Neon Remnant

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of scorched metal. Jagged remnants of the underground lab jutted from the crater like the bones of a massive, slain beast. The Strix Marauders moved in disciplined silence, their dark armor blending into the charred ruins. The leader, a grizzled veteran named Valka Solholm, stood tall amidst the smoldering ruins, her imposing frame clad in battle-worn black armor with crimson accents. Scars marred the exposed portions of her weathered face, and her sharp, calculating eyes glowed beneath the sleek visor of her helmet. She swept her scanner across the wreckage, searching for any signs of life. Her HUD flickered with heat signatures—none organic.
"Nothing," one of his scouts reported, voice crackling through the comms. "Whatever was down there, it's gone."
Valka's lips twisted into a grimace, the lines of past battles etched deeper as she processed the magnitude of the destruction. She knelt, brushing a gloved hand over the blackened ground, feeling the residual warmth still radiating from the explosion's epicenter. Her fingers tightened into a fist, the sensation of fine ash slipping through her gauntlet only fueling her frustration.
"Fan out. Check for any remains. If there's even a scrap of that system left, we need to find it."
The mercenaries spread through the rubble with military precision, picking through shattered consoles and half-melted machinery. The weight of failure pressed on them—this wasn't just another job gone wrong. The Iron Fang wouldn't take this lightly.
A sharp beep interrupted the silence in Valka's helmet. One of the scanners had picked up something faint—too faint to be a mere energy residue. Jex, one of her more stubborn mercenaries, stiffened as he checked his own readings.
"Commander," Jex's voice was urgent. "I'm getting something—faint life signs under that mountain of rubble. Could be nothing, but if it's him—"
Valka exhaled sharply, weighing the risk. DreamCorp wouldn't let this go. Reinforcements could already be inbound, and staying any longer was pushing their luck.
"No," she said firmly. "We're pulling out. If he's alive, the debris will finish him off. We stay, we risk getting caught in something bigger than we signed up for. Move out. Now."
Jex hesitated, clenching his fists. "We're really just gonna leave like this? What if—"
"That's an order, Jex!" Valka snapped, her patience thinning. "Now fall in, or stay here and die when DreamCorp sweeps the place. Your call."
Jex let out a frustrated breath but obeyed. The Marauders withdrew in practiced formation, disappearing into the smoke just as shadows from incoming aircraft began to stretch across the ruins.
 
***DreamCorp - Inner sanctom***
Director Asmund Kren's office was dim, the glow of the city beyond his windows casting long shadows across his desk. His fingers drummed against the polished surface as he listened to the report.
"Destroyed?" His voice was dangerously quiet, though his grip on his pen tightened until his knuckles turned white.
"Yes, sir," came the nervous reply from the other end of the call. "The explosion was… huge. The lab is gone, along with everyone inside. No survivors. No retrieval."
Kren's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together. His throat was dry. This was his second failure in less than a month. First, the prototype had been stolen. Now, the recovery team was obliterated. The higher-ups would be furious, and fury from those in power often came with consequences. Consequences he wont be able to handle.
He pushed himself back in his chair, running a hand through his thinning hair. The air in the office suddenly felt too thick, the walls pressing in as if waiting for the inevitable reprimand. His mind raced through possible excuses, plausible deniability, anything to shift the blame elsewhere.
He took a slow breath. He had to get ahead of this before they decided he was more of a liability than an asset. Failure wasn't tolerated, and he had already tested their patience once before. Twice? That was a death sentence.
"Prepare a statement," he said, his voice steadier now, colder. "Spin this. I don't care how. Just make sure when the board hears about it, I'm not the one they blame."
His fingers drummed faster against the desk, an erratic rhythm betraying his outward composure. He swallowed, his throat dry, as he imagined the consequences—demotion at best, a quiet disappearance at worst. The board was not known for their forgiveness. He flexed his fingers, trying to shake the stiffness from them, but his hands felt cold, numb.
He tapped his fingers against the desk again, but this time, it wasn't out of frustration. It was fear.
 
The slums had never been silent, not even in the dead of night. But as the shockwave rippled through the streets, an unnatural hush fell over the junkyard. The gangsters surrounding it—brash, violent men who had once jeered and taunted—were now retreating, some scrambling over each other in their desperation to flee. Fear had settled into their bones, replacing bravado with something far more primal.
Serik watched them go, his expression unreadable. Unlike his subordinates, he didn't flinch at the explosion. He simply stood there, letting the glow of the distant inferno reflect in his cold, calculating eyes.
"So," he muttered under his breath, "the old man played his final hand."
His fingers tightened around the grip of his weapon. This wasn't over—not by a long shot. His expression darkened, anger seething just beneath the surface. He turned toward his men, his voice cutting through the tense air like a blade.
"I want to see that rats body. With my own eyes," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "If that rat somehow crawled out of this alive, I'll make sure he doesn't stay that way. And if any of you fail me again—" he let the words hang, letting the weight of his fury settle on them.
The gangsters hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances, but the unspoken threat was enough to send them scurrying. They spread out, combing through the debris, looking for any sign of Sol's corpse. Serik remained where he stood, eyes never leaving the destruction ahead, his grip tightening around his weapon.
He wouldn't leave until he was sure. One way or another, Sol was his to claim.