Lucien's Point Of View
The high-definition monitors in our underground command room hummed softly, casting a stark, bluish glow across the dark glass table. The air smelled faintly of gun oil and cigar smoke, a scent that had long since become synonymous with home - a home built on secrets, blood, and the constant hum of vigilance.
It was a smell I'd stopped noticing years ago, the way one stops noticing the weight of a ring worn too long, yet tonight it pressed against my senses with unusual clarity, as though even the room itself sensed something had gone wrong.
On the center screen, the thermal camera feed from the harbor drone showed the dark silhouette of the cargo vessel pushing out into the black open waters, its wake churning white foam against the darker sea. The infrared outline flickered every so often as the drone adjusted altitude, but the vessel never wavered from its course, cutting through the night with an infuriating, unbothered steadiness.
