Chapter 21: Cliff-Hanging Twist

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𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥—𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘻𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘮𝘪𝘥-𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱.

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Ethan's hand froze, hovering inches from the door. The interruption was an anomaly, an unforeseen variable. His jaw tightened as he fished the device out of his pocket, a sleek, black burner phone—standard issue from Umbrella. He unlocked it with a swift flick of his thumb, his eyes scanning the screen.

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙨. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙗𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚. 

Wesker's message. Short, direct, and with an undercurrent of control that Ethan despised. His brow furrowed slightly, the subtle tension betraying his otherwise impassive expression. He read it again, parsing the words, trying to decipher the unspoken implications. Wesker never explained, never elaborated. He commanded, and expected obedience.

The sterile lighting of the hallway felt harsher now, reflecting off the cold, white walls. Ethan's mind raced through the possible outcomes of this shift. Who was the backup? Another Umbrella operative, or someone less predictable? His meticulously laid plans would need recalibration, a task he had neither time nor desire for.

Another buzz—a second message. This one from Leon.

𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙢. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤

Trust. The word alone made Ethan's lip curl slightly, a flash of derision that vanished as quickly as it appeared. Trust was a luxury, something he couldn't afford. Not with Umbrella's history of manipulation and betrayal. But Leon's message held a different weight. It was a warning, a reminder of the blurred lines between ally and enemy, between mission and survival.

A voice, cold and detached, sliced through the silence—Wesker's voice, crackling through the phone as if he were speaking directly into Ethan's mind. "Drake, your backup will meet you at the extraction point. Trust is a luxury you cannot afford."

Ethan's response was a low murmur, his tone flat, devoid of emotion. "Understood."

He tucked the phone back into his pocket, his expression hardening into the familiar mask of resolve. The unease gnawing at the edges of his mind was buried under layers of discipline and focus. Ethan pushed the door open, stepping out into the dimly lit another corridor. The usually quiet space seemed louder, every footfall echoing with the tension coiled in his chest.

The armory was his destination—a cold, functional room lined with weapons and gear. Ethan's pace was measured, each step calculated as if every second was a beat in the rhythm of a silent countdown. As he walked, his mind was already adjusting to the new parameters of the mission, accounting for the unknown presence that would join him. Backup. An advantage, or a liability?

He entered the armory, the scent of gun oil and metal sharp in the air. The room was a testament to Umbrella's arsenal, walls lined with racks of firearms, shelves stocked with grenades and ammunition. Ethan moved with practiced efficiency, his hands selecting his weapons with the precision of a surgeon choosing his instruments.

He reached for his primary weapon—a 𝘾𝙪𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙢 1911 .45 𝘼𝘾𝙋 𝙋𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙡, its matte black finish absorbing the light. The suppressor, extended magazine, and laser sight made it a reliable tool of death, a weapon that had seen him through countless missions. Ethan checked the chamber, sliding in the first of his magazines: 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬—𝟖 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬. Two more followed, his fingers deftly loading them into the slots on his tactical vest.

Next, the 𝐇𝐊𝟒𝟏𝟔 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐑𝐢𝐟𝐥𝐞—a beast of a weapon, modified to his exact specifications. The smart holographic sight, suppressor, and AI-assisted targeting system made it lethal at any range. Ethan loaded the 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡-𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬—𝟑𝟎 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 into the magazine, the smooth click of the magazine locking into place a familiar sound. He added more magazines to his vest: 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐫-𝐏𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬—𝟑𝟎 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬—𝟑𝟎 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬—𝟑𝟎 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬. Total count: 𝟏𝟓𝟎 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬. Enough to turn any encounter into a one-sided slaughter.

Ethan's gaze fell on the 𝐔𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐓𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐭 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐟𝐞, its monomolecular edge gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He secured it in its sheath on his belt, knowing it could cut through almost anything—or anyone—if needed. A final check of his gear—night vision and thermal goggles, grappling hook, nano-smoke grenades, enhanced multi-tool, and a first aid kit—all stowed and secured.

He was ready, yet something gnawed at him—a seed of doubt planted by Wesker's cryptic message and Leon's warning. The mission had changed, and with it, the stakes. He placed the final magazine into his rifle, his hand hesitating just for a fraction of a second. Doubt, once a foreign concept, had become an unwelcome companion.

Ethan shook off the thought, forcing his mind back into the rigid focus that had kept him alive all these years. He had a job to do. The weight of his gear, the solid feel of his weapons—these were his constants, his anchors in a world that shifted and twisted with each passing moment.

He turned and left the armory, his steps echoing in the now-empty corridor. The air felt heavier, the light dimmer, as if the building itself sensed the tension coiling within him. He approached the elevator, its doors sliding open with a soft chime. Ethan stepped inside, his reflection caught in the mirrored walls—a lone figure, armored and armed, yet somehow smaller against the vastness of what lay ahead.

The doors closed with a muted thud, sealing him inside. The hum of the elevator's descent was the only sound, a mechanical lullaby that did nothing to calm the storm brewing in his mind. He stared at the panel, the numbers ticking down floor by floor, each one bringing him closer to the unknown.

As the elevator continued its descent, Ethan's thoughts returned to Leon's message. "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨." Did he? The words were meant to reassure, but instead, they echoed with a sinister ambiguity. Leon was a friend, perhaps the closest thing to one Ethan had in this world, but even friends had their limits, their breaking points. And in this line of work, those points were often reached sooner rather than later.

The elevator slowed, the faintest shift in momentum barely noticeable. Ethan straightened, every muscle tensing in anticipation. The moment the doors opened, he'd be stepping into the next phase of the mission—one now clouded by doubt and uncertainty.

The doors slid open with a hiss, revealing the dimly lit underground garage. Empty, save for a single, black SUV parked near the far wall. Ethan's gaze swept the space, every shadow a potential threat, every corner a possible hiding place.

He stepped out, his boots silent on the concrete floor. The air was thick, the faint scent of gasoline mingling with the cold, damp smell of the underground. He moved towards the vehicle, his grip tightening on his rifle, ready for anything—or anyone.

As he approached, the SUV's rear door clicked open, the sound sharp in the silence. Ethan's pulse quickened, his mind calculating the angles, the positions. He stopped a few feet away, his body coiled like a spring, ready to react.

From the shadows within the vehicle, a figure emerged—tall, clad in tactical gear, face obscured by a helmet and visor. The figure stepped into the light, the visor reflecting the harsh fluorescent glare. They stood there, silent, waiting.

Ethan's finger twitched near the trigger, his breath steady but shallow. The figure reached up, slowly removing their helmet. As the face beneath was revealed, Ethan's eyes narrowed, recognition flickering across his features. The mission had just taken another unexpected turn.

But he didn't speak, not yet. He needed to understand the new dynamic, the roles that had suddenly shifted. The figure met his gaze, their expression unreadable, yet something in their eyes hinted at knowledge—knowledge Ethan didn't yet possess.

The SUV's engine roared to life, the sound breaking the tension like a gunshot. Ethan climbed into the passenger seat, the figure sliding into the driver's seat. As the vehicle pulled out of the garage, the darkness outside seemed to swallow them whole, leaving behind the sterile light of the underground.

In the cold, black night, only the faint glow of the dashboard lights illuminated their faces. The road ahead was long, the destination unknown. And in that silence, the weight of the unsaid words, the unanswered questions, hung between them like a blade poised to strike.

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𝘌𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘭, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘭. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘉𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘶𝘱, 𝘺𝘦𝘴—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘮? 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦?

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