The titanium latches clicked open.
Cold vapor spilled over the metal lip of the unmarked crate. The heavy white fog curled around Caleb's boots in the intake yard.
He reached through the freezing mist. His taped fingers closed around the hilt of a sleek, matte-black phase-dagger. The grip was machined from raw, porous Kaiju bone, designed to absorb sweat and blood without slipping. He lifted the weapon. It weighed almost nothing. A contained, high-frequency hum vibrated through the steel core, distorting the air around the edge. It radiated a biting chill against his palm. An ice dagger built for close-quarters butchery.
A restricted, black-market execution asset. The military strictly embargoed this hardware from anyone below Vanguard rank.
The polished recruit in the adjacent lane stopped adjusting his branded gloves. The arrogance drained from his face. He stared at the weapon.
Purple text flashed across the cracked glass of Caleb's visor.
