The Blackreach Police Department loomed ahead like an iron fortress, its grim stone walls and security measures standing as a testament to the city's paranoia. Floodlights illuminated the perimeter, and cameras tracked every movement near the entrance. Getting inside wouldn't be easy—but then again, easy wasn't part of Nightblade's vocabulary.
Perched atop an adjacent rooftop, he studied the building's layout through his binoculars. Armed officers patrolled the area, their movements precise and disciplined. This wasn't just a normal precinct—it was a stronghold. If Ethan Cross really was inside, finding him would be like threading a needle in the dark.
Nightblade reached for his comm. "Voss, you better be right about this."
Static crackled before Voss's nervous voice came through. "I swear on my last offshore account, Cross operates from inside. Not as a cop, but as an asset. He's got connections in the shadows. People come to him when they need things off the books."
Nightblade exhaled slowly. "Then I'm going in. Keep the channel open."
With practiced precision, he activated his shadow-cloaking ability, allowing the darkness to wrap around him like a living veil. He leapt from the rooftop, landing silently in a blind spot between security cameras. Moving like a phantom, he hugged the walls, evading detection as he neared a side entrance.
The lock was electronic—state-of-the-art, unhackable from the outside. Fortunately, Nightblade had other methods. He reached into his belt, pulling out a small EMP device. With a quick press, the mechanism emitted a faint pulse, disrupting the lock just long enough for him to slip inside.
The hallway ahead was dimly lit, filled with the quiet hum of servers and distant chatter from officers. Every step was calculated, every movement precise. He navigated past evidence rooms, processing offices, and holding cells. If Cross was here, he wouldn't be in the open.
As he rounded a corner, he spotted a restricted door labeled Special Operations - Clearance Required.
Bingo.
Approaching cautiously, he placed a small camera at the door's edge, feeding him a real-time view of the room beyond. Inside, several figures stood around a digital display, discussing confidential files. One of them—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a weathered face—stood at the center of it all.
Ethan Cross.
Nightblade's pulse remained steady. He had the target. Now came the hard part.
Moving swiftly, he picked the lock and eased the door open. Shadows coiled around his form as he stepped inside, unseen. The officers continued talking, unaware of the intruder in their midst.
He waited for his moment, then struck.
In a single movement, he emerged from the darkness and grabbed Cross, slamming him against the wall. The other officers barely had time to react before he twisted into a defensive stance, shadows swirling at his fingertips.
"We need to talk," Nightblade said, his voice cold.
Cross didn't even flinch. Instead, he smirked. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
The room fell silent. The trap had been set.
And Nightblade had just walked straight into it.