Dawn spilled like tarnished brass across the shuttered windows of Marisol's private quarters above Los Sueños.
The room was simple but elegant—art deco flourishes on the bedposts and mirror frames revealing taste that transcended profession.
Marisol stirred beside him, enhancement ports cycling slowly as she transitioned to wakefulness. Hers were aesthetic upgrades rather than combat models—designed for heightened sensory perception and emotional attunement. Unlike the garish modifications popular in pleasure houses along Calle Dorada, hers were subdued, almost invisible when inactive.
"Third night in a row," she murmured, her fingers tracing the silver pathways along his spine with a familiarity few would dare. "Starting to think you actually like me."
Kasper didn't flinch from her touch—a concession granted to no one else. "I like the quiet."
"Liar," she said without heat, sitting up to study his profile in the half-light. "You come for the noise."
He glanced at her, question in his expression.
"In here," she clarified, tapping her temple where dormant enhancement ports caught the morning light. "My thoughts are louder than whatever's happening in yours. Drowns out the void for a while." Her hand moved to rest against his chest, above where his heart beat steady rhythm. "Drowns out Sarah too, I suspect."
Kasper went still, silver tracery flaring momentarily beneath his skin. No one spoke that name to him—not since the academy, not since her blood had dried on his hands.
"You called for her last night," Marisol continued softly. "And for someone named Javier. Begging them to run, that it was a trap." Her eyes held compassion without pity. "Then you started screaming Santos' name too. Seems your ghosts are getting crowded."
Kasper's mind briefly flashed to Ghost's teasing on their last night together before the ambush. "You're getting soft, de la Fuente," Ghost had said while Circuit and Scope snickered in the background. Ramirez had simply watched with that quiet intensity of his. None of them had known it would be their final evening together.
"Dreams are just neural discharge," Kasper said flatly, though the silver patterns beneath his skin betrayed his discomfort. "Processing tactical data."
"Sure they are," Marisol agreed too easily, reaching for a cigarette case on the bedside table. "And I'm just a high-priced pleasure worker with no past worth mentioning." She lit her cigarette, studying him through the rising smoke. "We all have our convenient fictions, Kasper."
The use of his name rather than his reputation caught him off-guard. He stood, the silver tracery pulsing beneath his skin as he reached for his clothing. The imprints from his exoskeleton's connection points were still visible along his spine and limbs—red marks from where the combat suit interfaced with his nervous system. Wearing the armor so frequently had left permanent marks, as if his body was beginning to mold itself to the machine.
"I know why you really come here," she said, watching him dress. "And it's not just for this." She gestured vaguely at the rumpled sheets. "You come because I never knew her. Or Javier. I'm separate from all that—the academy, the betrayal, whatever happened in Mirage City." She drew on her cigarette, the ember glowing in the half-light. "I'm the only place you go where those ghosts don't follow."
Kasper paused in buttoning his shirt, the silver tracery momentarily visible at his throat. "You've been asking questions."
"I listen," she corrected. "Big difference. In my profession, people talk. Especially Association operatives who think a pleasure worker can't possibly understand their classified world." Her enhancement ports cycled something complex. "Your team found you the other night. The big one—Vega?—carried you out like you weighed nothing. They were afraid."
"They shouldn't have come," Kasper muttered, though without the edge he might have shown weeks earlier.
"Maybe not. But people do stupid things for family." She drew on her cigarette, studying him through the smoke. "Even makeshift, enhancement-riddled, violence-prone family."
"We're not—"
"Save it for someone who hasn't seen how they look at you," Marisol interrupted. "Or how you look at them when you think no one's watching."
"And how's that?" he asked despite himself.
"Like a man who's afraid of losing the only thing he still recognizes in the mirror." She set the cigarette aside, dropping the professional detachment that was as much armor as his tactical gear. "The children from Sector Five. What you did to the men who took them. That wasn't just operational, was it?"
The silver patterns beneath Kasper's skin pulsed once, bright and sharp. "No."
The single syllable hung between them—perhaps the most honest thing he'd said in their three nights together.
"Have you called your father?" she asked, the abrupt change of subject momentarily disorienting him.
Kasper's expression closed. "That's not relevant to—"
"Of course it is," she cut him off. "The man who lost one son already, watching his remaining child transform into something he doesn't understand." Her enhancement ports cycled empathy patterns. "You're not the only one with ghosts, Kasper."
"He wouldn't understand," Kasper replied, silver tracery briefly visible at his wrist. "Not after what happened to Javier. Not after what I've become."
"You mean what you're becoming," she corrected. "Present tense. Process not yet complete. There's still time."
"Time for what?"
"To be someone's son before you're only the void's instrument." She pulled the sheet around her with casual modesty. "They say you're going after the northeastern facility today. The one everyone knows about but no one talks about."
Kasper tensed, silver tracery flaring visibly. "How do you—"
"Please," she scoffed. "Half my clients are Association support staff. The other half are cartel-adjacent business owners. I hear everything eventually." Her enhancement ports cycled concern patterns despite her casual tone. "They say this one's different. Worse."
"It's just another operation," Kasper replied, the practiced dismissal unconvincing even to his own ears.
"Then why do you look like you're heading to your execution? The same way you looked in your sleep when you were screaming Sarah's name?"
The question struck closer than she could know. Kasper finished dressing, the silver tracery vanishing beneath tactical clothing, but didn't immediately move to leave.
"Marisol," he said her name as though testing unfamiliar territory. "If something happens—"
"Don't," she cut him off, something vulnerable briefly visible beneath professional composure. "I'm not your confessional, Kasper. I'm not here to absolve you before battle."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, enhancement ports cycling irritation patterns. "Men like you always want the same thing. Someone to hear your last words, just in case they actually are your last. Someone to remember you were human once, whatever you become after." She stood, retrieving a silk robe from a nearby chair. "I'm not your memorial keeper."
Kasper watched her move across the room, silver tracery pulsing beneath his clothes in rhythm with some emotion he couldn't fully identify. "You're right," he admitted, the concession visibly surprising her. "But that's not what I was going to say."
She paused, waiting.
"I was going to say if something happens, the Association might come looking for information. Chen—our supervisor—she doesn't know about..." he gestured vaguely between them, "this."
"Your recreational activities?" Marisol supplied with a raised eyebrow.
"My unsanctioned operations," he corrected. "The ones between our... encounters."
Understanding dawned in her expression. "You've been using me as cover."
"Not intentionally," he admitted. "But it became convenient."
Rather than the anger he expected, Marisol laughed—a genuine sound rarely heard in their professional encounters. "The feared El Asesino del Vacío, using a pleasure worker as his alibi. That's almost poetic." She shook her head, amusement fading to something more serious. "I won't tell them anything they don't need to know."
"Thank you," he said, the words rusty with disuse.
As he prepared to leave, Marisol called after him. "Kasper." She hesitated, then continued. "Call your father. And whatever's happening in that facility... don't let it take what's left of you. Sarah and Javier are gone, but you're still here. The world has enough monsters already."
He paused at the door, the silver tracery beneath his clothing momentarily visible at his wrist. "That's the trouble, isn't it? Sometimes you need a monster to hunt monsters."
"Maybe," she acknowledged. "But monsters don't wake up screaming about saving children or losing loved ones. Remember that."
The Association headquarters buzzed with pre-operation activity when Kasper arrived. Operatives moved through art deco corridors with enhanced precision, tactical teams preparing for coordinated strikes against cartel infrastructure. The three-day rest period had ended, and Rivera's administration had approved a major offensive against Montoya's operations.
Before heading to his team, Kasper paused in an empty corridor, silver tracery pulsing beneath his skin as he extracted his personal communication device. He stared at it for several long moments, the device looking somehow wrong in his evolving hands. Finally, he entered the connection code he hadn't used in weeks.
His father answered immediately, as though he'd been waiting by the receiver. "Kasper." The single word carried relief, concern, and uncertainty in equal measure.
"Dad." Kasper's voice sounded strange to his own ears—softer than the tone he used for operations, lacking the edge that had become part of his daily communication.
"Are you alright?" The question was loaded with a father's worry. "The news reports... what they're saying about El Asesino del Vacío..."
"I'm fine," Kasper replied automatically, then amended, "I'm alive."
"Not the same thing," his father observed. The connection couldn't transmit enhancement port patterns, but Kasper could imagine them cycling concern beneath his father's exoskeleton interfaces. "Your last medical scan results came to the house. Dr. Varela thought I should see them."
Kasper tensed, silver tracery flaring beneath his tactical gear. "She had no right—"
"She had every right," his father interrupted with parental authority that transcended even Kasper's fearsome reputation. "I'm still listed as your medical proxy. And after what happened with the Exhibition—" He broke off, the memory of Kasper's enhancement rejection and subsequent transformation still raw. "She's concerned. So am I."
"I'm still me," Kasper said, the assertion sounding hollow even to himself.
"Are you?" The question held no accusation, only genuine inquiry. "Your brother used to say the exoskeleton changed how he saw the world. And that was just mechanical assistance, not..." He trailed off, uncertain how to describe what was happening to his remaining son.
"Organic adaptation," Kasper supplied, the clinical term for his unprecedented evolution.
"Is that what they're calling it?" His father sighed, the sound carrying years of worry. "I just want to know if my son is still in there, somewhere beneath El Asesino."
The question struck deeper than tactical assessment or operational parameters. The silver tracery beneath Kasper's skin pulsed with complex patterns his father couldn't see.
"I'm still here," he said finally, the words carrying more weight than any tactical report. "Just... changing."
"Into what?"
"I don't know yet." The admission came easier than expected. "But I'm still your son."
A pause, filled with unspoken fears and unasked questions. "There's an operation today, isn't there? Something big. I can hear it in your voice."
"Standard tactical engagement," Kasper replied, falling back on professional terminology.
"Don't lie to me, Kasper. Not after everything." His father's voice tightened with emotion he rarely displayed. "Not after Javier."
The mention of his brother's name sent silver tracery flaring visibly along Kasper's neck. "It's a major coordinated strike. Multiple targets. I'm leading the northeastern extraction team."
"The children?" His father knew—of course he knew. Even without enhancement ports or Association access, Rodrigo de la Fuente had always understood what drove his sons.
"Yes."
Another pause, heavier this time. "Come home afterward. Whatever you find there, whatever happens, come home. Let me see for myself that my son is still my son."
"Dad—"
"Promise me, Kasper. I can't lose both of you to this war."
The silver tracery beneath Kasper's skin settled into steady pulses, organic adaptations responding to emotional undercurrents his conscious mind attempted to suppress. "I'll come home," he said finally. "When it's done."
"Good." Relief colored his father's voice. "Be careful, hijo. Whatever you're becoming... don't forget who you were."
The conversation ended with promises that felt simultaneously impossible and essential. Kasper stood motionless for several seconds, silver patterns pulsing beneath his skin as he processed the exchange. Then, with practiced discipline, he compartmentalized the emotional response and made his way to his team.
Kasper's team occupied their usual tactical room—a glass-walled space overlooking the operational floor, brass fittings and mahogany panels contrasting with cutting-edge enhancement interfaces. They fell silent as he entered, four pairs of eyes assessing his condition with varying degrees of subtlety.
"Holy shit, he lives," Moreno announced, feet propped irreverently on the tactical table. "We were about to stuff your exoskeleton with newspapers and parade it around like Weekend at Bernie's."
"You'd need at least three more people to carry his ego," Torres observed dryly, neural targeting systems automatically calculating Kasper's biometrics. "Probably rupture your enhancement ports trying."
"Might be worth it to see the look on Chen's face," Diaz added, fingers never ceasing their dance through data streams. "She's been asking about you. Hourly."
"Told her you were conducting deep reconnaissance in Sector Eight," Vega rumbled from his reinforced chair in the corner. His massive frame made standard furniture impractical, requiring enhanced structural support. "Didn't technically specify what kind of 'deep' or what you were 'reconnoitering'."
"That's not even a word," Torres objected.
"It is now," Moreno grinned. "If the big man says it, it goes in the official report."
Kasper moved to the tactical display, ignoring their banter even as something in his posture eased. The silver patterns beneath his skin responded to the room's enhancement interfaces, connecting with operational data through means the medical team still couldn't fully explain.
"You look like shit," Torres observed, professional assessment failing to mask genuine concern. "More than usual, I mean."
"Always the charmer, Torres," Kasper replied, the ghost of a smile briefly crossing his features. "Your wife must wake up grateful every day."
"Bold of you to assume anyone would marry him," Moreno laughed. "His neural targeting system is the only thing that puts up with him for more than an hour."
"Unlike your revolving door of 'tactical consultants,'" Torres shot back, making air quotes with his fingers. "That dancer from Sector Six still sending you invoices?"
"She was a legitimate informant!" Moreno protested, though his enhancement ports cycled amusement patterns. "With very valuable... assets."
"Children," Vega interrupted, though his own enhancement ports betrayed his amusement. "We have an operation to prepare for, or did you forget while obsessing over Moreno's love life?"
"Lack thereof," Torres muttered, but returned his attention to the tactical display.
Kasper watched this exchange with silent assessment, the silver tracery beneath his skin pulsing in complex patterns. Something had changed during his absence—their usual operational banter carrying new undercurrents of protective concern.
"Report," he said finally, accessing the tactical display with a gesture that sent silver patterns flaring along his arm.
"Eight primary targets identified," Diaz responded immediately, fingers expanding data clusters in the holographic interface. "Montoya's distribution network centralized through three main hubs. Aerial reconnaissance shows military-grade defenses, approximately seventy enhanced guards spread across locations."
Torres stepped forward, neural targeting systems interfacing with the display. "Strike teams prepping for coordinated assault. Rivera's approved military support for primary locations." His eyes flicked briefly to Kasper before returning to the display. "Full tactical authorization for elimination of resistance."
"Political landscape's shifting," Vega observed. "Three months ago, Rivera wouldn't have touched these operations directly. Too much blowback risk."
"That was before El Asesino became a household name," Moreno pointed out, spinning a tactical marker between his fingers like a coin trick. "You're practically a folk hero in some districts. People are painting your symbol on their doors, for fuck's sake."
"I don't have a symbol," Kasper said, frowning.
The team exchanged glances, enhancement ports cycling various patterns of disbelief.
"You... haven't seen it?" Diaz asked hesitantly.
"Seen what?"
Moreno pulled up an image on his personal interface—a stylized representation of a silver void with tendrils reaching outward, reminiscent of the tracery patterns beneath Kasper's skin.
"They're calling it the void mark," Torres explained, uncharacteristic seriousness in his tone. "Cartel enforcers won't enter buildings that display it. They think it... marks you for death."
"Or protection," Vega added quietly. "Depending which side you're on."
Kasper stared at the symbol, silver patterns beneath his skin pulsing with unexpected response. "They shouldn't do that."
"Tell that to the neighborhoods where cartel presence has dropped sixty percent," Diaz said, fingers never stopping their dance through data streams. "Districts that couldn't get Association protection are using it as deterrence. And it's working."
"It's not just tactical anymore," Vega explained, studying Kasper with careful assessment. "It's become something else. Something people need."
"Hope," Moreno said simply, the uncharacteristic gravity in his voice drawing everyone's attention. He shrugged at their surprise. "What? I talk to people. Real people, not just tactical assets and enhancement technicians. They're starting to believe things can change."
Kasper absorbed this information, the silver tracery beneath his skin pulsing in complex patterns. "Team assignments for today's operation?"
"We're taking the northeastern facility," Vega answered, rising to his full height. His enhancement ports cycled combat readiness. "Primary team, full tactical authorization."
"Chen approved this?" Kasper asked, surprise evident in his voice.
The team exchanged glances, enhancement ports cycling various patterns of conspiracy.
"Not exactly," Diaz admitted with a wince. "She wanted to assign us to the southern distribution hub. Lower risk profile, given recent... events."
"Vega threatened to request permanent reassignment to administrative duties," Moreno grinned, clearly delighted by the memory. "Said he'd personally reorganize the entire evidence archive by hand. Alphabetically."
"The look on her face," Torres added, a rare full smile breaking through his professional demeanor. "I thought she was going to short-circuit right there."
"We don't leave the children," Vega said simply. "Not again. Not after Sector Nine."
The mention of their previous failed extraction—where they'd arrived too late to save the youngest victims—hung heavily in the room. Kasper nodded once, understanding the loyalty beneath their operational banter.
"What aren't you telling me about this facility?" he asked, silver tracery pulsing as his adaptations detected subtle stress patterns in his team's enhancement signatures.
Another exchange of glances, more serious this time.
"Intelligence suggests it's not just standard processing," Torres said finally, neural targeting systems cycling discomfort patterns. "The enhancement implementations are... different. Advanced."
"Different how?" Kasper pressed, silver patterns flaring visibly at his wrist.
"Neural architecture beyond current parameters," Diaz explained, pulling up classified imagery on the tactical display. "The children show enhancement integration unlike standard harvesting protocols. Almost as if..."
"As if they're being prepared for something specific," Vega finished, enhancement ports cycling concern patterns. "Something beyond normal cartel operations."
The silver tracery beneath Kasper's skin pulsed with barely controlled response. "The cyberlitch."
No one contradicted him. The boogeyman of enhancement technology—the mysterious figure behind the most advanced and horrific applications—had been a shadow in their operations for years. Never confirmed, never captured, but always suspected.
"If it is him," Moreno said, uncharacteristically serious, "we'll need more than standard tactics. Last team that went up against his tech directly came back in body bags. What was left of them, anyway."
"We'll adapt," Kasper replied, silver patterns spreading visibly across his hand as he accessed deeper layers of the tactical display. "Full equipment check. Enhanced ammunition authorized for primary targets. Departure in thirty minutes."
For a moment, he saw his old team superimposed over the new—Ghost's strategic confidence in Vega's posture, Circuit's technological brilliance echoed in Diaz's movements, Scope's precision mirrored in Torres' calculations, and Ramirez's steadfast loyalty reflected in Moreno's casual bravery. The silver tracery beneath his skin pulsed with pain-memory before he forced the images away. This team was different. Alive. He intended to keep them that way.
As the team dispersed to prepare, Vega remained, enhancement ports cycling private communication frequencies. "Kasper," he said quietly. "About Los Sueños—"
"Already handled," Kasper interrupted, silver tracery briefly visible at his throat. "Won't affect operational readiness."
"That's not why I brought it up," Vega countered, massive arms crossing over his chest. "Torres hacked into Chen's surveillance network. Saw the medical readouts from when we brought you in. Your biometrics were... concerning."
"Torres hack something? I'm shocked."
"I'm serious," Vega insisted, uncharacteristic worry evident despite his controlled demeanor. "Whatever's happening with these adaptations, they're accelerating. Dr. Varela's report indicated potential neural restructuring. That's not just physical evolution anymore."
The silver patterns beneath Kasper's skin pulsed once, sharply. "Your point?"
"My point is we're about to walk into what might be the cyberlitch's playground, and our commander is undergoing unprecedented biological adaptation that no one fully understands." Vega's enhancement ports cycled frustration patterns. "It's not just tactical concern, Kasper. It's—"
"What?" Kasper challenged, turning to face him directly. "Say it."
Vega hesitated, then plunged ahead. "It's fear. That whatever's happening to you might be connected to what we're about to face. That it might not be random mutation or enhancement rejection or whatever bullshit explanation the medical team's offering this week." His massive frame seemed to deflate slightly. "That we might lose you to it, one way or another."
The vulnerability in the admission—from a man who rarely acknowledged personal concerns over tactical necessities—struck Kasper unexpectedly. The silver tracery beneath his skin settled into quieter pulses.
"You won't lose me," he said finally, the promise uncharacteristically direct.
"Better not," Vega replied, professional demeanor reasserting itself. "Paperwork would be a nightmare. Not to mention Torres would be insufferable if he got promoted to team lead."
"I heard that!" Torres called from across the room, neural targeting systems apparently including enhanced audio capabilities.
"You were meant to!" Vega shouted back.
The familiar rhythm of their banter resumed, but something had shifted beneath it—an acknowledgment of bonds that transcended operational parameters or tactical necessity.
The Association armory hummed with pre-operation activity, enhancement technicians calibrating equipment with practiced precision. Santos moved among them like a conductor, his experienced hands checking each weapon personally despite automated verification systems. As Costa del Sol's head of national security, Santos had authority that transcended even Association protocols—coordinating military, police, and intelligence operations across the entire country. Yet he still preferred hands-on involvement with the teams he considered most crucial.
"The man, the myth, the walking enhancement violation," Santos called as Kasper entered, using the teasing familiarity that came with being one of the few people who had known Kasper before he became El Asesino del Vacío. "Come to make sure we haven't sabotaged your team's equipment out of spite?"
"Would you blame me if I did?" Kasper countered, approaching the long workbench where Santos was calibrating a modified MAB 38.
"After the stunt you pulled in Sector Seven? Leaving my best technician tied to a lamppost in his underwear?" Santos grinned, the expression crinkling his weather-beaten face. "Not at all. Man had nightmares for a week."
"He was selling enhancement components to cartel suppliers," Kasper replied, though the ghost of a smile softened his words. "He was lucky I didn't leave him with something worse than nightmares."
"Fair enough," Santos conceded, running practiced hands over the weapon's action. "Still could have come to me first. I'd have skinned him myself."
"Where's the fun in that?"
Santos chuckled, the sound warm with genuine affection despite Kasper's fearsome reputation. He dismissed the other technicians with a gesture, waiting until they were alone before speaking again.
"So," he said, setting aside the MAB 38 and leaning against the workbench. "Northeastern facility."
"You've heard."
"Hard not to. Half the Association's mobilizing for this operation. Rivera's pulled out all the stops." Santos studied him with the assessment of someone who had known him since his first days at the academy. "You ready for what you might find in there?"
The silver tracery pulsed beneath Kasper's tactical gear. "You know something."
It wasn't a question. Santos sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. "The children aren't just being processed for standard enhancements. The integration patterns are... experimental. Targeting neural architecture rather than physical capability."
"Control rather than combat," Kasper interpreted, silver patterns flaring momentarily at his neck.
"Exactly. Whatever's happening in there, it's not just about harvesting enhancement components. It's about creating something new." Santos moved to a reinforced case, entering security codes with practiced efficiency. "That's why I wanted to give you these personally."
The case opened to reveal specialized ammunition—unlike the standard rounds used in Association operations. These gleamed with an inner phosphorescence that suggested technological sophistication beyond normal combat parameters.
"Prototype disruption rounds," Santos explained, lifting one for Kasper's inspection. "Designed specifically to target advanced neural enhancement systems. Theoretically, they could sever the connection between control implementation and response architecture."
"Theoretically?"
"Never been field tested," Santos admitted. "Been developing them based on what little we know about the cyberlitch's technology. After Sector Nine, after what happened to those children..." He trailed off, uncharacteristic emotion briefly visible. "Let's just say I've been working overtime."
Kasper took the round, silver tracery beneath his skin responding to the technology enclosed within the brass casing. "Side effects?"
"On normal enhancement implementations? Total neural shutdown. Probably fatal." Santos's expression hardened. "On whatever those kids have been subjected to? Unknown. But it might be their only chance."
The silver patterns beneath Kasper's skin pulsed with complex response. "Rivera authorized this?"
"Rivera doesn't know," Santos replied, closing the case and engaging security protocols. "These are off-books. Personal project."
"Why?" Kasper asked, studying the older man with new assessment. "This type of unauthorized development could cost you everything. Your position, your pension—"
"Some things matter more than retirement plans," Santos interrupted, uncharacteristic intensity in his voice. "After forty years in this organization, I've seen what happens when we stick to protocols while evil men break every rule. Sometimes the rules need breaking."
The sentiment resonated with something in Kasper's evolving physiology, silver tracery pulsing with acknowledgment beneath his tactical gear.
"Besides," Santos added, his usual good humor returning, "someone's got to keep you lunatics equipped for whatever crazy stunts you pull next. Might as well be me." His expression sobered. "Reminds me of the files I've read about your brother. From what I've seen in the reports, Javier's missions always succeeded despite 'unexpected tactical adjustments'—the official term for breaking protocol."
The mention of his brother sent silver tracery flaring briefly along Kasper's neck. "Javier followed protocols. It's what got him killed."
"Is that what you think?" Santos asked, studying him carefully. "I've been head of national security long enough to recognize the difference between what's in official reports and what actually happened in the field. Your brother's mission records show someone who found creative solutions, just more quietly than you do." His weathered hand rested briefly on Kasper's shoulder—a paternal gesture few would dare. "From everything I've seen, he'd be proud of you. Worried sick, but proud."
The simple statement struck deeper than tactical assessment or operational parameters. Kasper nodded once, acknowledgment of an emotional truth he rarely allowed himself to recognize.
As he turned to leave with the specialized ammunition secured, Santos called after him. "Kasper." Something in his tone made the younger man pause. "I've got a bad feeling about this one. Been in this business too long not to recognize the signs."
"What signs?"
"It's too perfect," Santos explained, enhancement ports cycling concern patterns despite his casual demeanor. "Eight simultaneous targets. Coordinated military support. Full tactical authorization. The kind of operation career hunters dream about." He shook his head. "In my experience, when something looks too good to be true, it usually is."
"You think it's a trap?" Kasper asked, silver tracery flaring briefly at his wrist.
"I think Montoya's been one step ahead of us for years. I think the cyberlitch, if he exists, hasn't survived this long by being predictable." Santos met his gaze directly. "And I think you've become too valuable a symbol to ignore. The void remembers—but so do your enemies."
The warning resonated with something Kasper had felt since waking—a primal awareness of danger that transcended tactical assessment or operational parameters. The silver patterns beneath his skin pulsed with increasing frequency.
"Watch your team's backs in there," Santos said, the simple directive carrying weight beyond professional concern. "And watch your own. Whatever's changing in you..." He gestured toward where silver tracery occasionally became visible through Kasper's tactical clothing. "It makes you effective, but it also makes you a target."
"I'm always a target," Kasper replied with grim humor. "Comes with the reputation."
"This is different," Santos insisted. "This feels personal, like someone's been waiting. Planning." His hand gripped Kasper's arm with unexpected strength. "Like what happened to Sarah. Someone who knows you better than you think."
The mention of Sarah—in connection with current danger rather than past trauma—sent silver tracery flaring visibly across Kasper's face before he could control it. "You think the cyberlitch has infiltrated our systems? Knows our operational parameters?"
"I think caution kept me alive for forty years in this business." Santos released his grip. "Take nothing at face value in there. Trust your instincts, not just tactical assessment."
As Kasper rejoined his team for final briefing, Santos's warning echoed in his thoughts. The silver patterns beneath his skin continued their complex pulse, responding to some danger his conscious mind couldn't yet identify.
The void remembers.
And something else remembered too—something waiting in the northeastern facility, patient and methodical as only the truly monstrous can be. Something that had been preparing for El Asesino del Vacío long before the name became legend in Costa del Sol's war-torn districts.
The board was set. The pieces positioned. And somewhere beyond tactical assessment or operational planning, the trap was ready to spring.