PROJECT: CAYRO

Colonel Sirnic:

September 13, 2025

08:00 EST

Crisfield, Virgina

Rolling up to the large house at the end of the street, I parked my Humvee in the driveway. My eyes lingered on the house—my childhood home. It never had a shred of warmth to it. The welcoming facade, like many things in my life, was nothing more than a lie. Behind those walls lay nightmares that shaped me into the man I’d become.

I closed my eyes, taking a long, steady breath before stepping out of the vehicle. I was here to see the man who raised me.

The click of the door closing behind me echoed in the silent foyer as my boots hit the polished floor. The sound carried, hollow and cold, like everything else in this place. My uncle had summoned me to discuss the next stage of his plans. Without much thought, my feet guided me to his office, where the muffled strains of classical music played behind a stained-glass door.

I raised my hand to knock, but before my knuckles touched the glass, his deep, commanding voice cut through the music. “Come in, Sebastian.”

Swallowing hard, I pushed the door open. He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, waiting. His hair was mostly gray now, with a few stubborn streaks of brown slicked back, and his suit—sharp and fitted—matched the severity of his expression. His nearly black eyes locked onto me, cold and calculating, his sunken features framed in a permanent scowl.

I stood at attention, rooted in place, as memories of my childhood flashed through my mind. Conversations with him were never pleasant, and today felt like one of those times he’d remind me of my failures.

“Have a seat, Sebastian,” he ordered, gesturing to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk.

I sat, meeting his icy gaze without flinching. “Good morning, Senator,” I said, my voice flat but respectful.

“I’m glad you arrived safely, son,” he replied, his voice devoid of warmth.

“Thank you, sir.”

His fingers drummed lightly on the desk. “I called you here to discuss the recent failures in your unit.”

The dryness in my mouth returned, the familiar knot tightening in my gut. I could already feel where this conversation was headed.

“Yes, sir. My apologies for the failures,” I said, bowing my head slightly.

His voice sharpened. “I don’t recall blaming you for the failures, Sebastian. If anything, your actions have proven you're the only one who knows how to follow orders.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the rare hint of praise. Compliments from him were like relics of a forgotten past, and I hadn’t heard one in years. But I kept my expression neutral. He despised weakness, and showing surprise was just another form of it.

“Understood, sir,” I replied evenly.

He leaned back slightly. “Your predecessor is the one responsible for the failures. He should have known by now—I do not tolerate failure.” He gestured toward the adjoining room, where the darkened doorway framed a pair of boots. The body attached to them was slumped over, just visible enough to catch the gleam of an Air Force academy ring on one blood-stained hand.

It was General Mays.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even blink. Years of practice had trained me to keep my thoughts buried deep.

“You understand the consequences of failure, don’t you, Sebastian?” my uncle asked, his voice as smooth as the wine in his glass.

“Yes, sir,” I answered.

“Good. The dear General failed me one too many times,” my uncle remarked, picking up a wine glass filled with dark red liquid. He swirled it lazily, watching the crimson substance catch the light before tipping the glass to his lips. After a slow sip, he set it back down on the desk with a quiet clink.

“Hmm... not quite to my liking. Aged too long,” he said, his voice calm but laced with distaste.

I followed the trail of the red liquid as it trickled down the inner surface of the glass. I didn’t need to ask what it was—there was no need. I sat silently, waiting for him to continue.

“It has come to my attention that things are not progressing well,” he said, his eyes drifting briefly toward the body of the General. “Our enemies have managed to slip through our fingers, all thanks to that fool’s arrogance.”

“I agree, sir,” I replied, keeping my voice steady.

“I know you do,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve read your reports. Your suggestions were clear, but he chose to ignore them.” His voice held an edge of disdain, as though General Mays were nothing more than an inconvenience that had been dealt with accordingly.

I gave him a curt nod, letting him know I was listening.

“You’ll be taking over where he left off. Effective immediately. I want you to begin Project Saber using the data you’ve gathered.”

“Yes, sir. But there is one issue,” I replied, treading carefully.

His sharp gaze flicked toward me. “What is that, son?”

“We still haven’t identified the catalyst needed to activate the procedure,” I answered.

“Ah, yes...” He turned in his chair, reaching for a black pelican briefcase on a side table. He set it on the desk with a soft thud and unlatched it. As he flipped it open, I saw ten vials of bright red liquid, each one nestled securely in the foam lining.

“You’ll use this,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The catalyst will be administered to every candidate. Once the procedure is complete, you’ll evaluate them. The two strongest will be inducted into the Nact.”

I leaned forward slightly, studying the vials. “Understood, sir.”

“In the meantime,” he continued, “you’ll track down the two that escaped. We may no longer need them for their knowledge, but we need them to draw him out.”

I didn’t have to ask who he was. My uncle’s obsession with the man had been drilled into me long ago. The Master of Death—the one who would end us all if left unchecked.

“I’ll see to it, sir,” I said, rising from my chair as my uncle pushed the case toward me.

His eyes bore into mine as he spoke his final words. “Don’t fail me, Sebastian. Show me where your loyalties lie—with the Nact Society.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, taking the briefcase in hand.

“There’s one more thing,” he added as I turned to leave. “Another project in the works. Something that requires your attention.”

“What project, sir?” I asked, pausing.

His smile was thin, humorless. “Do you remember the Orion Project?”

I felt the familiar knot tighten in my stomach at the mention of that name. “Yes, sir. It killed Captain Bracton years ago.”

“Well, our old friend Captain Bracton seems to be giving us gifts from beyond the grave. He found a way to make the Orion Project succeed.”

The malicious grin that twisted across my uncle’s face told me everything I needed to know.

I gave him a respectful nod. “I look forward to seeing your plans come to fruition.”

Without another word, I turned and made my way out of his office. The house felt colder as I left, the weight of the briefcase heavy in my hand. I climbed into my Humvee, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway, my thoughts already racing toward what lay ahead.