SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

The world was a full of red lights and screaming alarms.

Heavy, metallic thuds echoed through the corridors as blast doors slammed shut, turning the pristine, white laboratory into a cage.

"Okay, so, on a scale of one to 'we are all going to die in a blaze of glory', how screwed are we right now?" Leo's voice crackled over their comms, his tone a high-pitched, frantic buzz of pure, unadulterated panic.

"Because I'm feeling a pretty solid 'blaze of glory'."

"I just want to manage my expectations."

Miles ignored him.

His mind was a cold, clear, and deeply focused instrument of tactical analysis.

He was a ghost in his element.

Chaos was his home turf.

He could see them on his internal heads-up display, the red dots representing the approaching security forces, dozens of them, converging on their position from every conceivable angle.

They were a tidal wave of boots and guns, and his team was a small, fragile island about to be washed away.

"They're boxing us in," Gideon's voice rumbled beside him, a low, steady bass note in the high-pitched shriek of the alarms.

The old soldier was back, the ghosts of his past banished, for now, by the clear and present danger of the immediate future.

He looked at Leo, a flicker of something, a deep, painful pride, in his weary gray eyes.

"That was a foolish thing you did, son," Gideon said, his voice a low, rough murmur.

"But it was the right thing."

"Thank you."

Before Leo could respond, before he could even process the rare, almost unheard-of praise from his gruff, surrogate father, a new figure appeared in the chaos.

They didn't come through a door.

They dropped from a ceiling vent, a silent, graceful specter of death in a featureless white mask.

The Masked Fighter.

"Oh, great, it's him again," Miles thought, his internal monologue a low, sarcastic growl.

"The king of the dramatic entrance."

"Does this guy ever just use a door?"

"Is he allergic to hallways?"

The Masked Fighter landed in a perfect, silent crouch, their blade of pure, brilliant, white light already humming in their hand.

They gave Gideon a single, curt nod.

A soldier reporting to their commander.

This wasn't just a random ally.

Miles realized with a jolt.

This was his second-in-command.

His most trusted lieutenant.

"Kael," Gideon said, his voice a quiet, firm command. "The package is secure. Begin extraction protocol."

The Masked Fighter, Kael, gave another sharp nod.

He blurred forward, a storm of white light and impossible grace, and began to systematically dismantle the control panel for the stasis pods.

Sparks flew.

Alarms blared.

And one by one, the captured tournament fighters were released, tumbling to the floor in a dazed, confused heap.

"Get them on their feet!" Gideon roared, his voice the unquestionable command of a battlefield general. "We're leaving!"

Just as he said it, a new voice, a new presence, filled the room.

It was not a sound.

It was a feeling.

A cold, heavy, and deeply familiar presence that made the air turn to ice.

The large viewscreen on the far wall, which had been showing a flashing red warning sign, flickered to life.

The face of Silas Cross filled the screen.

He was sitting in his sterile, white office, a calm, predatory smile on his lips.

He looked… pleased.

He looked like a man who had just won a very, very long game of chess.

His cold, gray eyes were not on Miles.

They were not on Clara.

They were fixed, with a chilling, possessive intensity, on the man who had been his ghost for two decades.

"Gideon," Silas said, his voice a low, triumphant purr that sent a shiver down Miles's spine.

"I knew you couldn't stay hidden forever."

"I knew you'd come crawling out of your little hole eventually."

"All it took was the right bait."

Gideon just stared at the screen, his face a mask of pure, cold, and deeply personal hatred.

"You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Silas," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Silas just chuckled, a dry, humorless sound.

"And you always had a weakness for lost causes," he countered.

"Like this one," he said, gesturing vaguely at Leo.

"And this one," he added, his gaze finally flicking to Miles, a flicker of pure, avaricious greed in his eyes.

"My lost property."

The first of the security teams arrived, a squad of six elite masters in heavy, black combat gear, their energy rifles raised.

They flooded into the room, taking up defensive positions, their weapons trained on the small, cornered group.

"It's over, Gideon," Silas said, his voice a calm, final declaration.

"Surrender my assets to me."

"And I might let your daughter live to be a part of my new, and much improved, research team."

The threat was not a shout.

It was a business proposal.

A transaction.

And that, finally, was what broke the last of Gideon's carefully constructed calm.

He looked at his daughter, at the fierce, unwavering strength in her eyes.

He looked at Leo, the broken boy he had raised as his own.

He looked at Miles, the son of his murdered friends, the living legacy of a dream he had been forced to abandon.

He saw his family.

His responsibility.

His failure.

And his last, desperate chance at redemption.

He made a choice.

He turned to Miles, his eyes burning with a fierce, desperate fire that Miles had only ever seen in his own father's eyes, in a broken, fragmented dream.

"Get them out of here, Miles!" he roared, his voice the unquestionable command of a mentor, of a father, of a man who was about to make his final stand.

"Protect my daughter!"

He didn't wait for an answer.

He moved.

He launched himself at the line of elite guards, a storm of pure, controlled, and utterly overwhelming force.

His system, the one he had kept hidden, the one he had held in reserve for two decades, finally flared to life.

A wall of pure, solid, shimmering force erupted from his body, slamming into the guards, sending them flying like bowling pins.

He was a fortress.

A one-man army.

A father protecting his children.

Kael, the Masked Fighter, was already at their side, grabbing a now-conscious but dazed VoidRipper by the arm.

"This way!" he commanded, his distorted voice a sharp, urgent cry.

He led them to a reinforced wall on the far side of the room.

He placed his hand on it, and a section of the wall slid away, revealing a dark, narrow, and clearly very old maintenance tunnel.

Their escape route.

Clara hesitated, her eyes fixed on her father, who was now a whirlwind of light and force, single-handedly holding back the tide of Cross Corp's army.

"Father!" she cried out, her voice breaking.

"Go!" Gideon's voice roared back, a final, desperate command that was almost lost in the sound of battle.

Miles didn't hesitate.

He grabbed Clara's arm, his grip firm but gentle.

"We have to go," he said, his voice a low, steady promise.

"We'll come back for him."

He pulled her toward the tunnel, toward the darkness, toward the hope of escape.

The last thing he saw before the door slid shut behind them was Gideon Thorne, standing alone against an army, a weary, defiant smile on his face.

A father's ghost, making his last stand to save the future.

The door slammed shut, the sound a final, heavy, and deeply resonant thud that echoed the closing of a tomb.

Gideon was gone.

And the weight of his final command, the weight of a legacy, the weight of a promise, had just settled squarely, and heavily, on Miles's shoulders.