Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun is setting, casting long shadows across the cracked road that snakes through a scorched, windblown desert. Heat shimmers off the asphalt like ghosts escaping the earth.

Riding fast is a lone figure on a Harley-Davidson Fat Bob, its engine growling. Each thrum echoes through the empty land, swallowed quickly by the wind. 

A fur-lined collar encircles his neck the kind meant to weather alpine winds and brutal nightwatch duties. Draped over his shoulders, a dark-blue cloak snapping at the ends as the Harley rides down the road. The inside is marked with a subtle white leaf insignia—a hunter’s emblem, stitched carefully. On his left forearm, curled, rests a compact, sleek owl-shaped drone—its optic flickering.

Strapped to his right thigh, an angular quiver of custom radianite shock-bolts glows faintly, their points humming with restrained voltage. Folded tactical compound bow rests diagonally across his back: polished limbs, compressed power cells, and reactive energy nodes stitched with markings.
Slung over his left shoulder, a Operator sniper rifle, weathered from combat and marked with a tally near the scope—probably a count of something.

His gloved hands grip the handlebars with a predator’s patience. Under the helmet, a blue bionic eye occasionally glows, scanning for heat signatures.
 His long blond hair, tied back, flicks and dances with every gust.

 The rider doesn’t waver, his silhouette still sharp against the dying sun.

Then—subtly at first—the air flickers.

Click.

His gloved finger taps a discreet button nestled beside the throttle. Instantly, the world around him shudders, and then—

Reality peels away.

The desert road ahead flickers like a projection. The bike dives through it, vanishing mid-stride.

For a second, everything is dark. Then—

On the other side of the cloaking field is an entirely different world.

A massive futuristic military compound, carved into the heart of the desert like a fortress. The air here is heavy with steam and heat shimmer, escaping from wide vents running along the building’s perimeter. Floodlights sweep across the sand like eyes.VTOLs shriek across the sky, one taking off now. Above, drones sweep silently, tracking all movement.

Rows of defence turrets scan lazily, never off, just waiting. High atop the building’s VALORANT Protocol insignia is etched in steel.
The Harley glides onto a sleek black road, clearly synthetic—carbon-infused rad-polymer, probably heat-reactive. It makes no sound against the tires.

The bike slows.

The rider reaches the main gate. A thick intercom panel comes out of the side.

INTERCOM:
 (automated, filtered through static)

“Welcome, Agent. State your access code.”

For the first time, the rider speaks.

His voice is deep, carved in a Russian edge. A thick Murmansk accent cuts through like cold steel.

“Код: Hunter VA6.”
 (Code: Hunter VA6.)
 “Сова дома.”
 (Sova doma... The owl is home.)

The intercom chirps once, then falls silent.

“Welcome, Agent Six. Sasha Novikov. Sova.”

With a pressurised hiss, the steel gates part. Ahead, the smooth black road begins to descend, folding downward. Panels retract as the Harley glides onto the falling ramp, dropping silently into a tunnel.

No lights. No sound, just the low hum of the bike's engine. 

Then, sudden light.

The darkness breaks open into a vast underground parking facility—massive, reinforced concrete arches stretch across the roof, lined with blue-white halogens that turn on as motion sensors catch the bike.

To the left:

A Kaneda bike, painted a sleek electric blue with orange strips, looks like a futuristic bike from a Japanese bikers gang.

 To the right:
A Harley-Davidson Street 750, olive military green, leather saddle bags, engine still warm, the one you would see a veteran driving.

 Next to it:
A Royal Enfield Classic, black with gold trim, badge of a foreign regiment on its tank, looks something straight out of a Bollywood movie.

Sova steers his Fat bob into the open spot beside them.

A young soldier approaches from the far corridor, stepping with practised urgency. A slim rifle slung over the shoulder. Stops, heels click.

SOLDIER:

“Agent KA087 reporting, sir.”

Sova doesn’t respond immediately.

He calmly pulls off his helmet, and with it, a cascade of white-gold hair tumbles free. His expression is unreadable. 

He tosses the helmet and keys toward the soldier in one smooth motion.

SOVA:

“Take good care of it.”

The soldier catches both, straightens.

Sova reaches back, adjusts the Operator slung across his shoulder. Without another word, he walks toward the lifts at the far end of the garage. The doors sense him. Begin to open.

The doors shut with a clang, sealing Sova inside .He reaches out, presses a button.The lift hums upward.

In the mirror-polished metal of the cabin walls, his reflection stares back—stoic, weathered. He turns slowly, facing the side wall.

EXT. COURTYARD – THROUGH GLASS VIEW – CONTINUOUS

As the elevator rises, the internal structure of the facility reveals itself through glass-panelled walls—each floor a glimpse into another part of the machine.

One level below, the courtyard training ground is alive with motion. Soldiers and agents spar under floodlights. Brimstone stands tall at the centre, barking commands, his beret slightly askew. His mouth moves sharply, but in the silence of the lift, his voice doesn’t reach. Just the image of command. Authority embodied.

Next floor up—

RESEARCH & DEVELOPMENT SECTOR

The lights shift—brighter, clinical, with clean white tiling and glass chambers filled with prototypes, weapons, gear.

Inside one bay, Raze stands over a workbench surrounded by glowing components. She adjusts something on a rifle-like device—presses a button—

BOOM!

A jet of neon-pink paint explodes, splattering across the ceiling and nearby equipment. Sparks fly. Soldiers duck behind blast shields.

Raze yells with glee, grabbing a satchel charge from her hip and flipping backwards away from the chaos.

RAZE (LAUGHING):
 “That’s why we test, baby!”

The soldiers groan from behind the shields. One of them coughs, now painted green.

Inside the lift, Sova watches the display through the glass panel.

He exhales lightly through his nose. A smile breaks the edge of his lips as the lift climbs up.

“Дети.”
 (Kids.)

The lights inside the elevator soften—cooler, warmer tones begin to bathe the cabin as the harsh steel-and-glass aesthetic of the lower floors fades behind.

Through the clear side panels of the lift, the next floor appears—a space seemingly untouched by war or tech. A lush garden, built within the heart of the facility.

EXT. TERRACE GARDEN – THROUGH GLASS – CONTINUOUS

The sun lamps mimic dawn light. Pine bonsai, bamboo stalks, and greenery breathe life into the space.

Sage, poised like a statue in flowing training robes, balances calmly in a perfect Yin-Yang stance—arms slow, breath steady. Beside her stands Omen, head slightly tilted, arms mimicking the movement in a jagged, stiff form.

He stumbles.

SAGE (softly laughing):
 “No, no, like this. You're doing the Yang part twice.”

Omen grumbles wordlessly. His form glides—still wrong, but oddly graceful.

On a nearby bench, Gekko and Iso relax, bobba teas in hand, nodding along to a mellow synth beat playing through a music orb carried by Wingman. The little guy sways side to side, speaker thumping tiny bass lines.

GEKKO:
 “You feel that? That’s the beat drop right there, challe.”

ISO (casually):
 “Not bad. Could use some lofi.”

They bump fists. Wingman gurgles in agreement.

The elevator ascends once more.

DING.

The doors open—not to chrome. Not to steal.

But to a narrow hallway, like from an old apartment block in Leningrad, warmth and wear in every detail. Wooden flooring, aged but clean. A patterned carpet, faded and familiar. Walls painted off-white, corners slightly cracked. Warm yellow lighting hums from hanging bulbs in brass sconces.

This place doesn’t belong here.
 And yet—it is home.

DOORS LINE BOTH SIDES, each marked with numbers—but their true identity comes from what’s around them:

Room 201 – Jett’s Quarters

Multiple kunai scar the frame and nearby wall—quick jabs, shallow but precise. A faint draft of wind brushes past the floor as you walk by.

Room 202 – Phoenix’s Quarters

A golden crown sticker slapped over the number. Faint hip-hop and guitar riffs boom inside: “Oi—turn that up!”A worn hoodie sleeve is caught in the door hinge.

Room 203 – Vyse’s room

The entire door frame is veiled in coiling metallic vines, twitching faintly. A metallic rose blooms from the centre, petals glowing with faint pink-yellow refracted light. Anyone standing close can hear soft breathing, like the door itself is alive.

Room 204 – Killjoy’s Quarters

A mounted whiteboard reads:
 “KJ was here” — scratched out — “No, she wasn’t.”
Sticky notes with formulas stuck along the door edge.
A screw lies on the floor like it crawled out and gave up.

Room 205 – Raze’s Quarters

Door painted with graffiti-style neon shapes—“KABOOM” in huge looping letters. Burn marks near the hinges. A smell of burnt ozone and sugar candy leaks out.

Room 206 – Astra’s Quarters

The door swirls with a galactic purple haze, like a nebula caught in motion.

A hand-painted message reads:
 “You’re cool chale ✨”

Tiny cosmic decals shift when looked at directly.

Room 207 – Clove’s Quarters

A wooden plaque with letters:
 “DO NOT DISTURB – D&D IN SESSION”

From inside: “NAT TWENTY!”

Something hits a table. Dice clatter. Someone curses.

Sage’s door has a single white flower wreath and a faint incense scent.

Skye’s door is wrapped with hanging plants and wood-carved wind chimes.

Fade’s door is scratched and marked with tally notches. A Nazar (evil eye) dangles from the knob.

Deadlock’s door bears military insignia and a rack of clean boots.

Finally—Room 209.

Sova’s door.

A solid oak door, stained dark, aged well. On the front:

A hand-carved owl symbol, 

Beneath it, burned into the wood:

 “VA06”

Hanging from the handle: a small owl buddy charm, its eyes glowing dim blue..Sova steps forward. He places one hand on the door.

“Домой.”
 (Domoy... Home.)

He opens the door and steps inside.

Chapter Text

The door creaks open, and a gust of cold air brushes out. The room smells of cold wood, gun oil, and something vaguely like pine. Sova steps in, the click of the lock echoes behind him.

The room is a seamless fusion of military efficiency and wilderness—minimalist, organized with precision, yet unmistakably home.

Walls are paneled with aged pinewood, hand-stained, bearing marks of time.A realistic digital window projection playing a loop of a snow-covered tundra.A bearskin rug sprawls across the wooden floor. Mounted deer heads flank the window.In one corner, a simple stove replica emits soft flame mimicking a lost memeory.Just  in front of the door hugging the wall ,is  a heavy oak workbench, worn smooth by years of use.A partially disassembled owl drone lies on a blueprint mat, circuitry exposed.Above the bench, a shelf lined with arrow shafts and radianite capsules, each tagged and aligned with care. Hooks hold strings, stabilizers—components waiting to become a part of his arsenal.

He reaches over his shoulder and unslings the bow and places it with reverence on a custom wooden stand just above the desk.

The Operator is released from his shoulder flipped down, and mounted vertically onto the nearby gun rack. 

Then from his right thigh, he pulls the Sheriff— Glossy blue finish with silver accents along the cylinder, an engraved owl emblem on the grip. He checks the chamber, engaging the safety and slots it into the desk’s drawer.

With a tired breath, he undoes the clasp at his shoulder, letting the cloak fall f. He folds it carefully, lays it on the edge of the single wood frame bed, tucking it in with disciplined hands.

Buzz.
Buzz.
BUZZ.

His responder glows faintly on the desk.

Message Received: [ENCRYPTED – C]

Sova taps the screen.

AUDIO MESSAGE – PLAYS

A familiar voice crackles to life—low, smooth, layered with amusement.

CYPHER (voice-only, smug):
“Ah… Sova, my measured friend. If you’re hearing this message—then you’ve returned. Or…”
(mock serious)
“It’s Killjoy again, snooping through your room. KJ, if this is you—let me remind you, you are not cleared for this channel, and I am already drafting the paperwork for a strongly-worded complaint. Again.”

Brief pause. A click. Then the tone shifts, more serious.

“Now… assuming you’re the right set of ears—there’s a signal in one of Hourglass’s buried subsystems. Deep. Not your average ‘plug-and-play’ Kingdom mess.”
“Actively rerouting itself, like it knows I’m watching.”
(a faint chuckle)
“It’s clever. Too clever. I could use your eyes.”
“Meet me in Server Room. Ten sharp.”
“Cypher out.”

Beep.

Sova doesn’t speak. He just moves—methodically.

The room is quiet save for the soft hiss of the shower, steam curling out over the frost-lined mirror. As the mist thickens, his form becomes clearer—bare, scar-laced, the product of survival in cold and war. His body is toned, precision-hardened rather than bulked. His skin is pale, under the water, but not sickly—just conditioned by years of tundra air and shadow hunts.

Every scar on his body tells a different story:

A long ridge across his right oblique—clearly a blade. Three small punctures on his left shoulder—a radianite explosion, perhaps. A burn spiraling near his hip—an encounter too close to a shock-core detonation. The oldest one, a faded slash across his back, jagged and ragged—earned in silence, and never spoken of. His right arm, sculpted and firm, clearly bears the burden of a thousand pulled arrows. The musculature along the deltoid and forearm is dense—power married to discipline. He leans forward slightly, water trailing down his spine, as he lathers and washes his long, silver-blonde hair, fingers combing through the locks with rhythmic ease.

After rinsing, he lifts a black cord from a side hook and, with practiced movement, gathers his hair and ties it back into a low knot, neat and functional. The hair tie clicks into place. Cold, sharp.

INT. BEDROOM – MOMENTS LATER

He walks out of the steam, toweling down as he moves through the room. With ease, he pulls on a tight dark-blue t-shirt, clinging to his defined frame, and a pair of black joggers, flexible.

He walks to the desk, picks up the responder, unlocking it with a fingerprint scan. A quiet chime follows as several new messages flick up—one from Sage, another from Brim. He scrolls lazily as he exits his room.

Sova steps into the hallway. The corridor buzzes faintly with life.

Just as he nears Room 202—

DOOR SWINGS OPEN.
Phoenix steps out, pulling his jacket on with one arm, the other holding a half-bitten sandwich. His eyes light up.

PHOENIX:
“Yo! Hunter! What’s crackin’? You finish stompin’ out the ghosties or what?”

Sova halts, turns slightly, offering a subtle, amused smile.

SOVA:
“Phoenix. Good to see you… as energetic as always.”

Phoenix grins and throws a arm around Sova’s shoulder, walking alongside him like they’ve done it a hundred times.

PHOENIX:
“C’mon, bro. I live energetic. Gotta keep this fire burning, yeah? Anyway, rumor is—Jett whipped up a fresh cake. Chocolate matcha thing. This king?”
(taps his chest)
“Is ‘bout to eat like royalty fam.”

SOVA (smirking):
“Of course, friend. After all—kings eat grand, don’t  they?”

Phoenix laughs, bumping into him playfully.

PHOENIX:
“Ayy, that’s what I’m talkin’ about! My cold-hearted tracker’s getting the hang of smooth talk.”

They reach the lift. The doors open with a soft ding, and they step inside.

PHOENIX (as doors close):
“Yo, you see Raze nearly take KJ’s eyebrows off earlier? Man, I swear that girl’s one fuse short of a fireworks festival…”

SOVA:
“I saw. Deti... explosive as always.”

PHOENIX (snapping fingers):
“Exactly! Bet you fifty creds she blows something up before dinner.”

SOVA (dry):
“Only fifty? You’re getting generous.”

The lift doors open with a hiss, revealing the beating heart of Protocol. The cafeteria buzzes with activity—not just the clatter of cutlery o, but the laughter, debates, and lives of agents living between.

The space is wide and modular: sleek tables, some circular, some long and communal. Screens flicker in corners with news, sports replays, and anime reruns.

At a round table covered in dice, character sheets, and snack wrappers, Clove is mid-rant—leaning over the table, arms wide, dramatic, eyes blazing with passion.

CLOVE:
“Triple twenties don’t count if you're cursed by a gnome, Killjoy! That’s basic arcane interference. Your luck stat was hexed!”

Killjoy , sitting cross-legged on the bench, arms folded with her jacket sleeves half-rolled, glares with mock offense.

KILLJOY:
“Excuse me, but a gnome curse only affects natural misfortune rolls. Triple twenties override any status. Read the compendium!”
(waves a sticky page of the rulebook)

CLOVE (dead serious):
“No amount of triple rolls cancels a gnome with a grudge, luv. Gnome rage is cosmic.”

A loud snort-laugh bursts from Fade a few seats down, sipping coffee as she watches.

FADE (dryly):
“This is what saves the world, huh? Dice battles and grudge gnomes.”

Two couches face an old CRT TV, flickering with pixels. On-screen: a classic fighting game, Brimstone versus Gekko, health bars red and blinking. The volume is just loud enough to hear the announcer shout, “FIGHT!”

Brimstone , reclined, legs crossed, wearing a relaxed black tee and sweatpants, plays with an ancient, duct-taped controller, thumbs moving slow, precise. His face is unreadable, save for the tiniest smirk beneath his beard.

Gekko , hunched forward, eyes wild, fights with every ounce of energy—his fingers mashing combos, beads of sweat rolling down his temple.

Wingman buzzes beside him, standing on a stool, flapping a tiny paper hand fan at Gekko’s face.

KAY/O (standing behind, arms crossed):
“I have calculated that Brimstone has a 91.2% win rate. Your odds are unfavourable, Gekko.”

GEKKO (button-mashing):
“I got this! I just need to—NO—WAIT—BLOCK—NOOO!”

The screen flashes: K.O.

He jumps up, throws his controller down with dramatic frustration.

GEKKO:
“HOW?! That combo wasn’t even in the guide, old man!”

Brimstone , without looking up, reaches for his coffee.

BRIMSTONE:
“Son, some things you just can’t teach. And some—”
(grins, takes a slow sip)
“—you earn by growing a beard and wrecking dreams.”

On a central counter, two duos are in motion.

Jett , wearing an apron with “Wind Baker” in calligraphy, pipes matcha cream over a soft, chocolate sponge while Waylay hands her exact-matched berry garnish.

JETT:
“No, no—Waylay! Symmetry! You don’t just slap berries like it’s a grenade.”

WAYLAY (deadpan):
“In my country, grenades are perfectly symmetrical. Try again.”

JETT (grinning):
“You’re lucky this isn’t a spike.”

They fist-bump, berries now aligned perfectly.

Behind them at a stove, Sage stands poised, stirring a pot of thick, rich curry that fills the air with warmth and spice.

Iso , sleeves rolled, holds a spoon to his lips—eyes closed like a food critic.

ISO:
“...Bold. Complex. A touch more saffron and this could end wars.”

SAGE (smirking):
“Good thing…I prepared enough.”

As Sova and Phoenix step into the cafeteria, the smell of curry, sugar greets them.

PHOENIX (sniffing):
“Damn this place smells like treat!”

SOVA (low and amused):
“I see they’ve raised morale levels.”

PHOENIX:
“Let’s eat before Sage decides we need balance and feeds us lettuce.”

Phoenix strides toward the counter, grinning ear-to-ear, eyeing the cake like it’s the crown jewel of queen.

PHOENIX (to Jett, dramatically):
“Make way !—His Highness needs his ceremonial first slice.”

JETT (rolling her eyes):
“If you smear frosting on your face again, I’m never baking for you again.”

PHOENIX (already biting):
“Too late! Your cake has my soul now.”

As laughter follows Phoenix, Sova drifts away from the group. He steps toward the gaming corner where Brimstone still lounges on the couch, the controller resting lazily in his hands.

SOVA (firm, low):
“Brim. We need to talk.”

Brim’s eyes flick upward, and he immediately understands. He nods once, tossing the controller to KAY/O, and calls out.

BRIMSTONE:
“KAY/O—don’t let me lose.”

KAY/O (stepping forward):
“KILL MODE ACTIVATED..
Just kidding.
Kill mode is always active.”

Brimstone chuckles as he pushes himself up from the couch, his knees cracking.

BRIMSTONE:
“These puppies are gonna kill me one day…”

Sova and Brimstone move toward a quiet corner , out of the noise but within the warm hum of the room. As they sit, Sova reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, pendrive.

He slides it across the table.

SOVA:
“All mission data. Plus... some logs from their systems.”

Brimstone picks it up without a word, slipping it into his wrist-comp for upload.

BRIMSTONE:
“So. How was the Cavern?”

Before Sova can respond, a blur of electricity flashes beside them—Neon arrives with two slices of cake and bowl of curry.

NEON:
“You’re not skipping again Sova.”
(hands them the slices with a grin)
“Gotta go!”

SOVA (smiling softly):
“Spasibo, Neon.” (Thank you.)

BRIMSTONE:
“Thanks, kid.”

She vanishes in a blink.

Sova takes a bite of the cake, pauses. 

SOVA:
“My Babushka used to make something like this... I don’t remember the name.”
(takes another bite, closes his eyes briefly)
“Something like... ‘sharlotka.’”
(opens eyes, calls out over the noise)
“ЭТО ОЧЕНЬ ХОРОШО! ЕЩЁ ОДИН!” (Eto ochen’ khorosho! Eshchyo odin! – This is very good! Another one!)

Jett , still at the counter, hears him and laughs.

JETT (in Korean):
“ 고마워, 스위트하트.” (Thank you, sweetheart.)

Brimstone , amused, takes a small forkful of his own.

BRIMSTONE:
“Now. The Cavern?”

SOVA:

“Just like Cypher reported. And worse.”
(leans in slightly, voice low)
“It’s not just a drop point. They’re using it as a hidden unload facility for Hourglass resources. And—”
(taps the table once)
“They have an unauthorized structure operating in the lower levels.”

Brimstone frowns, setting down his fork slowly.

BRIMSTONE:
“That’s impossible. We don’t even have that tech. Hell, not even Kingdom cracked a stable gateway. The only version we’ve seen is Omega’s.”

SOVA:
“I know. But I saw it. Functioning. Interdimensional rift signatures. Stabilized cores. They’re not reverse-engineering us… they’ve outpaced us.”

He finishes the last of his cake with a soft sigh.

SOVA:
“Recommend we let Cypher parse the raw intel. Then we send in a strike team. I don’t want them building another gate and getting a disaster on our hand .”

Brimstone nods, already pulling up his wrist HUD to flag a meeting.

BRIMSTONE:
“Alright. Check in with him. Keep me posted.”

SOVA (sits back, calm):
“Copy.”

Brimstone exhales slowly , watching the chatter and chaos of the cafeteria unfold like nothing dangerous exists outside its walls.

BRIMSTONE (muttering):
“Every time we think we’ve seen it all... they dig deeper.”

SOVA:
“Then we dig deeper still.”

The room is still buzzing. Jett refills trays, Phoenix argues with Wingman over frosting ratios, and Gekko sits defeated on the couch, nursing his pride and a soda.

Sova , having finished his dinner, stands up, balancing his empty plate as he walks through the cafeteria.

At the kitchen counter, Sage stands over a sink, calmly rinsing dishes under warm water. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbows, hair tied back neatly, the quiet elegance of her presence somehow untouched by the chaos around her.

As Sova steps up to set his plate on the rack, Sage glances sideways, offering him a soft but watchful smile.

SAGE:
“So... how was the hunt, Sova?”

SOVA (placing the plate down):
“Successful. Recovered crucial files. Brim may call for a full debrief later.”

She wipes her hands on a cloth, then leans slightly toward him, her voice gentler.

SAGE:
“Are you hurt?”
(pauses, slightly firmer)
“You’ve got a bad habit of hiding pain. That’s not good, you know.”

Sova gives the faintest of chuckles—low, but warm.

SOVA:
“Don’t worry, Sage. If there’s anyone who could fix my injuries… it’ll always be you.”

He reaches beside her, picking up two, Whiskey glasses from a stand.

Sage’s eyes narrow—not annoyed, but clearly suspicious. She tilts her head slightly, eyebrows arching with slow grace.

SAGE (half-joking, but pointed):
“Sova... tell me I’m not seeing drinking glasses in your hand.”

Sova gives a tight smile, eyes momentarily twinkling with amusement.

SOVA (calmly):
“Not at all, Sage. Just tonic glasses.”

SAGE (dry):
“Mmm. You better watch out, hunter. Thin ice isn’t visible most times... until you fall through it.”

Sova nods respectfully, as he starts to turn.

SOVA (walking away):
“Don’t worry, Sage. I always know where the cracks are.”

He heads back to lift,

Killjoy slams her forehead onto the table, groaning in defeat.

KILLJOY:
“No, no, no... That’s not how charm logic works!”

Clove , nose buried in the Dungeon Master’s tome, reads aloud with a theatrical grimace.

CLOVE:
“The Technomancer loses his turn. The Omnissiah Spirit Charm fails due to a negative modifier from Luck.”
(leans back, smirking)
“Ten steps back.”

KILLJOY (muffled into the table):

“I hate this campaign.”

Sova steps back into the lift, This time he moves with purpose.He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small key, aged and etched. On its side, in Arabic, is engraved:

 “Amir”

He exhales slowly sliding his hand just beneath the panel of elevator buttons. His fingers search until they find a nearly invisible seam in the metal. With a gentle push, a hidden panel slides open, revealing a small keyhole—completely mechanical.

SOVA (muttering to himself):
“Now… what was the code?”

He inserts the key, then twists—two clicks to the left, one to the right, three more to the left.

CLUNK.
The elevator lets out a low groan, like something ancient has awakened. A yellowish worn out button slides out slowly from the console.

Sova pulls the key free, tucks it back and presses the button.

The lights inside the elevator flicker.

Then the floor drops.

WHOOSH.

The lift descends at breakneck speed, so fast that the floor numbers blur past, glowing red digits tumbling into negative space:

B-7
B-12
B-23
B-42
B-69
B-???
███

It feels like plunging straight into the underworld, and for a moment, the elevator vibrates violently—as if breaking through something not meant to be passed.

Then—

DING.

The floor indicator reads simply:

???

The doors slide open with a long, mechanical hiss.

The light is wrong.
Fluorescent tubes flicker overhead, giving off a cold, blue-tinged hum. The walls are faded concrete, marked with paint, flaking in places. Rusty ventilation grills hum gently , and somewhere distant, the slow drip of condensation echoes.

The floor tiles are the kind you'd find in an old building—beige, dull, cracked in corners.

There's only one door at the end of the hallway.

Heavy. Steel. Locked.

Sova walks forward, each bootstep echoing unnaturally loud. The silence around him is haunting. A bead of sweat slides down the back of his neck.

He mutters under his breath.

SOVA:
“That man doesn’t like sunlight at all…”

As he reaches the end of the corridor, he raises his hand and bangs on the thick steel door.

SOVA:
“Cypher! Open the damn door! It’s burning out here.”

Above him , camoflaged against the ceiling, a camera clicks open.

CHUNG.

A security camera springs out —its arm snapping down, lens focusing, adjusting with rapid whirrs. It zooms in and out on Sova’s face.

The intercom beside the door crackles to life.

CYPHER (through intercom, smooth and wry):
“Ahh… Sova. Welcome. I was wondering how long you’d be.”

With a series of mechanical clicks, system disengages—you can hear the sound of tripwire deactivating.

The door handle twitches.

Sova grabs it, pulls, and steps int.

Darkness. Cables. Machinery. Secrets.

The room is congested , walled entirely in massive server towers, each humming. Red and blue LED lights blink in rhythms, some steady, some alive with data surges. Thick wires run overhead , snaking through the ceiling and walls, connecting every device to the heart of this sanctum.

At the center stands a command terminal, its curved wall of monitors forming a semi-circle around a lone figure.

The screens display:

Live security feeds showing Sage and Omen cleaning dishes.Another shows Brimstone in his private quarters, hunched over Sova’s decrypted mission logs, expression grim.One screen shows decrypting a file. Another shows topographic scans, thermal images around the faculty.

In the middle of it all stands Cypher.

His figure illuminated only by the glow of his monitors and the soft pulse of a red warning light in the corner of the room, which casts subtle shadows along the edges of his coat and hat.

His fingers glide across keys, tapping silently. The only sound besides the server hum.

Sova stands still at the threshold for a beat, eyes adjusting.

SOVA (dryly):
“Cypher… you weird bastard.”
(glances at the monitors)
“I see you’re as usual in your routine… voyeurism.”

Cypher doesn’t look back—just lifts one gloved hand and adjusts the brim of his hat, voice smooth.

CYPHER:
“I prefer the term precautionary observation. You never know what people reveal when they think no one’s watching.”
(pauses, then lightly)
“And besides… don’t pretend you weren’t about to drink in my server room.”

Sova raises the glasses half-grinning.

SOVA:
“Your treat, of course.”

Chapter Text

The monitor lights pulse across Cypher’s masked face. He turns his head slightly,

CYPHER (smooth, retorting):
“And you, my friend... still clinging to your ideas of honour and order in a world rotting beneath our feet.”
(he chuckles, voice sharper now.)
“Information is the one currency that truly buys safety. It’s never clean. And I—”
(taps a key with his finger)
“—have never minded getting my hands dirty in it.”

Sova exhales, arms crossed, eyes scanning the chaotic brilliance around him.

CYPHER (noticing):
“I see you've come prepared.”
(his eyes fall on the glasses in Sova’s hand)
“Planned a good night for us, didn’t you?”

Without waiting for an answer,  he kicks open a cabinet beneath the console.

CLUNK.
It pops open—a disaster.

Inside: half-eaten ramen cups, old coffee mugs with dried rings, a single cup with a spoon still balanced in it, several tangled wires, and a broken camera component blinking faintly.

CYPHER (casually, while sliding it aside):
“Let’s see... no, not you, not you—ahh. Found you, my darling.”

He reaches behind a stack of old circuit boards and pulls out a rum bottle, worn label faded and slightly peeling.

Sova , unimpressed, brushes off a metal chair, sliding a thick stack of files off the seat with narrowed eyes.

SOVA (dry):
“Good thing sage doesn’t come down here or she might get a heart attack.”

CYPHER (laughing lightly):
“Careful with those.”
(gestures to the files)
“Took weeks and a very angry mercenary lord to pry those out of the black market.”

Sova sits , visibly uneasy, but he places the two glasses down on the terminal counter.

Cypher uncorks the bottle with a twist, pours amber liquid into each glass, the scent of fermented oak and subtle spice rises.

He slides one toward Sova and lifts his own.

CYPHER (raising his glass):
“ إلى هذه الليلة العذراء...”
(Ila hathihi al-layla al-‘adhraa… To this young virgin night.)

SOVA (lifting his glass):
“За здоровье.”
(Za zdorovye... Cheers.)

CLINK.

Sova , arms resting on his knees, glass loosely held in his hand,

SOVA:
“So... what brings me down today, Cypher?”
(pauses, takes a sip)
“And don’t say ‘no chatting over drinks.’ I’d rather drink in the middle of a frozen lake than... whatever circle of hell this place is.”

Cypher chuckles, low and amused, the laugh catching in the fabric of his mask like steam behind glass.

CYPHER:
“Oh no, no drinks without stories. That would be criminal.”
(he swirls his glass)
“And you’re right—rum does taste better with a bit of piracy on the side. Makes me wonder why I never actually sailed the real sea...”
(mock regret)
“I should’ve surfed the dark web with a parrot on my shoulder. ‘Ahoy, packet sniffers!’”

He leans over, opens a drawer at his side—quietly—and pulls out a worn paper file, yellowed at the edges, thick with printed sheets and handwritten notes clipped into place.

He slides it across the desk.

SOVA:
“What's this?”

Cypher takes a long sip, one leg crossed, voice calm.

CYPHER:
“A rundown of your last mission’s intel. Refined. Prioritized. Annotated.”

SOVA (blinking, brow furrowed):
“When did you even get access to—?”

CYPHER (waving one hand, lazy):
“The moment Brimstone plugged in his PC.”

Sova squints , mouth slightly open, a look that lands somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

SOVA:
“Ты издеваешься…”
(You’ve got to be kidding me.)

Cypher sighs , dramatically theatrical, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

CYPHER:
“Alright, alright. Fine. I admit it.”
(leans forward slightly)
“I have everyone’s passwords. Even Fade’s. Which is... honestly terrifying.”
(beat)
“What can I say? I get bored sometimes.”

Sova stares ,

SOVA:
“You’re lucky you’re useful.”

CYPHER (grinning under the mask):
“And you’re lucky I like you. Otherwise, your entire bow calibration file would’ve ended up playing as background code in Killjoy’s toaster.”

He flips through the file in his hands, page by page, black-and-white photos, redacted logs, thermal scans… until his eyes lock onto a high-resolution frame from his own owl drone.

A still frame.

A glowing structure, an advanced design clearly not of this earth.
And right there—barely visible under the curve of the containment ring—a name, etched in metal plating:

"Fabron Dynamics – Division 7"

Cypher leans back,  tone quiet but piercing.

CYPHER:
“Might’ve passed your eye without suspicion while you were gathering intel. Clean font. Common name. Just another industrial label...”

He gestures, sliding another page across the table.

CYPHER (coldly):
“But if you focus—you begin to see the blood in the seams."

Sova flips open a fresh page—a sheet of financial transactions, line after line of account activity tied to shell corporations, encrypted ledgers, overseas arms dealings.

At the top: “Fabron Private Holdings.”

CYPHER:
“One might not recognize the name on first glance. But you pulled this out yourself. Quiet accounts, routed through dead-end firms. Then fed to a group of ghost clients we know today as ATLAS.”

He points.

CYPHER:
“Follow the wires. Every company in this web—each one joins into the same parent: Fabron Dynamics.”

Sova’s eyes sharpen as he cross-references documents, piecing together logos, sites, bank codes, and transfer dates. His tone is heavy, skeptical.

SOVA:
“I already know all of this. Arms trafficking, shell funding... It’s textbook. What does it mean, Cypher?”

Cypher’s hat tilts down. His voice lowers.

CYPHER (quietly intense):
“There’s only one man with this much reach. One man with black-market roots deep enough to topple the hierarchy… and one of the only living men who ever had working blueprints for the Omega-Alpha Teleporter.”

Sova straightens, realization flickering behind his eyes.

SOVA:
“Cypher… You’re not seriously saying—”

CYPHER (cutting in, firm):
“It’s not me saying it, my friend.”
(slides another page forward—a top clearance dossier with a red stamp: CLASSIFIED – E.L.R.F. INCIDENT)
“It’s the proof.”

CYPHER (slow, deliberate):
“Vincent Fabron.”
(leans forward, whispering like it’s cursed)
“A.K.A… Chamber.”
(beat)
“Designation: VA018. The architect of the Everett-Linde Research Facility disaster. The man who made the bridge between two worlds… and lit it on fire.”

SOVA (closing the folder):
“Does Brim know?”

Cypher’s fingers tap once against the terminal—slow, rhythmic. Calculating. He exhales.

CYPHER:
“Not yet. He’s a smart man… should be able to piece it together himself.”
(leans back, sighs)
“But if he doesn’t—I’ll let him know. I warned Brimstone long ago: Chamber’s records were too clean. Too curated. A man with two faces… one to show, and one to shoot with.”
(a bitter smile)
“Looks like my instincts were right.”

Sova’s voice sharpens, a cold edge behind the calm.

SOVA:
“Then where is he now? Our man of the hour?”

Cypher doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slides back toward the terminal and begins typing rapidly. Every screen in the chamber flickers, shifting from logs and live feeds to a full digital dossier:

High-res image from the VALORANT database, Chamber smiling his immaculate, too-perfect smile.Followed by security footage stills: him walking through corridors, training halls, weapons labs.

 Chamber, walking out of the east exit gate—timestamped, but with no log of destination.

CYPHER (squinting, anger under his breath):
“Every file he touches... every trail he leaves... is rewritten. Scrubbed. Brushed clean before the dust even settles.”
(his voice drops, full of frustrated respect)
“He’s too careful. Too perfect. It’s like he ceases to exist the moment he leaves this building.”

SOVA (thinking):
“He was assigned lookout duty on one of our high-risk targets in Japan, wasn’t he?”

CYPHER:
“ نعم... للأسف.” (Na‘am… lil’asaf. Yes… unfortunately.)

His fingers start flying across the keys again, new screens appearing—contact logs, network intercepts, dark web flags.

CYPHER (grim):
“He never checked in. Not with base. Not with local ops.. I reached out to the Yakuza in Osaka—nothing. He never arrived.”

SOVA (low, cold):
“The trail went cold.”

CYPHER:
“In south China.

SOVA:
“The Cavern…”

CYPHER (slowly, softly):
“Yes.”

His voice darkens.

CYPHER:
“I’m afraid Chamber is more deeply embedded in this than we thought. The portal, the funding, the fabrication lines… this isn’t just a rogue ally…”
(he stands still now, eyes fixed on the screen)
“We’ve been nesting a snake among us.”

CYPHER (final, bitter):
“And we fed it warmth without even knowing it.”

The heavy silence breaks as Sova abruptly stands, chair screeching slightly across the floor. His entire posture shifts—from cold to immediate urgency. The file falls from his lap.

SOVA (commanding):
“I’m going to Brimstone. We need a high-priority internal warrant for him, now. Chamber is compromised.”
(glances back)
“Cypher—come with me once you finish up.”

He starts toward the door, purpose in every step.

Cypher’s voice cuts through the air,

CYPHER (almost too casually):
“Oh... one more thing.”
(clicks through a live camera feed without looking up)
“Viper… is not in her lab.”

Sova halts mid-stride . He turns halfway, eyes already scanning internally.

SOVA (confused):
“What does that have to—”

He freezes..

SOVA (harsh whisper):
“...Fuck.”

He dashes through the hallway, S ova slams his hand on the elevator button repeatedly.

SOVA (in Russian):
“Эта чёртова штука... ты из СССР, что ли?!”
(This damn thing… were you made in the USSR?!)

The button flickers slowly, unbothered by urgency.

Behind him , Cypher steps out of his den. He checks his ghost, sliding the rack back, a clean metallic clack echoing down the corridor.

CYPHER (deadpan):
“It might have been, actually.”

He pulls a round from his belt, loads it cleanly.
Then pulls a Sheriff and tosses it to Sova.

CYPHER:
“We go old school.”

Sova catches it mid-air , flipping the chamber open, checking the load. Clicks the hammer back, locking it.

SOVA:
“Got it.”

Cypher glances along the wall , running fingers along the panels, tapping one section after the next.

CYPHER:
“It should be... somewhere here...”

TAP. TAP. TAP.
CLACK.

He stops. His head tilts slightly.

CYPHER:
“Aaaah...”

He pulls up his ghost, and—

PEW—PEW—PEW—PEW

—the wall explodes in a puff of smoke, metal panel clanging to the floor, revealing a dust-covered old service lift, ancient rails stretching up into the depths of the building.

Sparks fizzle from the impact site.

CYPHER (grinning faintly):
“After you, my friend.”

Sova doesn’t wait. He steps into the creaking lift, pulling the manual cage gate closed behind him.

Cypher steps in next , he slams a bright red button mounted on the ancient metal control board.

The lift jolts.

Then begins to rise—slow, groaning, ancient gears whining, the shaft illuminated by nothing but flickering emergency lights.

The two men ascend toward the surface.

Chapter Text

The lift groans and shudders, gears screeching as the ancient rig drags itself up floor by floor. Steam hisses from cracked vents along the lift shaft.

Cypher’s lenses glints in the light. Next to him, Sova’s eye glows steadily slicing through darkness.

Cypher pulls out a small box-shaped device, its body battered and wired, resembling an old power frequency tuner. It’s analog—tactile dials, a cracked glass screen, buzzing softly.

He tunes it with slow, practiced hands, adjusting knobs and twisting the receiver coil with a faint whine.

CYPHER (under his breath):
“Ah... finally.”

He holds the device in both hands like a detonator, then turns to Sova.

CYPHER:
“Sasha, when the power cuts, you’ll have ninety seconds. Sweep the floor and get to Brim’s office.”
(nods)
“I’ll take the labs.”

SOVA:
“Девяносто секунд?” (Ninety seconds?)
“Сделай тридцать.”
Make it thirty.)

Cypher smiles faintly , eyes narrowing behind the lens.

CYPHER:
“Good luck, hunter.”

He presses the button on the transmitter.

BOOM.

Everything dies.

The main grid hums down with a descending whrrrummmm, like a sleeping titan exhaling for the last time.
Monitors flash static. Cameras across the compound flicker and cut out.
Weapons in containment racks depower, locking mechanisms failing with dull clunks.
Floodlights outside  go dark.Turrets and sensor panels deactivate. A training drone mid-flight drops and smashes into the dirt.

Jett , lounging on her bed, twirls a kunai lazily between her fingers, the air around her gently stirred with a breeze.

Suddenly—everything goes dark.

JETT (in Korean):
“ 뭐야… 젠장.”
(What the… damn it.)

She drops the kunai, hand instantly reaching for her gloves and blade belt.

Breach , mid-punch against a punching bag—
SLAM!
SLAM!
SLAM!

Power dies.

He stops mid-motion, turns toward the ceiling with a frustrated snarl.

BREACH:
“Really?! Right now?!”

INT. CLOVES’S ROOM

Clove is grinning ear to ear, greedily stacking a pile of cred-chips onto the table.

CLOVE:
“Aaaand that makes 50. I own your dog, your sword, and your soul, Fade—”

They freeze, chips sliding off the edge of the table.

INT. SERVICE LIFT – CONTINUOUS

As the lights of the facility vanish behind them, the lift climbs silently upward,

Cypher share a brief, wordless nod. No fear. No time. Only the mission.

In one smooth motion, Sova turns, grabs the top bar of the lift frame, and leaps off, boots catching a ventilation pipe running parallel to the shaft.

Metal groans under his weight.

With precision, he hauls himself into the vent, boots sliding, shoulder rolling in—vanishing into the crawlspace as if he’d never been there.

Cypher stays behind , looking up, half-smiling behind the mask.

CYPHER (to himself):
“This should be fun.”

He steps onto the side rail , arms out slightly for balance, the entire contraption swaying from side to side. He grips a thick vertical chain tightly with one hand.

CYPHER:
“Now… which one of you takes me up?”

He draws his Ghost, aims upward at a chain, and without hesitation—

BANG.

The shot echoes, and the chosen counterweight chain snaps, sending the entire lift plummeting downward.

CYPHER:
“Oh, boy…”

Cypher’s body jerks skyward, pulled with savage force, wind howling past his ears as he rockets up the shaft.

INT. VENT SYSTEM – MOMENTS LATER

Sova crawls like a shadow through the vent, movements efficient, sharp. He passes over two corridors, the hum of deactivated electronics barely audible.

His eye scans. He reaches a grate—corridor outside Brimstone’s office.

Without hesitation, he raises the butt of his Sheriff, slams it into the vent grill—once, twice—CLANG-CLANG—

The panel gives way, and Sova drops down, landing silently in the dark hallway.

He taps a button on his comms.

SOVA:
“Cypher, I’m in.”

INT. LIFT SHAFT

Below, the lift smashes into the lowest basement floor with a deafening crash, the shockwave echoing up the shaft. Sparks fly. Dust blasts upward.

Mid-air, Cypher’s chain jerks to a full stop, and the sudden force whips his body upward. His grip tears loose—

He’s airborne, spinning.

CYPHER :
“Woahhh!!”

His hand shoots down , knife drawn, and with perfect timing he drives the blade into the side panel shutter, metal shrieking as it bites.

His entire weight yanks against the knife. It holds. Barely.

He dangles there, panting hard.

CYPHER (panting, into comms):
“I’m also in. Well… sort of.”

He takes a breath, plants one boot into the panel, then another, and with effort rips open the shutter, tearing away a bent metal panel with a grunt.

He pulls himself in. The passage beyond is narrow, pipes hissing softly from residual heat. Total darkness.

CYPHER (breathing heavily):
“Take two lefts, one right. Sweep the hallway outside Brim’s office. Be cautious—some of the boomer tech might still hold power.”

SOVA (grimly):
“Copy.”

Sova moves like a predator . He slides his hand across the wall, feeling for anchors, listening for vibration. No light. No guides.

Just instinct.
Just the hunt.

Cypher , now inside, crouches low as he follows the crisscrossing ducts. His breath steadying.

He pulls out his knife again, cutting a seam along another shutter panel, sparks dancing briefly in the dark.

CYPHER (muttering):
“Time to enter the viper’s den.”

He slides through the panel, eyes narrowing as he descends into the corridor leading to Viper’s lab.

INT. BRIMSTONE’S FLOOR – DARK HALLWAY – NIGHT

Pitch black.

Sova’s mechanical eye flickers, but it offers no vision in the total blackout.

He closes both eyes.

Reaches out with his senses.

His palm against the wall feels every minor tremor. A shift of airflow, the subtle vibration of compressed pressure lines, distant steps. The map of the hallway forms not in sight, but in instinct.

He sweeps two corridors in under ten seconds, swift and deadly. Each corner is covered with smooth, calculated motion—Sheriff raised with instinct.

No hesitation. Just the precision of a hunter.

Then—the hallway ends. A large double door stands before him.

Brimstone’s office.

Sova stops.

And suddenly… the air changes.

It grows cold—biting, unnatural, like the world itself just held its breath.
It sinks into his skin. Into his bones. 

His pulse slows. His instincts scream.

CLACK.

A Vandal’s barrel —cold and heavy—presses against the back of his head.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

??? (deep, rough voice):
“Going somewhere, hunter?”

In the darkness behind him, three long slashes of faintly glowing violet-blue light emerge—claw marks, almost ethereal, pulsing with faint corruption.

Cypher sweeps through the silent corridors of the lab level, bootsteps muffled, Ghost drawn and steady. The lab walls are high-tech but look like a war zone—equipment thrown aside in haste, medical lights dangling from exposed wires, vials rolling across the floor.

He moves past—then stops at a sealed stairwell door.

A card scanner, glowing red. Still active.

CYPHER (muttering):
“You piece of shit... Why are you still running?”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a crude, patched-together device—a small circuit board encased in cracked plastic, with wires soldered by hand. The casing has a messy label scrawled on it:

“FINAL FINAL FINAL VERSION – DO NOT TOUCH”
(crossed out and replaced by)
“NO REALLY THIS ONE WORKS”

He slides the device through the scanner.

Spark.

The card reader hisses, then smokes.

CLACK.

The lock disengages.

Cypher pulls the door open.The stairwell is narrow, steep. Dim emergency lights flicker along the floor edge, barely enough to trace the outline of each step.

He moves up quickly, one hand brushing the wall, the other on his pistol

At the top, a thick reinforced door awaits.

Viper’s penthouse.

CYPHER (under his breath):
“Time to see what secrets you’ve been hiding, Sabine.”

Chapter Text

INT. BRIMSTONE'S FLOOR – HALLWAY – NIGHT

The barrel is still cold against Sova’s head, unwavering. The silence hangs thick, even the sound of breathing feels too loud.

??? (same deep, spectral voice, again):
“Going somewhere, hunter?”

The click of the Vandal’s trigger locking in place echoes like a blade unsheathed. Sova gulps, slowly raising his hands, his grip firm on Sheriff, index finger off the trigger.

SOVA (careful, low):
“Omen… I’m just going to make sure Brimstone is unharmed.
We’ve uncovered something Top priority.
He needs to be informed. Orders need to be issued.”

A long pause.

OMEN (dry):
“Says the man holding a locked and loaded gun…”

SOVA (without flinching):
“After all these years… do you still not trust me?”

The barrel lowers 

OMEN:
“The shadows… they whisper secrets, Sova. But you...”
(pauses, then quietly)
“You’re not one of them.”

Sova exhales. Barely.

They begin walking side-by-side toward Brimstone’s office, both silent now.

INT. VIPER'S PENTHOUSE – BACK ENTRANCE – NIGHT

Cypher creeps up the slick emergency stairwell, water trickling down the walls as the sound of a backup generator hums low.

He reaches the backdoor, gloved hand brushing the keypad scanner.

Still active. Still locked.

CYPHER (in Arabic, muttering):
“ اللعنة.” (Al-la’na… fuck it.)

He draws his Ghost and fires—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The lock explodes, sparks flying as the handle breaks, falling to the ground in a shower of brittle steel.

The door creaks open , revealing—

Viper’s Penthouse.

It still has power.

A haunting blend of clinical precision and organic chaos.At the center of the room stands a tall, enclosed bio-chamber, glowing a dim green. Inside
A towering tree, its trunk twisted, leaves dark and waxy.
Snakes—several—coil along its branches, their eyes glowing faint yellow, tongues flickering. Their hissing echoes faintly.The air smells of chemicals and exotic toxins.Rain begins pelting the massive glass windows, lightning crackling outside.

CYPHER (quietly, to himself):
“Rain… in the middle of the desert?”

He moves closer, passing by a lab table—on it:Dozens of labeled vials, their contents glowing in eerie tones—purple, viridian, amber. A high-grade scientific scope, the lens still warm from recent use.An open journal—filled with meticulous diagrams of snake anatomy, venom compositions, molecular breakdowns, and human neural reactions.
Some pages are scribbled over with notes in Latin, Turkish, and German.

A fountain pen rests atop the journal, still wet with ink.

Cypher scans everything like a crime scene.
No mess.

No sign of panic.

CYPHER (darkly):
“No one left in a hurry.”

Then his eyes shift—
To the far side of the room, where the wardrobe sits built into the wall.

He steps toward it, whispering almost gleefully.

CYPHER:
“Now that I notice… this may be the perfect chance to learn more.”

He slides open the wardrobe—

Inside:
A viper bodysuit hangs at perfect center, surrounded by a row of matching suits.

But near the bottom—

A small black box, tucked just behind an gas mask.

Cypher’s fingers reach in, pull it open—

Inside: a  lace set.

CYPHER (mock-whispers):
“Yes… I knew it. Matte black.
Classy, lethal. Just like her.”

He picks up the bra, inspecting the size.

CYPHER (squinting, smug):
“Hmm... little off though. Thought she was an E-cup.
Might be padding. But either way…”
(scribbles in his diary)
“I have bets to collect.”

He laughs quietly, amused, before carefully putting everything back in place. Cypher closes the wardrobe, smoothing his gloved hand across the surface with theatrical satisfaction. He tucks his notebook back into his coat, buttoning it tight with a smug grin still lingering beneath his mask.Lightning flashes again, casting eerie streaks of blue-white light through the panoramic glass windows

He moves further into the room eyes scanning every inch.

Mounted with surgical precision is Viper’s weapon rack:

• Vials of poison, thick green fluids swirling slowly, are slotted into metal canistersA cluster of Poison Cloud Orbs, lined up, each one modified—tiny extra vents and nano-radiator caps suggest custom dispersal algorithms.Toxic Screen Emitters are dismantled on a side workbench. A sample vial rests under a biochemical microscope, its base screen running a live toxicity analysis—chemical compound names scrolling like code:

“Modified compound 3X7R - Neuroinhibitory properties spiked. Confirmed lethal dose < 3μg.”

CYPHER (awe struck):
“Never satisfied… like a true artisan of agony.”

Beside the workstation, a weapons rack holds a single gun—an intricately detailed Shorty, sleek and sinister.

It bears viper’s signature skin: matte green body, soft shimmer of black ridging, and engraved toxin veining that pulses dimly with a radianite glow.

He moves toward a scattered pile of documents on the side table—papers askew, some fallen to the floor like someone had been desperately searching.

Cypher crouches, picks one up—dense chemical formulas, venom compound notations, and sketches of gas dispersion curves.

CYPHER (squinting):
“Well... chemistry wasn’t my best subject anyway.”

He flips through a few more. One page catches his eye—a schematic overlay of the Valorant HQ floor plans, with markings… and timestamps. It’s recent.

A final roll of thunder shakes the glass. The snakes in the bio-chamber hiss, unsettled.

Cypher tilts his head, stepping back, gaze flicking across the entire room.

CYPHER (calmly, almost amused):
“No signs of struggle. No mess. Not even a chair out of place.
Sabine didn’t run… she moved. Precisely. Quietly.”

He steps back toward the window.

CYPHER:
“And wherever she went…
she took her poison with her.”

INT. VALORANT HQ – BRIMSTONE'S FLOOR – OUTSIDE OFFICE – NIGHT

Omen and Sova walk in tandem, each step quiet but heavy with weight.

They approach Brimstone’s office—a thick, fortified door now looming before them like a vault.

Omen reaches for the handle , claws brushing cold steel—

But stops.

. A pulse. His shadows recoil slightly.

At the same moment, Sova’s eye glows. His face hardens.

SOVA (serious, low):
“On my 12.”

Omen immediately steps back, turning in the opposite direction , Vandal raised.

Then—

A glint.

Sova’s eye catches it. A slight light flash off metal.

SOVA (focused):
“There you are.”

BANG!
He fires the Sheriff into the dark—

The bullet hits something. A sharp metallic crunch, sparks fly—a system hisses, jolts, but there's no blood, no scream. Just the cold whirr of something mechanical failing.

OMEN:
“It’s not human.”

Suddenly—from the ceiling and walls-

Turrets drop down.

TURRET SYSTEM (automated, distorted voice):
“INTRUDER DETECTED. TERMINATE.”

BZZZT!
Turrets open fire—a hailstorm of light and bullets tears through the corridor.

Sova dives to the side, but a round rips through his leg—he grunts, falling into a crouch, clutching the wound.

Omen roars , extending his arm. Shadows swirl from his palm.

OMEN:
“You want darkness? Then drown in it.”

He hurls a swirling black orb—a mass of void—into the air.

The orb spread a wave of blindness spreads. The turret sensors glitch, confused, their tracking reticles scrambling.

Omen , fires his Vandal with precision

BANG. CRACK. SPARK.
One by one the turrets burst into shrapnel, lightning and circuitry flying in all directions.

OMEN (rushing to him):
“Sova. Are you hit?”

Sova grits his teeth , wrapping his hand tight around his bleeding leg,

SOVA (grimly):
“Da. Just a scratch.”

He tries to rise. Wobbles.

OMEN (snarling):
“Fuck it.”

Without waiting, he reloads the Vandal with one smooth click, steps forward, and unleashes a burst directly into the lock of Brimstone’s office door.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

The reinforced locking mechanism shatters under the sheer force of bullets.

OMEN (bellowing):
“BRIMSTONE!”

The door slams open, revealing—

The office is dark. Empty.

A slow pan reveals the reality neither Sova nor Omen wanted to face—Brimstone’s chair is turned, abandoned, his desk terminal still active but unattended. A mug sits untouched, steam long gone cold.

SOVA (quietly):
“He’s not here.”

He taps the side of his comms.

SOVA:
“Cypher… did you find anything?”

Cypher descends the last flight of the emergency stairwell, cloak flicking with each rushed step,breath audible.

CYPHER (through comms):
“Nothing of importance. Viper’s penthouse was…. Clean  But…There were schematics of HQ in her desk—full building layouts, restricted levels. She was planning something. I don’t know what.”

Suddenly—everything snaps back on.

ZRRRRRRRRMMMMMM—CHUNK.

Power returns to the entire facility. Lights blaze. Systems reboot.
And with it—two different breach alarms trigger simultaneously.

ALERT. ALERT. UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY DETECTED.

Cypher’s destroyed lock on the penthouse.
Omen’s shredded lock on Brimstone’s office.

Red lights flash across every hallway , security beacons pulsing, metal shutters retracting as main AI systems begin to reroute control.

CYPHER (dry, exasperated):
“Well. We’ve been caught.”
(sighs)
“Might as well come clean.”

SOVA (nodding grimly):
“Copy. Raise the alarm. Initiate full internal lockdown protocol.”

He limps over to Brimstone’s console, punches in his override key, and brings up the emergency contact matrix.

SOVA (activating comms):
“Cypher—rendezvous in the debrief room.”
(clicks again)
“Contact Sage.We debrief her first.”

Omen , still staring toward the door, weapon lowered but not relaxed.

OMEN (flatly):
“Shadows are coming in light again.”

Chapter Text

 INT. VALORANT HQ – DEBRIEF ROOM – LATE NIGHT

Agents stand, sit, or pace around a large circular room fitted with tactical screens, now muted but blinking with background activity.

At the center, Sova sits on a chair, his leg bandaged. Sage kneels beside him, her hands emitting a gentle green glow healing the wound.

SAGE (firm,frustrated):
“Stop moving, Sova. That’s why I always say to be careful. You act like you’re invincible.”

SOVA (gritting his teeth):
“It’s just a scratch.”

SAGE:
“You said that last time. And the time before.”

Phoenix , clad in his signature jacket over black joggers, chews slowly on a protein bar, eyes narrowing as he looks around the room.

PHOENIX:
“Alright, someone better explain. I was mid-nap, yeah? What the hell was all this about?”

In one corner, Killjoy sits with KAY/O’s disassembled head in her lap, glasses askew, and fingers tapping nervously against a diagnostic pad.

KAY/O’s screen flickers , voice glitching slightly.

BREACH (in casual tee and track pants):
“What the hell happened to you, metalhead?”

KAY/O:
“System reboot. Attempted BIOS update.
Cause of failure: someone—” (KJ turns the head towards Cypher)
“—pulled the damn wires out while I was out.”

Cypher , standing off to the side, raises both hands in mock surrender.

CYPHER:
“Hey! If I had any other choice, I would’ve taken it. Besides, you're better off not being a toaster.”

KAY/O:
“Say that again. I dare you.”

CYPHER (backpedalling):
“All right, all right. Peace, metal man.”

Jett , dressed in a navy blue sports bra and loose joggers, leans on the back of a chair,

JETT:
“Old man… what was this about? You blow half the security locks, the place goes full haywire, and you’re sitting there like it’s Tuesday.”

Raze , on a nearby console, types rapidly as several monitors flicker with the database.

RAZE:
“Already scanned the arsenal and vehicle bay—no weapons taken, no vehicles leased.
Nada. Whole place looks untouched.”

SOVA (winces, shifting his leg):
“What about the out-of-commission gear?”

RAZE:
“Checking… still nothing. If they took anything, it wasn’t from here.”

SAGE:
“Sova, I said, don’t move.”

REYNA (rolling her eyes):
“Oh quit  the nurse act, Sage. Idiota.”
(steps forward, fire in her voice)
“If they had caught Viper in the act, that would’ve been the end of it.
La traidora. I trusted her.”

GEKKO (raising hands):
“Yo, Reyna—breathe, queen. What did we talk about?”
(demonstrates breathing)
“Inhale... exhale. C’mon.”

Wingman mimics him beside the table, puffing and exhaling dramatically, patting Reyna’s arm.

Clove , in loose cargo pants and a hoodie leans in, worried.

CLOVE:
“Do we even know where they are now?”

Cypher , arms folded, face unusually solemn, shakes his head.

CYPHER:
“Chamber was supposed to be in Japan. According to logs. But our latest traces... point to China.”

ISO (confused):
“China? Wasn’t his mission to oversee recon near Osaka?”

CYPHER:
“That’s what we thought. But all data evidence points elsewhere.
We think… he’s headed to the Cavern.”

Sova, Cypher, and Sage visibly react—eyes darkening, shoulders tensing.

The rest of the room goes quiet, except for a few confused murmurs.

FADE (in goth-styled pajamas, arms crossed):
“The fuck’s that?”

SOVA:
“The Cavern was my last mission. Deep underground facility in southwestern China—buried and cloaked.
We thought it was just a resource pipeline for ATLAS.
But it’s more than that.”

CYPHER (stepping in):
“It had a unknown structure.Not theorising—actual working systems.”

SOVA:
And the name on the portal system read… Fabron Dynamics.”

Eyes snap to Cypher.

CYPHER:
“Vincent Fabron. AKA… Chamber. Code VA018.”

CYPHER:
“He scrubbed every trail after leaving. But Viper?
She had HQ schematics in her private desk. High-clearance blueprints.
She was planning something, too. From inside.”

Fade, Reyna, Jett, Breach, Gekko, and others exchange glances.

PHOENIX (softly):
“No way, man…”

JETT (serious now):
“She’s been here since before I was recruited.”

SAGE (firm):
“Brimstone’s missing. Viper’s missing. Chamber’s off-grid.
That’s not a coincidence.”

The storm outside continues to hammer the walls of the compound. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

The door hisses open .

TEJO enters, his jacket shimmering with rain, his wrist module pulsing a dull orange, indicators feeding him diagnostics.

TEJO (thick Colombian accent):
“Nada. Absolutamente nada. I checked the ingress logs—no entries, no exits in the last few hours… besides Sova.”
(taps his wrist module)
“And I mean everything. Manual overrides, airlocks, utility chutes. Zero movement.”

The entire room turns toward him. Faces go quiet.

TEJO:
“If Brimstone’s gone… he didn’t leave. Which means…”
(pauses, voice sharpening)
“He’s still somewhere in the building.”

Sage stands , eyes narrowing, posture stiff.

SAGE:
“How can you be so certain?”

TEJO (without hesitation):
“Conozco a ese bastardo. That man wouldn’t go down without biting the hell outta someone’s throat.
Either he was unconscious when taken… or he’s still here. Alive.”

Cypher , adjusting his gloves, chimes in, cautious.

CYPHER:
“Not to shatter the confidence, my friend… but we’re missing a VTOL.”

Sova’s eye glows, and he almost growls.

SOVA:
“And now you tell us this?”

CYPHER (defensive):
“I just came across it. System logs were scrubbed. Someone seriously covered it up.”

In the corner, Vyse sits calmly, holding her metal rose in one hand. The petals flow like mercury, shifting between form and fragility.

Her voice is mechanical, thoughtful, and unnervingly precise.

VYSE:
“...It’s possible Brimstone figured it out before you both.
If so, a strategic exfiltration would be the only rational action.
Evacuation before compromise. It would explain the missing VTOL.”

CYPHER (after a long pause):
“...Might be possible. I’m not sure. But… yeah. Probably.”

OMEN(hitting the table HARD):
“Then we stop guessing. We need orders. Now.”

All eyes turn to Sage . Her face is composed, but the weight of responsibility is visible in her eyes. She walks to the center table and presses her finger on a secure channel—the main operations grid lights up.

SAGE (calm but steely):
“Effective immediately, I am issuing a Level 12 Priority Search and Rescue order for Commander Brimstone.”

SAGE:
“All resources are to be deployed.
Contact every field agent working on remote operations—project assets, surveillance teams, researchers.
Bring them home.”

SAGE:
“Cypher. You're assigned comms and intel. You will coordinate with all field posts.
I want Yoru and Harbour—they were visiting home, contact them to begin ground recon in southern China. They are closest. Relay orders: monitor border activity, locate the Cavern.”

CYPHER (nods):
“Understood. I’ll route them through uplinks."

SAGE (turning):
“Sova. You are now Strike Team Leader. Tactical response and internal coordination.
Build your squad. You know the terrain.”

SOVA (rising):
“Yes, ma’am.”

SAGE (firmly):
“As of this moment—Chamber, a.k.a. Vincent Fabron, is officially designated a Fugitive-Class Alpha Rogue.”

Everyone freezes.

NEON (quiet, uneasy):
“Isn’t that a little... extreme?”

SAGE (unwavering):
“I know. None of us ever want to raise weapons against our own.
But the evidence is overwhelming. He’s compromised the Protocol, sold us out, and possibly put dimensional assets at risk.”

SAGE (continuing):
“Additionally… I am issuing an arrest warrant for Sabine Callas, a.k.a. Viper.
Her failure to report, abandonment of her research post, and unauthorized access of classified schematics classify her as an Internal Defection Threat-Level Beta.”

RAZE:
“So… we’re at war. With our own.”

CLOVE:
“This is spiraling…”

SAGE (final):
Everyone here is now assigned to Operation Dragon.
Suit up. We settle this in one go.

Chapter Text

INT. VALORANT HQ– EARLY MORNING

The lights of the emergency meeting have faded, replaced with the hum of duty. The tension still lingers, but now it has purpose.

The storm has passed, but now, the first light of dawn breaks over the horizon. The golden sun reflects off the panels, turning it into a gleaming fortress in the sand.

INT. SOVA’S ROOM – EARLY MORNING

A moment of calm.

Sova stands silently , already half-geared, bathed in warm morning light bleeding through the artificial window. He reaches for his cape and flings it across his back. It lands with precision. Then, he slips on his tactical gloves, pulling them tight.

He turns to the wall.

Mounted on a rack, his folded bow. he pulls it down and gives it a sharp wrist jolt.

CLACK—CHHK.

The bow unfolds, its limbs snapping into place with quiet strength. He walks over to his desk and opens a drawer.

Inside, a radiant radianite-infused bowstring, pulsing faint blue energy, like lightning.

He threads it through the cam wheels with care, looping, locking, and pulling until the tension hums perfectly. The bow now looks alive; a hunter’s weapon forged in discipline.

He picks up a Recon Arrow, nocks it silently, and pulls it back—testing the resistance.

SOVA (softly, in Russian):
“отлично.” (Perfect.)

He returns the arrow to its quiver, slings the bow across his back, then picks up his fully assembled Owl Drone, compact and sleek. With a click, it locks onto his forearm seamlessly.

His Sheriff sits on the desk. Its finish gleaming under the warm light.

He takes it, checks the cylinder, and holsters it with finality.

He turns toward his room. Looks around once more. Every object is in place. Every memory has been filed away.

SOVA (to himself):
“Won’t be back for a while.”

He steps out and gently closes the door behind him.

INT. HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS

Sova walks past a few doors. Clove’s door opens.

They step out in a pink jacket over a black "HELLO" shirt, purple shorts with a cat design, and blue butterfly-scattered leggings. Horned headband, silver hairclips, and jewellery—choker, bracelet, butterfly earring, nine rings—accent their look. Black nails with blue tips, some butterfly-winged, peek out as they hold a spectre, checking the clip.

CLOVE (grinning):
“Let’s find our fancy waiter, I need my wine…”

Sova and Clove’s eyes meet as she steps into the hallway.

They walk forward together.

INT. PHOENIX’S ROOM – SAME TIME

Chaos.

Clothes thrown on the bed..
Phoenix, wearing just a black tank top and joggers, is tearing through his stuff.

PHOENIX:
“Bloody hell… Where is it?! I swear—if I don’t find that jacket…”

He pokes his head out of the room.

PHOENIX (shouting):
“Oi! Jett! You take my lucky jacket again?! C’mon man!”

INT. JETT’S ROOM – DOOR CLOSED

JETT (from inside, in Korean):
“ 아이씨, 멍청이…!” (Aish, you idiot…)
“You’ve got a dozen of them! How do you even know which one’s the ‘lucky’ one?!” 

He’s now pounding on her door, hands sparking with flame.

PHOENIX:
“Open up, Jett. I’m counting to 3. Don’t make me burn the hinges off—
3… 2… 1—”

The door flies open.

Jett , half-clothed, throws the jacket in his face.

JETT (in Korean):
“Take it and shut up!”

PHOENIX (grinning):
“Cheers, mate.”

He tosses it over his shoulder, clearly satisfied.

Clove and Sova walk past them without stopping.

CLOVE (to Sova, dry):
“Glad to see chaos still lives among us.”

SOVA (with a hint of a smile):
“Balance must be maintained.”

The lift doors hiss open.

Sova and Clove step in, joined by Gekko, who’s adjusting the sling on his Bulldog, and Wingman who waves lazily.

GEKKO:
“Heard y’all blew the doors off the office last night.”

SOVA:
“You know how omen is.”

The lift doors slide open with a hiss of pressure.

The sun has fully risen, spilling golden light across the rooftop launch platform, where a sleek, black VTOL awaits in full pre-flight checks. The aircraft hums low, thrusters powered, wings folded upward in standby. Near the nose of the aircraft, Raze is crouched, adjusting the exterior sensors  while Killjoy taps a datapad, her brow furrowed in deep diagnostics.

RAZE (excited, mumbling to herself):
“Mmm… twin pulse thrusters synced… This lil one packs a punch!”

KILLJOY (correcting):
“Only if your left bank stops overcompensating. Your vertical pitch is pulling four degrees. Still.”

At the far edge of the platform, Iso leans against a supply crate, hood up, one hand in his pocket, the other scrolling his phone, a Vandal slung lazily across his back.

Sova’s eyes scan the crew , calm, but sharp.

SOVA:
“Where’s Tejo?”

Iso looks up, pulling out a pair of ear-comms from his hoodie.

ISO (calm, monotone):
“Sage said she needed someone to manage HQ while we’re gone.
Tejo volunteered.”

He tosses the comms toward Sova and Gekko.

They catch the buds mid-air, click them into place.

SOVA:
“Comms check, people.”

All agents press their comms.

A second of silence—

Then Cypher’s voice comes through,

CYPHER (through comms):
“Mike test… check, check. This is Radio V-H-Q, and you’re listening to Cypher’s Late Night Confessions.
Today’s episode… we have an anonymous hunter who’d like to thank yours truly for flawlessly planning this entire mission…”
(mock romantic)
“Cypher, Ya sahbi … you genius…”

Laughter erupts .

SOVA (deadpan, smiling):
“Alright, Cypher. We hear you.”

A ding chimes from behind them as the lift doors open again.

Phoenix bursts out first, jacket half-zipped, breathing hard. Behind him, Jett steps out, arms crossed, clearly annoyed.

PHOENIX (grinning, panting):
“Sorry, mate. Had a little… emergency.”

JETT (pouting, muttering in Korean):
“You and your stupid ‘lucky’ jackets…”

 The group gathers now, forming a loose semi-circle as the wind blows over the rooftop.

Sova steps forward , clear and authoritative.

SOVA:
“Listen up, team.”

SOVA:
“We are now en route to two Priority Alpha missions:
One—Secure Commander Brimstone.
Two—Neutralise Chamber.

SOVA (grimly):
“And a Beta-Level objective—arrest Viper. She is to be taken alive, no harm.”

CLOVE:
“What if she fights?”

SOVA:
“Then we fight smarter. Not harder.”

He paces a step forward, eyes sharp.

SOVA:
“Our destination: the Cavern. Unknown layout. Unknown resistance. Possibly Omega tech.
Duelists—you lead the strike front.
Initiators—myself and Gekko—will provide recon.
I’ll keep overwatch. Gekko stays close with thestrike team.
Killjoy will secure the landing zone and set up systems for reinforcements.”

SOVA (raising his voice):
“Is everyone clear?!”

ALL AGENTS:
“YES, SIR!”

Sova turns. Behind him, the VTOL hatches hiss open.

He looks toward Raze, who is already strapping into the pilot’s seat, tossing on a headset.

SOVA (firm):
“Raze. Take us to China.”

Raze grins , cracking her knuckles.

RAZE (grabbing controls):
“This is your Captain Raze talkin! Strap in, tie your boots, and crank that playlist—
’Cause shit’s about to get LOUD.”

Sova slides into co-pilot seat , tightens the belt, adjusts his visor.

Engines spin up , thrusters hiss, and—

FWOOOOOOOM.

The interior cabin hums with the low thrum of engines and the occasional rattle from turbulence.

Jett , lounging near the side hatch, spins a kunai in finger. Her expression is calm, focused, but her eyes betray anticipation.

Across from her, Gekko sits, legs spread, fanny pack open. He gently lifts Dizzy, who makes a happy gurgling noise.

Mosh perches on his shoulder, flicking his tiny tail back and forth, while Wingman sits on the floor beside him, holding a Classic with both arms — the barrel pointed away.

GEKKO (grinning):
“Alright homies — listen up.”
(He looks between his creatures like a coach about to give the big speech.)
“We get in, we lock it down, and we get out. Then it's smoothies and Netflix, aight?
On three — one, two, three!”

*Creature noises*

GEKKO (laughing):
“That’s my homies.”

Iso sits near the back, head leaned against the hull, legs stretched out. Muffled lo-fi music leaks from his AirPods. He checks his Vandal, chambering a round, inspecting the sights. His eyes barely open, but he's clearly aware of everything around him.

At the center console, Killjoy and Clove huddle over a flickering holographic displaying Sova’s recon drone images. The resolution is glitchy, some scans static-lined due to turbulence or interference.

KILLJOY (frustrated, muttering in German):
“Diese verdammten Bilder... zu unscharf!
I can’t determine the layout clearly. No elevation marks, no entrance grids.”

Clove pointing at it chirps in.

CLOVE:
“What are you talking about? I can smoke here…”
(points to a left choke)
“...and here, plus you walk through mid-easy with support. Long lines are shielded.”

KILLJOY (squinting):
“Hmm. That might actually work... but—”
(she pinches zooms an image)
“Snipers posted on the cavern ridge. They’ll have clear sightlines.
That... is our problem.”

PHOENIX (from nearby):
“Don’t worry, mate. I’ll toast ‘em before they even think about pulling a trigger.”

JETT (teasing):
“Don't mess up that pretty face, Fire boy.”

PHOENIX (laughs):
“You wound me, Jett. My flame never goes out.”

In the pilot seat, Raze, bobbing her head to her playlist, flicks a switch and speaks into the intercom:

RAZE:
“Alright, mis soldados—ten minutes to drop. Lock in.”

Chapter Text

The VTOL cuts through the sky, the clouds parting as the dense South Chinese forest canopy comes into view. The sun is now high overhead, Peaks rise like dragon spines through the treetops, and valleys stretch across the landscape.

Raze begins VTOL’s slow descent.

RAZE (focused):
“Deploying landing gear… dropping altitude.”

She taps a few switches. The VTOL tilts slightly, stabilisers adjusting to the dense mountain terrain. Sova, seated beside her, adjusts the throttle carefully.

SOVA (into headset):
“Cypher, this is Strike One. We’re approaching landing coordinates.”

INT. CYPHER'S BASEMENT LAB – SAME TIME

Screens blink with a dozen live feed panels showing maps, pings, and satellite images—Cypher, hunched over, types with precision.

CYPHER (through comms):
“Copy that. Yoru and Harbour are already on the ground.
They’ve taken command of the ground. Your transport to the Cavern is prepped and ready.”

Sova presses a button on the dashboard. A gentle chime echoes through the cabin.

SOVA (through intercom):
“Alright, people—ten minutes to touchdown.
Be advised: we’re entering hostile territory. Stay sharp.”

INT. VTOL – MAIN CABIN

Phoenix pulls his Vandal off the rack, slams a magazine in with flair, and spins it before locking it onto his back.

PHOENIX:
“Now we’re talking…”

Jett stretches her arms, her breeze already picking up as her eyes lock on the opening ramp.Iso checks the bolt of his Vandal, inserts a fresh mag, and pulls his hood down. Killjoy snaps her Nanoswarm grenades into her bracer along her tactical belt. Clove loads a clip into her Spectre, rolling their shoulders and checking smoke charges. Gekko whispers to his buddies, giving Dizzy one last pat before locking her back in, Wingman nodding with a squish.

INT. COCKPIT

SOVA (to Cypher):
“That’s right, Cypher.
What about backup? Are we going in completely blind?”

INT. CYPHER'S– SAME TIME

Cypher turns in his chair, glancing at a separate satellite monitoring screen. The screen shows a heatmap—glowing blue-purple spikes pulsing erratically in the southern China region.

CYPHER (grim):
“Strike Two is prepping for deployment, but you’re on your own for now.
They’ll be hours behind your op.”
(he pauses.)
“And there’s more… satellites are detecting unusual Omega signatures across the region.”

He leans forward.

CYPHER (grave):
“It’s not just enemy resistance you’re facing, Sova.
Omega variants are probable in your path. Proceed with caution.”

INT. VTOL – COCKPIT

Sova hears the weight in Cypher’s voice.

SOVA (low, resolute):
“Roger that, Cypher.
Strike One out.”

SOUTH CHINA – CAVERN PERIMETER– AFTERNOON

The thick jungle opens into a cleared zone, veiled by dense trees, camo nets, and hidden jammers masking heat and sound signatures. Laptops hum, scanners blink, and field operatives move quickly around equipment crates, securing cables, monitoring aerial recon, and interfacing with uplink relays.

A sudden shift in sound—the faint hum of engines warping through cloaking tech.

The sky shimmers for a brief second.

VTOL appears to be a shape-bending light like water shimmering. Its stealth mode disengages midair as it glides down into the clearing.

THUMP.

The VTOL lands softly, stabilisers anchoring into the soft earthWith a sharp hiss, the rear hatch opens.

Sovastep steps out first, eyes scanning the clearing.

They all descend in formation — weapons at the ready, senses sharp.

Across the clearing, already coordinating the local team, Yoru stands with arms crossed beside Waylay, both clad in their signature outfits.

Yoru's eyes narrow as  he sees them.

YORU (in Japanese, muttering):
“ やっと来たか... (Yatto kita ka...) Hmph. ‘So they finally arrive.’”

Harbour , cool and direct, flips a tablet toward Sova with a flick of his wrist.

HARBOUR:
“Took you all long enough.”

GEKKO:

“Sorry, Coach.”

Sova catches the tablet mid-air , eyes already scanning the data:

SOVA (nodding):
“What’s the situation?”

HARBOUR:
“Brief on route. We’re moving now.”

Jett smirks , stepping beside Phoenix, nudging him in the ribs with her elbow.

JETT (teasing):
“Hope you’re ready, pretty boy.”

PHOENIX (grinning widely):
“I’m always ready, babe.”

Humidity clings to  the leaves, and the sound of cicadas fades under the soft crunch of boots moving across uneven terrain. The team is in covert formation,

Sova moves near the front, fingertips pressed lightly to his temples as his Owl Drone floats silently above the canopy.

His bionic eye Zooms as he guides the drone through the dense treetops. His mechanical eye lens shifts, zooming in, scanning.

SOVA:
“Two thermal signatures… towards your 2, Iso.”

CUT TO – ISO’S POV

Iso crouches on a moss-covered tree, Operator in hand,

He peers up into the thick canopy, sliding the suppressor on with one handHe narrows his eyes behind the scope.

ISO (quietly, in Chinese):
“ 像是在家里爬 树… (Just like climbing trees back home…)”

PING!

SOVA (on comms):
“Target pinged. Clear shot.”

ISO (steady):
“Got it.”

THWMP.

A silenced shot—a body drops through the foliage with a muffled thud.

Another ping.
Another shot.
Another body collapses.

INT. VALORANT HQ – CYPHER’S– SIMULTANEOUS

He claps slowly, sarcastically.

CYPHER (chuckling):
“Well done, hunter.”

He taps a blinking icon on his terminal.

CYPHER:
“Jett. Phoenix. You’re up. You should be approaching a large hole in the ground.
One of the entry points to the Cavern.”

EXT. JUNGLE CLEARING – MOMENTS LATER

Jett skids to a halt near the edge of a ravine. A massive sinkhole before them, rimmed by thick vines.

She whistles, unimpressed.

JETT:
“This is it? Bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

CYPHER (over comms, wry):
“Don’t underestimate it, my wind assassin. This is only one of the entrances Sova scouted.”

On Cypher’s screen, aerial footage plays: 

CYPHER:
“Satellite caught unmarked trucks entering nearby construction sites.
There’s a whole labyrinth down there.”

CYPHER:
“Once inside, Sova will guide you through.”

EXT. ENTRY POINT – THE SINKHOLE

One by one , the agents begin jumping in, 

Gekko gives Wingman a nod—who waves, then leaps down ahead. Clove drops silently, Spectre raised. Killjoy tosses a bot ahead as she rappels down the slope. Phoenix flares briefly as he falls, trailing embers, confident as ever. Jett glides downward, light as air. Yoru looks to Sova, who remains up top.

YORU (smirking, in Japanese):
“ 気を付けて… (Kiyotsukete.) Watch yourselves.”

He tears open a rift, stepping into a dimensional rip.

He loads a recon bolt into his bow and finally jumps.

The agents descend into pure darkness. The air changes—no wind, only echoes. The ground breathes with long-buried secrets.

Below , the hunt begins.

TO BE CONTINUED……