STONE-COLD:REMASTERED

Surface

Marshall moved swiftly and quietly through the darkened corridor, the sounds of distant gunfire echoing faintly through the academy's stone walls. The red lights that bathed the hallways in an eerie glow flickered occasionally, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with every step he took. His senses were on high alert, every muscle in his body tense and ready for whatever might come.

He wasn't sure where he was going. The academy was vast, with labyrinthine hallways and hidden rooms that he hadn't yet explored. But he couldn't afford to stop, not now. The mercenaries were here for a reason, and whatever it was, it had to be connected to the cryptic conversation he had overheard about Project Genesis and the Faunons. He needed to find answers—if he could survive long enough.

As he rounded another corner, he heard it: the soft, almost imperceptible sound of footsteps, lighter and more deliberate than the heavy thuds of the mercenaries he had evaded earlier. Marshall's pulse quickened. Someone was nearby, moving cautiously, just as he was.

He pressed himself against the wall, holding his breath, and peeked around the corner. There, about twenty feet away, stood a figure clad in dark, tactical gear. The figure moved with the practiced ease of someone trained in stealth, scanning the hallway carefully before taking another step. This wasn't one of the heavily armed mercenaries he had heard earlier—this was something different.

A scout, Marshall realized. He had seen this type of soldier in the action movies his father loved to watch. They were the lighter, quicker units, sent ahead to gather intelligence or take out isolated targets. The scout's vest was emblazoned with a symbol: three bold letters—RAH. Marshall had no idea what the acronym stood for, but he knew one thing for sure: this scout was an enemy.

The scout stopped, listening intently. Marshall's heart pounded in his chest, his grip tightening on the metal pipe. He could feel the cold sweat on his palms, but he forced himself to stay calm, to think. His father's voice echoed in his mind, a memory from years ago when they'd trained together in the backyard.

"Stay focused, stay quiet, and strike when they least expect it."

Micka Aspen had been a soldier, a veteran of the Oil Wars in the late '90s. He had seen combat, had lived through some of the most brutal conflicts of the century, and had made it his mission to pass on what he knew to his son. Marshall had never expected to use those lessons, not really—but now, in the cold, hostile halls of the academy, he was grateful for every bit of training he'd received.

The scout took another step forward, his gaze sweeping the corridor. Marshall knew he had only one chance. If the scout spotted him, it would be over in seconds. He'd be outmatched and outgunned.

As the scout turned to check behind him, Marshall seized his opportunity. He darted forward, moving as silently as possible, the pipe raised and ready. The scout began to turn back, sensing something behind him, but it was too late.

With a swift, powerful motion, Marshall brought the pipe down on the scout's head. The impact was sickening, a dull thud that reverberated through the hallway. The scout staggered, his balance lost, and Marshall struck again, this time driving the pipe into the side of his opponent's neck. The scout crumpled to the ground, his gear clattering as he hit the floor.

Marshall stood over the fallen scout, breathing heavily, the pipe still clenched in his hands. For a moment, he couldn't believe what he had just done. The scout lay still, his breath rasping weakly, but he wasn't getting up. Marshall had won—he had survived his first real fight.

But there was no time to dwell on it. The academy was still under attack, and the mercenaries were still out there. Marshall knelt beside the scout, quickly stripping him of his gear. He needed to be better protected if he was going to survive whatever came next.