Declan’s heart pounded as he sat in the darkness of the cellar, the sounds of the storm raging above his head. The air down here was thick with the scent of mildew and decay, but it was a small price to pay for the shelter it offered. He leaned back against the cold stone wall, his mind racing, replaying the events of the past few minutes.

The man’s desperate face flashed in his mind; his pleading eyes burned into Declan’s consciousness. But he forced himself to push the image away, to harden his resolve. This was how the city worked. This was how he had survived this long. In a place like this, showing mercy could get you killed. He knew that better than anyone. Still, the guilt gnawed at him, a small but persistent voice in the back of his mind.

He shook his head, trying to refocus. He needed to stay sharp, to be ready for whatever was next. The storm outside wasn’t just any storm; it felt wrong, as if something malevolent was behind it. The unnatural blue lightning, the sudden onslaught, the way it seemed to target certain areas with a precision that defied explanation—none of it made sense.

Declan fished out his phone from his coat pocket, hoping to check the time or perhaps contact someone, but the screen was cracked and lifeless. The storm had likely fried it, just as it had shorted out the power across the city. He cursed under his breath and shoved it back into his pocket. He was alone in the dark, with no way of knowing how much time had passed or what was happening above.

He scanned the cellar, his eyes slowly adjusting to the gloom. The space was small and cramped, filled with old barrels and crates stacked haphazardly against the walls. It was a storage room of sorts, probably forgotten by whoever owned the bar above. Dust coated everything, and cobwebs hung from the corners, undisturbed for who knew how long.

As his eyes continued to adjust, Declan noticed something odd. One of the crates near the back wall was different from the others. It was newer, less covered in dust, and there were faint scuff marks on the floor around it, as if it had been moved recently.

Cautiously, he approached the crate, his footsteps echoing softly in the confined space. He knelt beside it and ran his fingers along the edges, feeling for any seams or openings. It was nailed shut, but the wood was thin and would give way easily with a little force.

Without hesitation, he found an old crowbar leaning against the wall and wedged it under the lid. With a grunt, he pried it open, the nails protesting as they were pulled free. The lid came loose, and Declan set it aside, peering into the crate.

What he saw inside made his breath catch in his throat.

The crate was filled with weapons, ammunition, knives—enough to arm a small militia. There were also several vials of a strange, glowing liquid nestled in protective foam. The liquid was a deep, unsettling blue, similar to the colour of the lightning outside. Declan had seen his fair share of illegal arms deals in his time, but this was something else entirely.

Whoever had stored this here was preparing for something big, something beyond the usual gang wars and street-level violence. This was military-grade equipment, and the presence of the strange vials suggested an even darker purpose.

Declan’s mind raced as he tried to piece together what he was seeing. The storm, the weapons, the strange liquid—there was a connection here, he was sure of it. But what could it be? Was this storm somehow man-made? Was someone using the chaos to cover up their operations?

He was still processing the implications when he heard a faint noise from above. It was the sound of footsteps, careful and deliberate, as if someone was trying not to be heard. Declan’s heart skipped a beat, and he quickly extinguished the small light he’d used to examine the crate. He pressed himself against the wall, the crowbar still in his hand, his senses on high alert.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The footsteps grew louder, closer. Whoever it was, they were inside the bar now, moving slowly, cautiously. Declan’s mind raced as he considered his options. If it was someone connected to the weapons cache, they wouldn’t be pleased to find him down here. And if they were armed… He didn’t have many options, and none of them were good.

He crouched lower, holding his breath, his muscles tense and ready to spring into action if necessary. The cellar door creaked open, and a sliver of light cut through the darkness. Declan heard the sound of someone descending the stairs, their steps slow and deliberate, as if they were searching for something.

Declan tightened his grip on the crowbar, every nerve in his body on edge. He had no intention of being caught off guard. The figure descended the stairs, the light revealing them to be a man in his mid-thirties, tall and muscular, with a scar running down one side of his face. He was dressed in dark, tactical clothing, and his eyes swept the cellar with a cold, calculating gaze.

The man reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, his hand resting on the gun holstered at his side. He hadn’t noticed Declan yet, who remained hidden behind the stack of crates, but it was only a matter of time before he did.

Declan’s mind raced, weighing his options. He could try to take the man by surprise, but if he missed his chance, it could be the end of him. The other option was to stay hidden and hope the man would leave, but that seemed increasingly unlikely as the stranger’s gaze settled on the open crate.

“Damn it,” the man muttered under his breath as he approached the crate. He knelt down to inspect it, his back turned to Declan.

It was now or never.

With a burst of adrenaline, Declan sprang from his hiding place, swinging the crowbar with all his might. The metal connected with the side of the man’s head with a sickening thud, sending him sprawling to the ground, his gun skittering out of reach.

Declan didn’t waste any time. He dropped the crowbar and grabbed the man’s gun, keeping it trained on him as the man groaned and tried to push himself up. Blood trickled down the side of his face where the crowbar had struck, but he wasn’t out of the fight yet.

“Who are you?” Declan demanded, his voice cold and steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “What’s all this for?”

The man glared up at him, a mix of anger and pain in his eyes. “You have no idea what you’re involved in,” he spat. “You’re in way over your head, cop.”

Declan pressed the barrel of the gun against the man’s temple, his finger hovering over the trigger. “I’m done playing games. Talk, or you won’t get another chance.”

For a moment, the man’s defiance faltered, and a flicker of fear crossed his face. He seemed to weigh his options before finally speaking.

“It’s too late to stop it now,” he said, his voice low and grim. “The storm is just the beginning. We’re going to cleanse this city, wipe out the filth, and start over. The weapons, the storm, the serum—it’s all part of the plan.”

Declan’s stomach churned. “Who’s behind this? Who’s controlling the storm?”

The man gave a bitter laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. But it doesn’t matter. You can’t stop what’s coming. None of you can.”

Before Declan could press him further, the man’s hand shot out, grabbing a small device from his belt. Declan barely had time to react before the man pressed the button, and the device emitted a high-pitched beep.

“No!” Declan shouted, but it was too late.

The device exploded in a flash of light and heat, sending Declan flying backward. He hit the wall hard, the gun slipping from his grasp as pain shot through his body. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the man’s smirking face, illuminated by the fireball that consumed the crate of weapons.

When Declan came to, the cellar was a wreck. The explosion had obliterated the crate and its contents, leaving nothing but charred wood and twisted metal. The man was gone, along with any chance of getting answers.

Declan groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, his body aching from the impact. He needed to get out of here, to warn someone—anyone—about what he’d just learned. But as he stumbled toward the stairs, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was already too late.

The storm above raged on, its fury unabated. And as Declan climbed out of the cellar and into the night, he knew that the city was on the brink of something terrible, something far worse than anyone could imagine.