The sun filters through half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across the table. The smell of scrambled eggs and toast mingles with faint traces of gun oil—ghosts of the night before. Trella is already at the table, hair damp from a quick shower, flipping through last night’s notes on a tablet. Katya nurses a mug of black tee, bleary-eyed but alert. Aya lumbers in wearing an oversized hoodie, yawning so wide her jaw pops. “Whoever invented mornings should be shot.”

  “Last time you said the same thing about cardio drills,” Anya smirked.

  “Yeah, and I meant it both times.” Aya shoots back.

  Maya stands at the stove, stirring eggs with professional calm. Samira sneaks slices of toast before they’re buttered. Liza and Amelie quietly set out plates, the soft clinking filling the room. Mei-Ling drifts in last. Her face is clean, hair neatly tied, but the shadows under her eyes remain. She hesitates at the doorway until Trella looks up and offers a small, genuine smile. “Sit down before Aya eats your share.”

  “Too late,” Aya said with a full mouth.

  A ripple of laughter breaks the heavy air. Mei-Ling slides into a chair. She manages the first real smile since Savannah. Then Talia appeared. “You all look like zombies.”

  “Zombies who saved a dozen lives,” Maya replies.

  Talia grins. “Eat. Shower. Nap. Williams says he’s impressed. And a little terrified.”

  Trella leans back, stretching, and for a moment the world feels almost normal. Sunlight, the chatter of girls, the smell of buttered toast. The storm clouds are far away—for now.

  ***

  Maps of the Southeast are tacked to the wall, covered in pins and strings. Michelle’s laptop hums as she projects a spreadsheet onto a portable screen. Talia hovers beside her, Dawson sifts through intercepted shipping records and Williams leans on the table with his arms crossed. Michelle gestures to the data. “Alright, here’s what shook out after cross-referencing the Atlanta warehouse manifests with SimCor’s logistics data. Four locations flag unusual traffic. First, SimCor Labs in Baltimore Suburbs. Publicly listed pharmaceutical research lab. Very few shipments from Atlanta.”

  “If they’re cooking up serum 2.0, this could be it,” Williams says. “But raiding a public lab is a political nightmare. The blowback would be huge.”

  “Second,” Michelle continues. “Tech Development & Testing. Attached to a veteran hospital in Charleston as a prosthetics R&D wing.”

  “Almost no paper trail,” Dawson adds. “just some specialized fiber and microchip deliveries.”

  Talia exhales slowly. “If they’re slipping combat tech through a veteran hospital, that’s cold even for them. If we could get a look at the prosthetics, it might give us a clue.”

  “I think I can arrange that,” Dawson says. “They’re in an Army hospital. Let me try contacting Briggs, see if he can go on a little unofficial field trip.”

  Talia continues. “Next is SimCor Prosthetics Factory in the Savannah Outskirts. Regular shipments, but it’s a legit, high-profile site.”

  “We hit that wrong,” Michelle says flatly, “and we look like terrorists smashing an actual prosthetics factory.“

  She switches slides again.

  “Last one in an unlisted facility in the North Georgia woods. Doesn’t appear on any official SimCor roster and has received the most shipments from Atlanta.”

  “This place is off the books,” Dawson says. “Likely an assembly station or something deeper.”

  “That’s our hot lead,” Williams agrees. “But we can’t be sure it’s the development site. If it’s just assembly, we’re still blind on R&D.”

  “If we move on the unlisted site first, we might spook them into relocating. But wait too long, and they could finish upgrading the cyborg program,” Talia says.

  “And if they’ve started building 2.0s,” Michelle adds, “every day we waste makes a frontal assault suicide.”

  Williams scans the room. “Options?”

  “We could split focus,” Dawson suggests. “Recon the unlisted site while we quietly probe the VA facility. Low-profile eyes, not a full raid.”

  “And plant false intel in SimCor’s network, like we’re sniffing around Savannah again,” Talia adds. “ Make them shift resources or panic”

  Williams nods slowly, but his face is grim. “Alright. Priority is the off-book site. But keep Charleston on the board, we’ll need proof of the R&D pipeline if we’re gonna put a bullet in SimCor’s whole operation.”

  ***

  A warm Southern breeze rustles the flags out front. Williams’ black SUV pulls into the visitor lot of the Charleston Veteran Hospital. Michelle, Talia, and Milena step out, their casual jackets barely concealing tension. Williams locks eyes with them. “Remember, Briggs doesn’t know the full picture. We keep this tight.”

  They’re met at the entrance by Major Clayton, a weathered man in his fifties with a clipped haircut and the calm authority of someone who’s seen combat. “Agent Williams. These are… your specialists?”

  “Consultants. Just need a peek at what SimCor’s cooking for your boys.”

  “Nothing classified. Come with me.”

  The corridors are bright but subdued. Inside the rehab gym are veterans, some barely out of their twenties, practicing walking on advanced prosthetic legs or flexing new bionic fingers. A double-amputee laughs with a therapist as he manipulates a robotic arm. Milena looks concerned; she masks it as professional curiosity. Talia glances at Michelle and Michelle’s lips thin in a grim line.

  “SimCor’s been a godsend for these men and women,” Clayton explains. “They’re field-testing an advanced neural interface, which connects straight to the peripheral nerves. It lets the prosthetic respond like a real limb.”

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  He gestures toward a table where a sleek arm prosthetic rests on display: matte-gray alloys, microfibers braided like muscle.

  Clayton continues. “Lighter than titanium. Stronger, too. You’d be surprised what these things can handle.”

  Milena’s eyes trace the grain of the alloy with her gaze. Recognition flashes. Talia subtly exchanges a glance with Williams: it’s the same material they pulled from Kane’s stash.

  “Beautiful piece of engineering,” Michelle says carefully.

  “SimCor calls it the Ares Series,” Clayton replies proudly. “Half of these guys are walking again because of it.”

  In the background, a soldier flexes a new hand. Servo motors whine softly, the motion eerily lifelike.

  “Same weave pattern. Same bonding agents,” Milena murmurs under her breath.

  “They didn’t even bother to change the specs…” Talia whispers to Michelle.

  The team walks back toward the SUV. The cheerful sounds from inside fade, replaced by the whisper of the wind.

  “We can’t hit them through the VA,” Williams says. “They’re doing real good here. But now we know SimCor’s R&D is the same tech.

  “They’re using veterans as cover,” Michelle adds.

  “And every limb they perfect here…” Milena says grimly “Makes the next cyborg that much harder to kill.”

  The hospital flag snaps against the sky. A symbol of service, now entwined with a dark secret.

  ***

  In the orphanage the common room hums with quiet activity. Maps, laptops, and half-eaten takeout clutter the worktables. The girls lounge on couches or lean against walls, still in relaxed clothes but alert. A small fire crackles in the corner stove, fighting off the chill.

  The door opens, Williams, Michelle, Talia and Milena step in. Their expressions are sober but not panicked. Trella looks up from a sofa. “So? Any smoking gun?”

  “Not exactly,” Williams said. “The VA facility’s clean. Good people. Real soldiers getting their lives back.”

  “But the prosthetics there use the same metal and weave pattern. Same specs as the cyborgs,” Milena adds.

  Talia is already tapping her tablet. “They’re feeding their R&D into SimCor’s black projects. The hospital’s just a cover. Nothing shady happening on-site.”

  Aya slumps deeper into a beanbag, exhaling relief. “So no raid? Guess that’s one less nightmare.”

  “For now. They’re still cranking out parts somewhere else.” Anya says dryly.

  Michelle flicks through photos on her tablet—images of the prosthetic arm at the VA. “It confirms the link, though. Whoever’s running the illegal side has access to legitimate production streams.”

  “We can’t burn the VA,” Aiko says quietly. “Too many innocents.”

  “And if we even sneeze wrong at Baltimore or Savannah,” Talia adds, “SimCor calls Homeland and we’re the bad guys.”

  “Exactly,” Williams says. “Walk through the front door with a warrant we don’t have? We’ll be shut down, and Ferguson can’t shield us from a full-scale inquiry.”

  “Baltimore is squeaky clean on paper,” Michelle continues. “Every shipment logged, every audit spotless. If anything shady’s moving, they’re funneling it off-record.”

  “And Savannah’s just redistribution,” Dawson says. “Hit either one openly, and SimCor cries terrorism. Public sympathy swings their way, not ours.”

  Trella leans over the table map and circles North Georgia with a marker. “Then our next move is the unlisted site—the ghost facility. If that’s where shipments are vanishing, that’s where Schmidt, or whoever’s pulling the strings, will slip up.

  Maya tosses a granola bar across the table to Samira. “Eat. You’re on drones again next op.”

  Samira grins back. “Best seat in the house.”

  “We can shadow their outgoing trucks in Baltimore or Savannah. Tag shipments. Maybe slip a micro-drone inside without tripping sensors,” Talia suggests.

  “Cherry Bomb likes sneaky. Sneaky goes boom later.”

  But Milena doesn’t smile. “Remember, SimCor does save lives at those sites. Prosthetics, meds… The hospital confirmed it. We could hurt innocent people.

  Williams scans the group. Battle-worn but resolute. “We play this smart. We hit the wrong place, and Ferguson’s leash snaps. But hit the right one and we rip the mask off whoever’s behind these things.”

  Trella nods. “Alright, Fangs. Eyes open, claws sheathed. For now... Next breadcrumb they drop, we pounce.

  The orphanage is glowing with screens and determination. A quiet war room hidden in small-town Maryland. The storm outside rattles the windowpanes, a subtle omen of the fight ahead.

  ***

  The glow of multiple monitors paints Talia’s and Michelle’s faces in pale light. Empty soda cans and a half-eaten pizza litter the desk. Both look tired and discouraged. Samira is already sleeping on her desk.

  “One hundred trucks out of Savannah,” Talia yawns, scrolling through live feeds. “One hundred into Baltimore. Ninety-nine percent legit. Feels like watching grass grow.”

  “And even if there’s a jackpot,” Michelle says, tapping through customs data, “it might not be on a truck. A guy with a briefcase or a family sedan could move those vials off-grid. We’re practically guessing”

  “SimCor’s smart. Big shipments are camouflage,” Talia sighs, adjusting the map. “The real stuff? Small enough to fit in a glove box.”

  Michelle leans closer. “What about traffic patterns? Anything unusual? Late-night departures, off-route stops?”

  “Working on it,” Talia says, fingers flying. “But they’re disciplined. Savannah builds prosthetics, nothing illegal about that. Baltimore’s pharma lab barely gets anything from Atlanta, and what it does is medical grade. The paperwork is perfect.”

  “Then we stop waiting,” Williams says from behind them. “If we hit the wrong place, we’re terrorists. But that unlisted site in the woods? That one’s theirs.”

  Milena spreads a printout on the table. “Heavily wooded, low power draw during the day, probably running underground. Small convoys slip in and out at night. Minimal outside traffic.”

  “That’s the needle in the haystack,” Talia says firmly. “North Georgia or bust.”

  “We start prepping,” Williams decides. “No more ghosts. No more guesses. This one we finish. Get some sleep.”

  The monitors dim. The map of North Georgia remains, a single red pin glowing deep in the forest..

  ***

  The abandoned ranger station in the North Georgia woods smells of damp pine and dust. Crates of ammo, spare magazines, and a small generator hums quietly in a corner. Outside, the forest is thick and dark, with the distant whine of insects. The Fangs and Williams have set up a nest of laptops, cables, and thermal scopes on a rickety table. The monitor glow throws sharp light over tired faces.

  Trella studies a thermal feed from a long-range drone. “Perimeter is active, motion sensors on the east and north fences. Cameras everywhere. If we’re seen, it’s over.”

  “Looks like they’re expecting company,” Amelie mutters, cleaning her BAR. “ Or they’re just that paranoid.”

  “They’re expecting someone, Talia says, scrolling through an intercepted feed. “Look, vehicle logs. Unmarked SUVs with heavy escorts in the last two hours.”

  “They’re moving pieces into place,” Aiko says softly.

  “And here’s the kicker,” Michelle adds, leaning over another screen. “Schmidt’s ID pinged a security gate ten minutes ago.”

  The room goes still. Even Williams stops mid-step, coffee in hand. “Schmidt’s here… in person?”

  “And he’s not alone,” Michelle adds. “Two VIP vehicles I don’t recognize entered not long ago. One of them belongs to… someone high ranked in Langley?!”

  Williams curses under his breath and rubs his face. He realised that this goes higher than he feared.

  “So if we back off now, they’ll know someone’s sniffing around,” Maya says grimly. “If we let them walk out, the next gen cyborgs will be hunting us.”

  Trella’s gaze meets everyone’s eyes. “Then we take the whole thing out. All of it.”

  “We go in heavy,” Amelie says. “No prisoners, but we need to take the data.”

  Silence, except for the rain starting on the tin roof.

  “If this goes bad,” Talia says hesitantly, “Dawson’s standing by with the nuclear option?”

  “Yeah,” Williams answers. “If we disappear, he dumps everything to every journalist and watchdog he can find.”

  “Then I’m going in with you,” Michelle says.

  Heads snap toward her. The girls don’t argue. Aiko and Trella exchange a brief glance but stay quiet. Only Williams reacts. “Absolutely not! You’re not field-trained for this!”

  “You’ll need someone to pull data on-site if their network’s isolated. You can’t risk dragging a cyborg corpse out just to read a hard drive later. I’m your fastest option.”

  “She’s right,” Trella said calmly. “We can’t call for outside support once we’re underground.”

  Williams stares at her, jaw tight, but the silence of the others says the decision’s made. “Fine. But you stay behind cover, you move when Trella says, and if things go south, you run. You don’t be a hero.”

  “No promises, Dad.”

  The generator hum grows louder as thunder rolls outside. The Fang girls start checking weapons, loading magazines, and assembling breaching charges. The storm outside mirrors the storm they’re about to walk into.