"We're almost there," the strike team leader says, eyes fixed on the navigation hologram, trembling faintly with engine vibrations. Sweat runs down his temples beneath the repairman's mask, soaking into the helmet's padding.
"Move. We need to get off this structure as soon as possible."
Three operatives advance quickly, in perfect rhythm — like a pack surviving in a radioactive wasteland. Their footsteps are nearly silent, yet each step feels like a chess move in a game where losing means death.
The Platform seems dead — but it's a lie. Cables mutter in the walls, like whispering nerves. The ventilation hums with mechanical groans. The light is dim, bluish — it doesn't illuminate so much as distort. Here, shadow is a weapon, and the corridors a maze that swallows the uninvited.
Thirty meters left to the extraction point.
Then — he steps out from a side compartment, as if pressed out of the metal itself.
A figure. Alone. Alive.
"Hey," the voice is calm. Almost lazy. "What took you so long?"
They freeze in an instant. The air in their helmets thickens — like water — as if every breath could be the last. A shooter's finger twitches on the trigger. The commander steps forward — sharp and sudden, like a whip crack.
From a fold in his suit, a pulse gun emerges — dull metal angled to kill.
"Who are you?" he hisses. "How do you know us?"
The stranger doesn't flinch. Slowly raises his hands. Palms open. No aggression. But no fear, either. His face — grey with exhaustion. In his eyes — no alarm, no hope. Only a heavy, vacant calm.
"Relax," he says. "I sent you the blueprints. I'm Nicholas. Head of security. I covered your entry. Without me, you'd be dead — or halfway through and already bleeding. I'm not your enemy."
The air thickens — dense like a wall. The heart pounds in its cage like a fist against steel.
"Why are you here?" one of the operatives asks, keeping his weapon raised.
Nicholas lowers his hands. His gaze is steady. Clear. Like someone who's already made peace with his fate.
"Because there's no going back. I erased the protocols, masked your routes, silenced the alarms. I've already crossed the line. If I stay, they'll break me. Interrogate me. Feed me back to the system. And it doesn't forgive reruns. I want out. With you."
He steps closer. Not in defense — more like someone who's already drowned and is simply walking along the ocean floor.
"Take me. Decide later. I'm no threat. But if I stay, I become a liability. And you can't afford weakness."
The commander stays silent. Inside — anger. Distrust. The instinct to stay in control. He has six men. He has seconds. And now — this... ghost from the other side of the cage.
But he knows: if they leave Nicholas behind, the Platform will find him. Crack him open. Squeeze him dry, down to the last byte.
"Fine," he says. Clipped. Reluctant. "You fly with us. After that — we'll see."
Nicholas doesn't thank him. Just steps back toward the wall. As if he's rehearsed this moment a hundred times.
He has rehearsed it.
At that instant, a second trio arrives from the tunnel — another team. Just as smooth, just as silent, just as lethal. Two squads. One mission. One way out.
No words needed.
The decision's made.
The airlock greets them with red standby lights. The dim glow casts shadows on thermal seams like wrinkles on old skin. The shuttles are ready. Two pilots per craft. Sealed compartments. The scent — cold metal, ozone, and something else. Like the scent of freedom, slipping through your fingers.
The operatives check helmets. Fasten clamps. All in silence. No panic. Mechanical, precise. Panic kills. Precision saves.
Nicholas boards last. His movements — slower than the others.
He's no longer in command.
Now, he's just one of them.
Or temporarily.
Locks disengage.
The shuttles slip from the airlock — one, then the other.
The Platform remains behind — like a leviathan sedated under anesthesia.
Alive. But unaware that poison already flows through its veins.
Ahead — vacuum. Darkness. No weight. No sound.
But there is guilt.
The team leader reaches the comms panel. Finds the frequency. Tunes the channel. His fingers tremble — just slightly. Not from fear. From the tension still clinging to his bones.
"Hirota, do you read?"
"I'm here," comes the captain's voice — calm as the void itself. Behind it — the weight of experience, like a mountain casting a shadow.
"Mission complete. All charges placed. Target evacuated. We're bringing... a guest."
Pause. Channel crackles. Like gravel underfoot.
"Copy that. Good work. Awaiting your return."
The signal fades.
The shuttles vanish into the depths of vacuum. They follow a precise vector, merging with the wake of a freight hauler. It is their cover. Their cloak. Their armor.
The Platform still sleeps.
The sensors remain quiet.
But beneath its armored skin, a sickness has already taken root.
And among them — the fugitive.
Nicholas.
The traitor.
The ally.
The resource.
The burden.
He sits in half-shadow, back against the cold compartment wall. Eyes half-closed.
He no longer calculates. No longer commands. No longer thinks.
He simply breathes.
For now — he breathes.