Yashira tapped the terminal's holo-keypad, hammering out an abort sequence. Ashfallen Hegemony. Here. Now. The tracker flagged in the elevator shaft was an operative known as a 'Cleaner,' specializing in retrieving errant assets—or putting a round between their eyes. He hadn’t been deployed since the purge of the Volkov Cartel. His presence here meant one thing: her faked death had been compromised, or at least suspected enough to warrant a full retrieval. The system, still blinking its warning, needed to be wiped, not just stalled. A deeper protocol, a full data-purge, targeting any trace of her previous interaction with Kholat’s biometric scanner. It would take precious seconds she didn’t have. “Yashira!” Kholat’s voice ripped through the low hum of cooling fans, cutting across the rows of desks. “Leave that terminal. Now.” Her head snapped up. Kholat stood in the central aisle, a towering figure even amidst the augmented mercs. But it wasn’t his usual commanding posture. He was dragging something. Or someone. A man, his face a bruised pulp, half-conscious and stumbling. His corporate-issue jumpsuit was torn, exposing a lattice of fresh lacerations. Blood smeared the polished durasteel floor as Kholat hauled him like a sack of waste, a plasma carbine slung casually over his shoulder. The man’s eyes were swollen slits, his lower lip split and weeping crimson. He was a corporate spy, judging by the insignia half-ripped from his collar—a junior analyst from the rival Cygnus Dynamics. “Everyone, gather,” Kholat commanded, his voice devoid of any warmth. His gaze swept over the logistics department, settling on Yashira with an unnerving intensity. “Clerk, you. Get over here. Datapad. Notes.” The countdown in her peripheral vision ticked below fifty seconds. She needed to purge the trace. But defying Kholat was not an option. She pulled her thick-rimmed glasses higher on her nose, adopted her most clumsy, subservient shuffle, and grabbed her standard-issue datapad. She joined the huddle of clerks, positioning herself just outside Kholat’s immediate reach. “This,” Kholat announced, his boot nudging the groaning spy, “is what happens when you attempt to penetrate Aegis Munitions. He thought he was clever. Thought he could slip through our firewalls, steal our schematics, sell them to the highest bidder.” Kholat’s hand clamped around the spy’s hair, yanking his head back. A low moan escaped the man’s throat. “No… no, I told you everything,” the spy rasped, a sickening wet gurgle in his voice. Kholat ignored him. “We are not some low-level data-farm in the Undercity. We are Aegis. And Aegis protects its secrets with extreme prejudice.” He drew a short, wicked vibro-blade from his belt, the blade humming with barely suppressed energy. The captive spy strained against Kholat's grip. “This isn’t about intelligence gathering anymore. This is about sending a message.” Kholat began to press the point of the vibro-blade against the spy’s exposed forearm, just above the wrist. The man screamed, a high-pitched, desperate sound that echoed unnervingly in the vast, open-plan office. Yashira’s stylus hovered over her pad, logging his words while keeping her shoulders rounded. Kholat was brutal, yes, but predictable. His technique was theatrical, designed to instill fear, not extract complex data. A waste of valuable information, focused too much on the spectacle. He was letting his pride dictate his method, making assumptions about the spy’s motives and affiliations. “Who helped you?” Kholat demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, the blade humming louder. “Who was the other one? The woman who breached my quarters, stole the experimental chronium-core schematics. Her face. Her build. Give it to me.” The spy whimpered, shaking his head. “I told you! She wasn’t with Cygnus! A ghost! She moved like… like liquid death. Fast. She wore dark, fitted gear, a cowl. But I saw her face for a second… Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, eyes the colour of glacier ice, cold and… fearless. Lithe, but strong. Not tall, maybe 1.7 meters. She had a scar, thin, just above her left eyebrow. A duelist’s mark.” The description matched her true build to the millimeter. Yashira kept her head tilted downward, her thick fringe covering the faded scar beneath her hair, though her throat constricted. None of the clerks looked her way—their gazes were glued to the pool of blood on the tiles—yet Kholat’s head tilted in her direction. His gaze was sharp, dissecting. He was putting the pieces together. The dropped stim-café, the biometric scan, the impossible speed, the fearlessness. His gaze cut through the row of trembling office workers, zeroing in. He was about to speak. About to connect the dots that would shatter her carefully constructed illusion. His mouth opened, a single syllable forming on his tongue. Then, a soft, electronic chime echoed through the vast space. The elevator doors at the far end of the hall hissed open, revealing a tall man in a tailored Ashfallen Hegemony uniform. His matte-black duster brushed past the frame, synthetic fiber trailing over combat boots, a sub-dermal targeting array pulsing red behind his right ear. The syndicate tracker stepped into the room with quiet precision. Kholat’s attention snapped away from Yashira, his expression shifting to one of strained cordiality. The moment was gone. The immediate threat, averted. But a new one had just arrived. “Vektor,” Kholat acknowledged, a hint of steel in his voice. “A pleasure, I’m sure. Escort our guest to VIP holding room seven. Make sure he has everything he needs. And do not make him wait.”

The Interrogation Protocol