The cameras are everywhere.

Little black domes, perched in the corners where the shelves meet the ceiling, swiveling in that slow, deliberate arc, like they know we're here and they're just waiting to catch us. Most of them are standard--cheap, basic, but functional. But some of them? Some are the full 360-degree kind, their lenses constantly adjusting, covering every possible angle.

It makes my skin crawl.

But Jordan? Jordan's loving it.

They're crouched ahead of us, fingers pressed to the concrete floor, helmet tilted just enough that I know they're grinning under there. The air around them warps slightly--a barely perceptible shimmer, like the heat rising off asphalt in summer. I watch as the space between us and the next camera starts to... stretch. The hallway, which was maybe twenty feet long a second ago, is now double that, the space cut cleanly by a parallelogram-ular prism. I don't know the word for it. A diagonal cut.

The camera, now staring into an extended void, keeps sweeping back and forth, oblivious to the fact that it's covering empty space that wasn't there five seconds ago. Jordan glances back at us, voice low in my ear. "Alright, Bloodhound, Flashpoint--come on."

Flashpoint slides past me first, crouching low, hovering whisper-quiet over the concrete as she glides through the warped space. I follow close behind, my footsteps careful but quick, feeling a weird existential tremor run through me as I do so. It's not physically different--the ground is still solid, the air still breathable--but my body knows something's wrong. This is space that isn't there. In a second, it will be gone, and the universe will have forgotten it.

We make it past the camera's sweep, and then Jordan lets the space snap back into place. There's a soft, almost infinitesimal pop in the air, and the hallway looks normal again. Just rows of metal shelves, concrete floor, chemical drums stacked high, labels with long chemical names I can't pronounce.

"Smooth," Flashpoint whispers, glancing around. "You been practicing that?"

Jordan huffs. "You think this is the first building I've been in that I shouldn't be?"

"Great grammar," Flashpoint needles.

I roll my eyes but don't say anything. We've got work to do.

We start moving again, keeping low and using the shelves as cover. This place is huge--way bigger than it looked from the outside. The kind of warehouse that feels like it just keeps going, rows upon rows of industrial storage, all of it filled with chemicals and supplies that could be used for... well, a lot of things. Some of them perfectly legal. Some of them... less so.

We stop at one of the barrels near the edge of the storage floor. It's massive--probably fifty gallons--marked with a simple white label: ACETIC ANHYDRIDE.

Flashpoint leans over, frowning. "This is... normal, right? Like, this is a real thing?"

"Depends," Jordan says. "It's used in a lot of legitimate industrial processes. But it's also used in drug synthesis."

I snap a picture of the label with my phone, making sure to get the serial number and any shipping info.

We keep moving.

More barrels, more labels. SODIUM HYDROXIDE. TOLUENE. ETHYL ACETATE. Some of them I recognize from high school chemistry. Others are totally alien. We take pictures of everything, careful not to touch or move anything that might look out of place.

Jordan guides us through the storage floor, pointing out more cameras as we go. They keep doing their thing--stretching space, creating blind spots, slipping us through without triggering anything. It's almost hypnotic, the way they move, the ease with which they manipulate the space around us.

We hit the edge of the storage area and find ourselves staring at the processing section.

It's different here--less industrial, more... lab-like. There are metal workbenches lined with glassware--beakers, flasks, tubing connecting everything in these weird looping systems. Chemical fume hoods line one wall, their fans humming quietly. There are mixing stations, too--big industrial tanks with pipes running overhead, valves and gauges monitoring pressure and temperature.

Flashpoint lets out a low whistle. "This is... intense."

I nod, moving closer to one of the workbenches. There's a small tray with hypodermic needles scattered across it. None of them are black--the kind we're looking for--but they're still unsettling. I snap a picture.

Jordan's voice cuts in. "No sign of the black syringes yet?"

"Nothing," I mutter, frustration creeping into my tone. "Just regular stuff. No injectors, no branding, nothing."

"We're still early," Jordan says. "Keep looking."

We spread out, keeping within eyesight of each other but covering different workstations. I find a clipboard with a shipping manifest, the pages stained with something brown and sticky. I flip through them, trying to decipher the messy handwriting.

Most of it looks normal--chemical shipments, lab supplies, some heavy machinery parts--but there's one entry that catches my eye.

Inbound: STN-BPH-456. Qty: 200 units.

I squint at it. "Jordan. Flashpoint. Got something."

They both move in, peering over my shoulder.

"STN-BPH?" Flashpoint reads aloud. "What's that?"

"Could be shorthand for Stheno Biopharma," I suggest. "But it's vague as hell."

Jordan taps the page. "Two hundred units. That could be syringes. Or it could be lab equipment. No way to tell."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

I snap pictures of the manifest, flipping through the other pages, but nothing else stands out.

"We need more," I say, frustrated.

Jordan nods. "Let's hit the security office next. Might be some logs, invoices--something with clearer info."

We move carefully, sticking to the shadows as we approach the far side of the warehouse. The security office is a small room elevated above the main floor, accessible by a metal staircase. From here, the cameras could easily catch us--if Jordan wasn't doing their thing.

They stretch the space again, pulling the staircase out of view of the cameras, and we slip up quickly, crouching low as we reach the top.

Jordan holds up a hand, signaling for us to wait.

I freeze, listening.

There's a faint sound--someone inside the office, typing on a keyboard. A single guard, from the sound of it.

Jordan leans in close, voice a whisper in my ear. "I'll handle this. Stay here."

Before I can respond, they pull a small bolt or pebble from their pocket--something they must've grabbed earlier--and toss it down the metal staircase with a soft clink. It bounces once, then again, loud enough in the silence to make the hairs on my arms stand up.

Inside the office, the typing stops.

I hold my breath as the guard's chair scrapes back. A moment later, the door creaks open, and the guard steps out, squinting into the dimly lit warehouse. He moves toward the staircase, eyes scanning the shadows, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

Jordan waits until he's a few steps down, then slips past the open door and into the office without making a sound.

The guard mutters something under his breath, still focused on the noise he heard, before shaking his head and heading back up the stairs. But by the time he reaches the top again, the door is already closed and locked behind Jordan.

A few seconds pass, tense and tight, before the door cracks open.

"All clear," Jordan whispers.

We step inside.

The security office is small, cluttered with monitors showing various camera feeds. A desk in the corner holds stacks of papers, a couple of file folders, and a half-eaten sandwich. The guard is slumped in the far corner, zip-tied at the wrists, a gag over his mouth, eyes wide but unharmed.

Jordan glances at him briefly before turning to us. "He'll be fine. No alarms tripped."

I exhale, tension easing out of my chest. Much better.

"Sorry, man. I promise we're not here to hurt you," I say, crouching next to the guard. I start pulling stuff from his pockets--walkie-talkie, keycard, a set of jangly keys, and a taser--stacking them neatly in a little pile by his feet. "Play nice and I'll untie you when we're done. Don't play nice, and... well, then we do it the concussion-y way. Sound fair?"

He nods, wide-eyed, probably hoping for the first option. I get moving.

Jordan's already at the desk, flipping through files, their gloves moving quick and precise. I drift over to the monitors, eyes scanning the feeds. Most show the usual--dim aisles stacked with chemical drums, forklifts sitting idle, empty loading bays--but then one screen makes me pause.

"Hey," I say, pointing at the monitor. "I think I found something."

Flashpoint leans over my shoulder. "What is that? Those black cases? That could be it, right?"

At first glance, it looks promising. A separate room near the back of the warehouse, lined with shelves holding sleek, black units. Some have little green and red lights blinking on them, all uniform and neat. My brain immediately starts piecing together the worst-case scenario--rows of black injectors, ready to ship out.

But Jordan glances up and squints at the screen, then shakes their head. "That's not it. That's a server yard."

I blink, doing a double-take. Now that they've said it, I can see it--the blinking lights, the cabling, the faint haze from the cooling system. Servers, not injectors. For a second, I feel like an idiot.

"Camera angle threw me off," I mutter.

Jordan's already back to flipping through files. "It makes sense. If this place is running shady operations, that's where they'd keep the data. Probably the most secure spot in the building. We hit that last. I doubt my random security card keycard clone is gonna do anything but trip the alarms. That spot's on lockdown, guarantee it."

I nod, even though my gut twists, itchy with the need to dig deeper. "Right. Servers last. In case anything trips."

We snap pictures of everything we can--shipping logs, manifests, inventory lists--but it's all frustratingly mundane. Chemical orders, generic industrial supplies, invoices for equipment that looks above-board on paper. No mention of the black injectors. No smoking gun.

"Still nothing," I murmur, flipping through another folder. "Feels like we're close, though."

Flashpoint crouches next to me, peeking at the papers. "Or they're hiding the good stuff somewhere deeper."

Jordan doesn't look up. "That's why we're still here."

I glance back at the server room on the monitor, its blinking lights almost taunting. The answers are there. We just have to get to them. Jordan pockets a USB drive from the desk, just taking everything not nailed down, and we head back down, slipping past the cameras again with the help of their space-warping.

We regroup near the center of the warehouse, hidden between two massive stacks of crates.

"We're running out of time," I whisper. "If someone checks in on that guard--"

"They won't," Jordan says, but I can tell they're not totally confident.

Jordan pockets a USB drive from the desk--because when in doubt, steal everything that's not nailed down--and we head back out, slipping past the cameras again as they pull at the edges of space, stretching hallways just long enough to make us invisible.

We regroup near the center of the warehouse, tucked into the shadows between two towering stacks of crates. It's quieter here, the hum of machinery distant, the smell of chemicals thick in the air.

"We're running out of time," I whisper, keeping my voice low. "If someone checks in on that guard--"

"They won't," Jordan says immediately, but their voice has that edge--the kind where they're trying to convince themselves as much as me.

Which is, of course, exactly when things go wrong.

I hear it first--the rapid scrape of boots on metal, the clatter of someone moving fast up above. Then voices--muffled at first, but growing louder.

"Shit," I hiss, pressing back against the crates.

We all freeze, listening. There's a heavy thunk--someone slamming a door open--and then I spot the movement. Up on the second floor, a figure pushes out of the break room. Big. Towering.

It takes me a second to place him, but when I do, my stomach sinks. "That's Bash," I whisper.

Maggie cranes her neck for a better look, then grimaces. "Oh, come on."

It's definitely him--Bash, from Kensington. I remember his face from the marina fight. He had one of the black autoinjectors then, powering him up like some walking wrecking ball. And now he's here, in a white tank top stretched across his wide chest, vaguely professional slacks, moving with that same unsettling ease. Not bulky, not muscular--he's built like a powerlifter. Strong in a way that doesn't need to show off.

"What's he doing here?" Maggie mutters.

"Working security, maybe?" I say. "Getting his share."

Bash ambles across the upper floor, heading toward the observation deck, but something's off. He stops, sniffs the air, and then cups his hands to his mouth.

"Lenny! We've got company!" His voice booms through the warehouse, echoing off the walls.

Lenny? Great. Another wildcard.

I pull back into the shadows, heart racing. But that's when Jordan points, sharp and tense.

"Look."

I follow their finger, squinting through the dim lighting, and then I see it--curling tendrils of smoke, snaking through the gaps between shelves. It's thick, heavy, and rising fast, but something's wrong. There's no smell. No heat. No crackling fire.

"Is that... smoke?" Maggie asks.

"Yeah," I say, voice tight. "But it's not burning anything."

Jordan swears under their breath. "We didn't trigger anything. Someone else is here."

The smoke drifts closer, spilling into the aisles. It looms above the racks, crawling along the ceiling like it's alive, blanketing the security cameras' view.

Bash doesn't notice us. He's heading down the stairs, following the trail of smoke, his massive frame cutting through the haze like it's nothing. We press deeper into the shadows, staying low.

"Who the hell is Lenny?" I whisper.

"No idea," Jordan replies, eyes tracking Bash as he disappears into the fog.

The smoke keeps coming, thicker now, curling over the shelves, swallowing the rows in a dense gray haze. Something is happening in here--something way beyond our plan.

Soot.