The hatch door opened with a slow metal drag, and a silhouette stepped through — not hostile posture, not extraction stance. Hands visible. No weapon drawn. But the tension in the air didn’t ease.
Because this wasn’t one of Lang’s guards.
It was an analyst.
Mid-30s, sharp-eyed, still wearing a Division lanyard — but his badge was inverted, ID side facing his chest. A violation. A signal.
“Close the door,” Adrian said flatly.
The analyst didn’t. He shut it behind himself only, leaving it unlocked — a calculated message: I’m not here to trap you. I’m here because someone will follow me if I don’t move fast.
Adrian shifted his stance. “State your purpose.”
The analyst swallowed once, tension wired through his voice. “I’m not here under orders. I’m here because the wrong faction got to
