A piece of paper drifts to the floor, fluttering softly before landing. Rif snatches it up, his movements quick but tense. He exhales when he sees it's unharmed. "De would kill us if we lost this," he mutters, glancing toward Ony—the same silent presence that had accompanied them during the prototype theft.

Ony remains motionless, eyes glued to the screens ahead, where the locations and vitals of two operatives flicker. One dead. The other, loaded into a dark van. Ony’s focus never wavers, dissecting the streams of data with cold precision. Rif tosses the paper back onto the cluttered table and leans against the wall, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curls upward as he watches Ony, unfazed by the tension. “They won’t take the driver anywhere important," Rif says, voice low and detached. "Hart suspects a tracker. They’ll bleed him dry for answers somewhere remote, then clean up the mess.”

Ony doesn’t acknowledge him, engrossed in the unfolding events. The screens reflect the van’s slow crawl through the city, the lifeless body of the other operative slumped beside the captured driver. Rif takes a drag, unconcerned.

At that moment, Hart is in motion. His men secure a desolate warehouse, industrial shadows masking their movements. The driver, bound and silent, is tied to a chair in the center of the room. Hart steps forward, no patience for games. His first question cuts the air like a blade: “Who are you working for?”

The driver stares straight ahead, unmoving.

Hart doesn’t wait long. With a flick of his wrist, he retrieves a sleek gadget from his coat, its design clinical, efficient. He presses it to the driver’s neck and activates it. A violent jolt surges through the man’s body. The tracker embedded deep within is fried in seconds.

Miles away, Rif watches the blip vanish from the screen. He lets out a small, almost amused sigh. “Hart’s not stupid. Tracker’s done. Either they’ve disabled it, or our man’s gone.” He takes one last drag before flicking the cigarette aside and stands.

Rif pats Ony’s shoulder, the gesture casual but laced with expectation. “I trust you, Ony. But don’t disappoint.” Without waiting for a response, he strides out of the room.

Ony remains unmoved, watching the screen for a few quiet seconds. Then, without a word, he too rises, leaving the cold glow of the monitors behind.

Hart paces slowly, the sound of his shoes clicking against the concrete floor. The driver sits bound and silent, his breathing shallow but steady. A single light casts sharp shadows over his face, highlighting the sweat beading on his forehead.

Hart glares at him, the device still in his hand, its charge dissipated. His fingers twitch with irritation. "This would be over by now if I had my prototype," he mutters, his tone more to himself than anyone in the room. "It can detect stress responses, monitor vitals… even the smallest lie. But thanks to your friends, I have to do things the hard way."

The driver keeps his gaze down, the defiance in his silence like a wall Hart can’t break through. He pauses, weighing his options, before leaning down to eye level. "You think you’re tough? That you can sit there and outlast me?" Hart’s voice drops to a chilling calm, betraying the rising frustration beneath it. "I have all the time in the world. You, on the other hand, don’t."

The driver doesn’t flinch. Hart’s eyes narrow.

With a flick of his wrist, the gadget whirs back to life. He presses it into the driver's ribs this time, delivering a longer, more intense burst of electricity. The driver jerks violently, the chair scraping against the floor as his body writhes in pain. But he still says nothing.

A heavy silence lingers. Hart stares at the driver, his mind racing. Torture is messy. Primitive. Inefficient. He hates being reduced to this.

“This doesn’t need to drag on,” Hart says, his voice tightening with impatience. “Who are you working for? What do they want with the prototype?”

The driver remains stone-faced, but Hart can see the tremors running through his muscles from the electric shock. It wasn’t enough to break him—yet.

Stolen novel; please report.

Hart steps back, pacing. His frustration grows with every second of silence, each moment a reminder of his own vulnerability. He doesn’t know who these people are, or why they would risk everything to steal from him. They could be competitors, or something far worse.

“If you won’t talk…” Hart lets the threat hang in the air, unsure himself where he’ll go next. He’s used to getting answers quickly—technology, leverage, resources at his disposal. But now, in the face of this unknown enemy, he feels a rare sense of helplessness creeping in.

He pulls out his comm device, tapping a few keys as he watches the driver, gauging any flicker of response. "Do you know what this prototype can do?" Hart’s tone shifts, trying a different approach. "It’s not just a machine. It can hear you lie before you even say the words. It can measure your body’s response—your heart rate, your sweat. All of it." He glances at the driver’s still expression. “We could’ve skipped this whole mess if your friends hadn’t stolen it.”

The driver’s lips twitch, but he remains silent.

Hart sighs, the calm mask slipping further. “You have no idea what you’ve taken, do you? This isn’t just corporate espionage.” His voice grows colder, more calculated. “You’ve stolen something that could change the world. And that makes you—and whoever sent you—very dangerous.”

Hart narrows his eyes, watching the driver for any sign of weakness. “But this isn’t just about the prototype, is it?” His tone sharpens, shifting to a more personal angle. "What were you and your friends trying to do with that woman? The one who shot herself."

The driver flinches, a barely noticeable reaction, but Hart catches it. He steps forward, pressing the advantage. "You were there. You saw her. She wasn’t random." Hart’s eyes bore into him, seeking a crack in the man's armor. “What was she? A target? A message?”

The driver’s lips remain sealed, but his breathing quickens. Hart senses the tension in the air, a thread he’s just begun to pull.

“Why her?” Hart pushes harder. “Why would she matter to you? Or to whoever you're working for? She didn’t just kill herself, did she?” He crouches down, his voice low and accusatory. “You pushed her. Maybe not with your hands—but you were there. And for what?”

Hart waits for a reaction, but the driver’s expression stays locked in defiance, only the faint flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Hart straightens slowly, narrowing his gaze. It doesn't make sense.

Why would anyone care about a random woman in a park?

Hart’s mind races, trying to piece it together. Was she involved with the prototype somehow? Or was this a personal vendetta, a distraction, maybe? The suicide doesn’t add up. Hart senses something much bigger, something lurking just out of his reach. His fingers tap impatiently on the gadget still in his hand.

The driver’s silence begins to gnaw at him. He steps back, pacing again, frustration building. “What am I missing?” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than the driver.

Hart clenches his jaw. “You’re not going to talk, are you?”

Still nothing. A cold silence hangs in the air, the tension thickening. Hart’s patience snaps.

“Fine.” He gestures to one of his men standing by the door, who steps forward. “He’s dangerous. We keep him alive, and they’ll come for him, or worse—he’ll find a way to get out. I’m not taking that risk.”

His voice is hard now, decisive. "Execute him."

The driver doesn’t flinch, doesn’t beg. Hart’s men move in with practiced efficiency, unholstering their sidearms. Hart watches for a moment, eyes narrowing, but then he turns on his heel, walking toward the exit. There’s nothing left to gain here.

As the door shuts behind him, the sound of gunfire echoes through the warehouse.

After Hart arrived at his lab, the cold, sterile lights hummed softly as he stood over the woman’s lifeless body. Her eyes were closed, and the defiance she'd shown before pulling the trigger was now erased by death. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, sterile and suffocating. A medical technician hovered nearby, rattling off the details of her injuries, but Hart wasn’t listening.

His gaze swept over her body, stopping at a faint bruise near her wrist—a detail that didn’t quite fit. He frowned, leaning in for a closer look. “What’s this?” he muttered, more to himself than the technician.

The technician, noticing Hart’s focus, glanced over and shrugged. “Probably from the gun recoil, or she might’ve hit something before she fell.”

Hart wasn’t convinced. Something about it seemed… intentional. His thoughts flickered back to the driver’s silence in the warehouse and the way he’d flinched at the mention of the woman. She wasn’t random. That bruise meant something.

Hart’s mind began to race again, connecting threads he didn’t yet fully understand. He stood up, brushing a hand across his jaw, his gaze still fixed on the woman’s lifeless form. Without looking at the technician, he spoke, his voice measured.

“I want a full analysis of her blood. Anything unusual, any trace of foreign substances. Let me know the moment you find something.”

Hart’s request hung in the air as the technician nodded, scribbling notes. Without another word, Hart turned and headed for the door, his thoughts already shifting to the next steps. He needed answers, and soon.

As Hart stepped into the hallway, his comm device buzzed. He glanced down—his boss.

He answered, not even managing a word before the voice on the other end spoke, clipped and direct.

“You’ve missed the final deadline. The higher-ups want to talk to you. Tomorrow.”

Hart’s brow furrowed. “What time?”

“They’ll set it. Be ready. This isn’t just about the prototype anymore.”

The line went dead before Hart could reply. He stood there, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. Whatever was coming next, it wasn’t going to wait.