diego rerouted network pathways, funneling the virus into a dead-end.
Sophia prepped a digital quarantine, an isolated server with no exit.
Arnon and Jason deployed a countermeasure, baiting the virus into thinking it had an opening—only to trap it inside.
They watched the logs.
Numbers flickered. Changed. Shifted.
The virus hesitated.
Jason felt it.
For one terrible moment, it was like something .
Then—
The logs went still.
No new breaches. No movement.
The virus was trapped.
The Hunt was over.
Arnon exhaled. "It's done."
Sarah leaned against the desk, exhausted. "Finally."
Sarah waved