MAFIA'S WRONG TARGET

32: THE HIDDEN SPORT

SYBIL'S POV

Morocco, Russia,
04: 17 am

The car screeched to a halt near a building that wan't completely built. Yellow-black barricade tape had circled it and a faded notice hung crookedly on a rusted pole-STAY OUT - UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

Alaric turned off the engine. Without a word, Hunter was already out, moving toward the building.

Alaric stepped out next, his boots crunching over gravel and dust. He opened the back door and extended his hand to me. I hesitated, eyes flicking between him and the eerie structure.

"Where are we?" I asked as I took his hand, but before the words could fully land, his arm slid around my waist, guiding me out with a gentle firmness. He pushed the car door closed without even glancing at it.

He didn't answer.

Instead, he led me toward the entrance, his grip steady. I could feel the tension humming off him like static. Whatever was going on, they weren't ready to talk about it-and I didn't press.

The moment we stepped inside, it was like being swallowed whole by darkness. The air was damp, thick with the scent of concrete dust and something metallic.

Then, the lights blinked on.

I stopped in my tracks.

One by one, industrial bulbs flickered to life, casting a cold glow across the wide, hollow floor of the building-and what I saw made my breath catch.

The entire space-what should've been barren and empty-was alive.

Men moved in quiet coordination. Dozens of them. All armed. Some stacking crates, other spreading maps on long metal table. The far end of the floor was lined with boxes-crates upon crates of equipment, ammo, and things I couldn't even name.

It wasn't a construction site. It was a fortress. A war base hidden in plain sight.

Hunter was walking ahead, his back to me, already speaking to a man while taking off his shirt. Even from a distance, I could see the way the others moved around him-not past him, never past him. With respect. With caution.

Stripping away the ruined layers of his shirt, revealing the damage the fire had done they made him sit on a bed-chair. His burned cheek was already turning raw, angry red, and a medic gently dabbed a cloth along the blistering skin while another carefully removed the ash-stained cast from his arm.

Every motion was efficient. Practiced. These weren't ordinary medics-they were trained for battlefield wounds.

I stood frozen, watching them move around him like soldiers around a wounded general.

It was barely a moment and that all happened as if I was standing there for minutes.

Alaric's arm slowly released from around my waist, and for a second, I felt the absence like a chill. He shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto a nearby couch, revealing a crisp white shirt beneath, the waistcoat hugging his frame. He rolled up his sleeves on his way to a table where layed the maps and several men awaiting his orders.

He rested his hands on the edge of the table and before to explain something, his voice dropped into strategy as they leaned in, listening to every word.

I tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but no one paused long enough to listen. The room was electric with urgency. Controlled chaos.

I flinched when a hand reached for me.

A man in a doctor's coat-not someone I recognized-gave me a firm but not unkind look and motioned for me to sit. I hesitated, but his grip was gentle yet insistent, guiding me to a chair a few feet away.