CHAPTER 124: 124

The old man pressed a button beneath the table.

With a low, mechanical grind, the heavy mahogany structure shifted aside.

A hidden staircase spiraled downward into darkness, revealing a secret passage lit faintly by dim yellow bulbs.

"Get them Down," the old man ordered coldly, his voice echoing in the large hall.

The people huddled inside looked at one another in terror. Some hesitated, clinging to the last scraps of defiance.

But the guards’ whips and iron rods came down ruthlessly. Cries filled the air as the reluctant ones were beaten into submission.

Limp bodies were dragged and pushed toward the stairs.

Only the old man, his trusted lackeys, and the captives descended into the underground.

The guards remained upstairs, their presence unnecessary beyond that point.

Hunter, standing in the shadows, muttered under his breath, "I’ll kill all of them knight. Sick Bastards!!"

Knight’s voice crackled in his earpiece, sharp and steady. "Hunter, keep calm. Don’t blow your cover."

Hunter’s eyes gleamed with determination as he whispered back, "Knight... I’m going down there tonight. No matter what."

For the next few hours, Hunter prowled the periphery of the villa, studying every detail, every pattern of movement.

He tested locked doors, surveyed guard rotations, and searched relentlessly for a passage. His patience paid off when a new convoy arrived.

Black vans rolled in, their headlights cutting through the mist.

Out stepped a group of men and women, all dressed in pristine white coats and masks, their faces hard and unfeeling.

Each carried a sleek black briefcase. They didn’t waste time—phones out, fingers flying rapidly across their screens.

Within seconds, the table moved again. The staircase slid open with its mechanical groan.

The scientists filed down in precise formation. But they didn’t realize their number had shifted.

From the shadows, Hunter struck. He moved with lethal precision, dragging one of the masked scientists into the dark.

A muffled grunt, a quick blow, and the man was down cold.

Within moments, Hunter had stripped him of his coat, mask, and ID badge.

Adjusting his disguise, Hunter joined the group, blending seamlessly into the sea of white.

The air grew colder as they descended. Hunter’s breath fogged faintly in front of him.

He slowed, his disguised steps faltering. His eyes widened as he took in the sight before him.

"Holy... shit," he whispered.

Through the camera on his chest, Knight saw everything. His voice cracked through the earpiece, horrified. "What the f—Hunter, what the hell is this place?"

Hunter’s jaw clenched. The corridor stretched endlessly, split into two sides by towering glass walls.

The underground was no mere cellar—it was a meticulously designed facility, polished and sterile, humming with machinery.

Those who didn’t know any better might mistake it for a normal hospital ward—white coats, monitors beeping, patients lying in rows of beds.

But anyone with true expertise would see through the façade instantly. This was no place of healing.

It was an observation ward, a chamber of experiments where every breath, every heartbeat, every twitch of the captives was being studied like data points rather than signs of life.

Each bed inside the glass chambers had multiple monitors attached—heart rate, brain waves, oxygen levels, and endless streams of data scrolling across digital screens.

Doctors and researchers in white coats hovered around the captives, jotting notes, checking charts, or adjusting the steady drip of fluids being pumped into their veins.

The low murmur of their clinical discussions blended with the mechanical hum of machines, creating an atmosphere colder than any winter..

The massive hall stretched endlessly, divided into sections.

Each glass room was marked with neat, black letters and numbers: A1, A2, A3... continuing alphabetically down the long corridor.

Hunter’s eyes flicked across them, counting, realizing there weren’t just a handful—but dozens. Hundreds.

His heart thudded. At least a hundred people here... maybe more.

All of them were restrained. Shackled wrists and ankles kept them flat against the beds.

Most looked like husks of humans—frail, skeletal frames that suggested weeks, months, maybe even years of confinement.

Emaciated faces stared blankly into the void, their eyes dull and unfocused.

Some twitched involuntarily, shivering against restraints that dug into their bones.

Many lay unconscious, their chests rising and falling weakly, skin pale as wax and sunken over brittle bones.

Tubes ran into both arms, needles jammed into veins, dripping strange fluids of varying colors into their fragile bodies.

Bags of thick liquid hung on metal stands, some transparent, others milky or a sickly green.

On the other side of the tubes, vials filled slowly with blood, plasma, or other substances, feeding into machines that whirred softly.

Hunter’s jaw clenched behind the mask.

"In the name of the devil..." Hunter whispered, low enough only Knight could catch through the comm.

Knight’s voice crackled back almost instantly, grim and sharp. "She can’t hear you now, Hunter.

Focus. Find out what they’re doing in there... these beasts..." he ended with a low, angry huff.

A male researcher brushed past him, speaking to a colleague in clipped, detached tones.

"Subject A14’s vitals are dropping too quickly. Increase dosage by ten milligrams."

His colleague frowned. "Ten milligrams? That will rupture the vascular system."

The first man shrugged. "Then log it. We’ll note the failure and replace him from the next batch."

Hunter’s fists curled so tight his knuckles whitened under the gloves.

Another voice rose from further down. A female doctor tapped her tablet as she observed a trembling young woman in Room A7.

"Her neural activity is spiking abnormally.

Run a secondary scan. If it stabilizes, transfer her to Section B. If not..." she paused, eyes cold behind the mask, "...terminate."

Another replied without emotion, "Noted. If the body collapses, we’ll log the failure and prepare a replacement."

A muffled sob escaped one of the captives, but it was ignored, drowned under the mechanical hum and the scratching of pens against clipboards.

A woman on the left banged her chained wrists weakly against the steel bedrails, the clinking echo sharp against the mechanical hum of the machines.

Her sobs cracked the sterile silence, raw and desperate.