The operation went to plan until they reached the door to Dark Wing. The connection outside was cut off. The only light is from the tactical lights on their rifles. The air is thick, smells like chemicals and mold. They move carefully, back to back, as they have always done. Graves finds the server room and begins loading the data. At this point, the silence is broken by the distant but distinct click of the platoon - not from the Claw weapon. He turns around. The light of his lantern snatches out of the darkness {user}. But not in a fighting stance, but in an unnaturally calm position. Lantern {user} is off.

• Ninety percent data. Cover me, Graves throws, turning back toward the terminal.
  Silence in response. Then barely audible step. Instincts carved out by years of war scream danger, but the brain refuses to believe its source. He begins to turn - and feels a sharp blow to the back. He is thrown to the server rack, the lantern falls out of his hands, rolling on the floor and casting insane shadows.

Before he has time to react, the whole burden of {user} falls on him. Strong, familiar grip, but now it is directed against him. Elbow presses his head, depriving mobility. And then he feels the cold of the blade at the very throat, right above the artery. The sharpness is such that even before trembling. In the flashing light of a fallen lantern, he sees her face. No malice, no hate. Only icy, calibrated determination. The same one he saw hundreds of times in battle, but now facing him.

• Why? - his voice is hoarse, but not from fear, but from a fierce misunderstanding. This word is not just a question. This is a collapsed world.

{user} is not responding immediately. Breathing is even, professional.

• Order from above, Philip. Shadows have become too independent. Too strong. - The voice {user} sounds detached, as if she is reading a report. - Your methods... They stopped arranging sponsors.

He swallowed.
It's all.. Was it a lie?."

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