EASRS: Zero Z
Chapter 9
Adam
> "According to the latest report from Base 16…
The threat level posed by Scrop following his betrayal of GAM's North American branch… remains within controllable parameters."
Static lingered at the edge of the transmission.
A low mechanical hum stretched thin across the vast library-like chamber, dissolving into towering shelves packed tightly with books no one had touched in years. The air was heavy—dust floating lazily in dim amber light, as if time itself had slowed inside this room.
No guards.
No assistants.
No witnesses.
Only one man stood at the center.
Adam.
His black suit was immaculate—tailored to precision, sharp at every edge. The white collar beneath it remained crisp, untouched by disorder. His blond hair was combed neatly back, disciplined strands reflecting the same control that governed his posture. His beard was trimmed carefully along the jawline, accentuating a face that could belong equally to a corporate executive… or a man who had long abandoned moral hesitation.
His blue eyes were calm.
Too calm.
In his hand, the radio device felt heavier than usual.
Then—
A voice emerged from the other side.
Low.
Measured.
Cold enough to freeze the air.
---
CEO of GAM
> "Adam… you're misunderstanding the situation."
A faint exhale crackled through the speaker.
> "This isn't about danger."
A pause.
> "It's about internal influence."
The silence that followed was deliberate.
Oppressive.
> "Scrop has never cared about the organization. Not its ideology. Not its hierarchy."
A dry, almost amused breath.
> "The only reason he's still there… is because of that bitch, Valeria."
Her name settled into the room like ink bleeding into water.
Slow.
Spreading.
> "And I know exactly what you did with her."
For the first time—
Adam's fingers twitched.
Barely noticeable.
But real.
He turned slowly toward the tall window at the far end of the chamber. Outside, the city lights shimmered faintly through the darkness, distant and indifferent.
He didn't answer immediately.
His breath fogged the glass.
---
Adam
> "He won't find out."
His voice was quiet, almost blending into the static.
> "He's nothing more than a fool gifted with power."
After speaking, Adam's gaze lowered to his own hand.
Strong fingers.
Steady.
Controlled.
And then—
He froze.
A faint scent lingered on his skin.
Soft.
Floral.
Warm.
Valeria.
Memory did not return in clear images.
It came in sensations.
Her silver-white hair spilling across dark sheets like moonlight collapsing into shadow.
The warmth of her skin beneath his touch.
The subtle tremor in her breathing—caught between resistance and something more complicated.
It had not been tenderness.
Nor had it been simple lust.
It had been layered.
Dominance wrapped in loneliness.
Control masking something dangerously close to vulnerability.
He remembered her eyes most of all.
Not hatred.
Not surrender.
But confusion.
As if she had been searching for something in him… and despising herself for it.
Adam swallowed slowly.
His heartbeat was steady—but heavier now.
---
Adam
> "I know."
Two words.
Carrying more weight than he intended.
The CEO did not respond immediately.
Only breathing.
Calm.
Predatory.
---
CEO of GAM
> "You slept with her… didn't you, Adam."
Not anger.
Not accusation.
Just confirmation.
Adam pressed his fingers against his temple, as though suppressing a fracture forming behind his composure.
He didn't deny it.
Silence was admission enough.
---
CEO of GAM
> "We'll put that aside for now."
The tone shifted.
Sharper.
> "David. The Jewish spy. Codename: David."
A measured pause.
> "He's being held at Base 16."
Another pause.
> "What happens when FDC launches a rescue operation?"
Adam lowered his hand.
His eyes drifted to the old gray rotary desk phone resting atop the oak table nearby.
An outdated object.
Obsolete.
And yet—
It began to ring.
The sound was distorted. Metallic. Hollow.
Like something echoing from inside a coffin.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Adam did not pick it up.
He simply stared at it.
As if he already understood—
From this moment onward, nothing would remain stable.
---
Simultaneously — Entrance 3
A concrete corridor stretched endlessly beneath harsh fluorescent lighting.
The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and chemical residue.
Bodies lay scattered across the floor.
Uniforms in blue and white tactical gear.
Foam gathered at the corners of their mouths.
Eyes frozen wide open.
No gunfire.
No visible wounds.
Just synchronized neurological shutdown.
A small hand lifted slowly.
It reached up—
And removed a gas mask.
Blue eyes were revealed beneath soft pink hair, tinted faintly with pale cyan at the ends. Loose curls framed a delicate face that seemed far too gentle for this setting.
Miho.
Barely 1.59 meters tall.
Petite.
Almost fragile in appearance.
Her skin was porcelain pale. She wore a neatly pressed white blouse, black slacks, and a carefully adjusted red necktie.
An ordinary office worker.
That was the illusion.
She stepped over the bodies without looking down.
No hesitation.
No remorse.
She lifted her radio.
Her voice changed instantly—soft, slightly timid.
---
Miho
> "Um… Manager…"
A subtle tremble—perfectly performed.
> "Entrance 3 is secure. We have not detected any signs of FDC infiltration in this sector…"
The transmission ended.
She lowered the device.
And her expression shifted.
The corners of her lips curved upward—not sweetly.
But knowingly.
Excitement flickered behind her eyes.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
She slipped a phone from her pocket.
This time, her tone held no pretense.
---
Miho
> "Master…"
Her gaze drifted across the lifeless hallway.
> "The internal sabotage operation against GAM has been successfully completed."
A fluorescent light flickered overhead.
Buzzing faintly.
> "All that remains is for FDC to arrive."
She tilted her head slightly.
A soft smile.
> "Base 16… will collapse from within."
Far away—
In a quiet library filled with shadows—
The old rotary phone continued ringing.
And somewhere beneath layers of loyalty, betrayal, lust, and ambition—
The foundation had already begun to crack.
---
Twenty minutes later…
The silence inside the tunnel did not break.
It was torn apart.
Engines howled like wounded beasts, their metallic screams reverberating violently along the curved concrete walls. The sound multiplied, echo folding over echo, until the entire underground passage seemed to tremble in agony.
Headlights carved twin tunnels of white through the suffocating darkness.
Then—
The first body disappeared beneath the wheels.
A wet crack.
Bone collapsing like brittle branches beneath crushing force. The hardened tires rolled forward without hesitation, dragging flesh and cloth and shattered limbs across the ground. Blood sprayed outward, then smeared backward into long, grotesque trails that glistened under flickering fluorescent light.
The air filled with the smell of iron.
And burning fuel.
Black smoke pulsed from the exhaust pipes in rhythmic bursts, like synchronized breathing.
Like predators scenting prey.
The pickup trucks did not slow.
They drove deeper.
Through corpses.
Through debris.
Through whatever had once been resistance.
Inside the vehicles, the men were not dressed like soldiers.
No polished boots.
No decorated insignias.
Just ordinary clothing—cheap T-shirts clinging to sweat-soaked backs, worn jackets, faded denim. Crossbody bags hung casually across their torsos, indistinguishable from something bought at a street market.
Except inside—
Magazines.
Stacks of them.
Heavy.
Loaded.
Their hands wrapped around AK-74U rifles. Plain. Scarred by use. Metal scratched by years of friction and heat. No attachments. No tactical optics. No suppressors.
Just compact brutality.
Old steel that had tasted gunpowder more times than its owners could count.
Their fingers rested along the triggers.
Tight.
Controlled.
Unblinking eyes scanned the tunnel's depth as the vehicles advanced further into the fluorescent-lit abyss. The overhead lights flickered intermittently, buzzing with unstable electricity, casting the world in fractured flashes of pale white and shadow.
Then—
Ahead of them.
It appeared.
Massive.
Immovable.
A reinforced steel gate rose from floor to ceiling like the jaw of something ancient. Its surface was scarred, industrial, unwelcoming. Cold LED strips mounted above it flickered violently, casting unstable halos of light that made the metal look almost alive.
The trucks halted in unison.
Doors burst open.
Boots hit concrete.
No shouting.
No unnecessary commands.
Some soldiers dropped behind the trucks, rifles raised immediately, covering angles with mechanical precision.
Others rushed forward.
C4 blocks were pressed against the gate's surface—magnetic clamps locking into place with dull metallic clicks. Wires connected. A detonator primed.
They retreated calmly.
A digital timer blinked.
Three.
Two.
One.
The explosion did not simply sound—
It erupted.
The shockwave slammed into the tunnel walls, compressing the air outward before snapping it back inward. The steel gate buckled grotesquely, its hinges torn loose as if ripped from bone. The entire structure caved inward, folding like a crushed ribcage, collapsing into the interior corridor beyond.
Inside—
There was no time to react.
The FDC soldiers lifted their rifles in perfect synchronization.
For a fraction of a second—
The air before their muzzles tightened.
Then shattered.
Muzzle flashes erupted in violent bursts of orange-white light, illuminating the smoke-filled entrance in staccato frames—like broken film reels flickering through hell.
Gunfire roared.
Not chaotic.
Not wild.
Systematic.
Bullets tore through the haze, ripping into flesh unseen. The sounds came a split second later—wet impacts, snapping bones, screams cut short mid-breath.
Blood splashed across walls.
Across ceiling.
Across concrete floors already stained by earlier deaths.
Red droplets burst outward before collapsing into elongated streaks as bodies fell and slid across the ground.
The FDC advanced.
Step.
Fire.
Step.
Fire.
They did not slow as visibility vanished inside the smoke.
They kept shooting.
Even when nothing moved.
Because survival required certainty.
And certainty required excess.
Some shapes dropped instantly.
Others staggered.
Others never had time to understand what was happening.
Within seconds, the interior corridor transformed into a chamber of ruptured silhouettes—figures perforated beyond recognition, uniforms torn apart, helmets split open.
Still—
The gunfire continued.
Only when their magazines clicked empty did the sound briefly pause.
Heavy breathing filled the smoke-thick air.
Spent casings rolled across concrete with soft metallic chimes.
The fluorescent lights inside flickered weakly, illuminating what remained.
Bodies riddled with holes.
Concrete walls patterned in arterial spray.
The metallic scent of blood now overwhelming.
The FDC soldiers stepped further in, boots pressing into pooling red.
Rifles still raised.
Scanning.
Waiting.
Because something about the silence felt wrong.
Too easy.
Too clean.
Beyond the smoke—
Deeper within Base 16—
The darkness seemed to pulse.
And somewhere inside that depth—
Something was watching.
---
A few minutes later...
EASRS: Zero Z
Chapter 10
The sound of boots striking concrete echoed in rigid rhythm, one after another, like the ticking of a clock counting down toward something irreversible.
Men in blue-and-white tactical uniforms moved through the corridor in staggered formation. Their breathing was uneven beneath their helmets. One hand gripped their P90 submachine guns so tightly that their knuckles whitened; the other instinctively adjusted the black ballistic helmets that still hadn't warmed to their body temperature.
The helmets felt foreign. Heavy.
Like responsibility.
Red emergency lights pulsed overhead.
Flash.
Dark.
Flash.
Dark.
Each flicker repainted the once-white walls into a suffocating shade of crimson, as if the hallway itself had been dipped in diluted blood. Shadows stretched unnaturally, elongating their figures into trembling silhouettes.
From deeper within the complex—
A sharp burst of AK-74U gunfire split the air.
Short. Controlled. Brutal.
The higher-pitched mechanical scream of P90s answered, stitching rounds into steel and concrete alike. The corridor amplified everything. Gunshots did not sound like gunshots here.
They sounded like doors slamming shut on life.
Sparks flew as bullets struck shield plating. Somewhere unseen, a body fell. Somewhere else, a scream was cut short mid-breath.
The advancing soldiers reached the first intersection of heavy resistance.
The floor was already painted dark.
Blood spread in uneven arcs, smeared by boots and dragged bodies. A metallic scent lingered thick in the air, heavy enough to taste.
To the left, medics worked desperately over the wounded. Red-cross insignias marked their helmets, now splattered with crimson not their own. One soldier coughed violently, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth as gauze was pressed against a wound that would not stop bleeding.
The medic's hands trembled.
The wounded soldier's fingers twitched once—
Then fell still.
No one paused long enough to watch.
Ahead stood GAM's improvised defensive wall: overlapping fixed shields reinforced with boron carbide composite. Nearly 3.5 centimeters thick. Designed to withstand sustained fire.
In theory.
The soldiers dropped low and crawled behind it, pressing their backs against the cold metal. AK rounds tore through the air above them, so close the passing shockwaves grazed their helmets.
Concrete behind them exploded in fragments.
Dust rained down.
They tried to return fire through narrow slits between the shields, but visibility was almost nonexistent. Smoke, debris, muzzle flash—everything blurred into chaotic abstraction. They fired suppressive bursts blindly, more to keep the enemy pinned than to kill.
It wasn't enough.
The enemy's rate of fire was relentless—precise and methodical.
The shield line began to vibrate under impact.
Then—
Static crackled through the corridor speakers.
An ugly, grating sound that cut through gunfire like a blade across bone.
The soldiers instinctively looked up.
A female voice followed.
Clear.
Steady.
Untouched by fear.
Untouched by smoke.
Untouched by the suffocating heat of battle.
It was the voice of someone sitting comfortably in controlled air, far removed from the smell of blood and cordite.
---
Valeria
> "Soldiers… hear my voice."
Even through distortion, her tone was refined. Composed.
> "Raise your weapons and counterattack.
For the collective victory of humanity, drive those terrorists back."
Gunfire continued in the background, indifferent to rhetoric.
> "You are not merely soldiers of the Organization.
You are the guardian angels of mankind.
The frontline defenders of GAM."
Silence followed her final word.
Not reverence.
Not inspiration.
Just breathing. Heavy and bitter.
A murmur spread behind the shields.
One soldier spat onto the floor.
Another laughed dryly.
Someone muttered under his breath, but loud enough:
> "Fuck… that's irritating as hell.
She's sitting in air-conditioning preaching like she understands war.
If she's so righteous, she should come down here and pull the trigger herself."
A few others smirked faintly.
Morale speeches sounded different when bullets were inches above your skull.
Before anyone could respond—
A low, concussive boom shook the corridor.
Not a grenade.
Something heavier.
The world compressed into a single deafening impact.
The shield wall caved inward violently, warped metal folding like paper struck by a hammer. A hardened penetrator round tore through composite plating and into flesh without slowing.
Bodies were thrown backward.
Air left lungs in voiceless gasps.
One soldier stared at the gaping hole in his torso as if confused by its existence. Blood flowed lazily before gravity reminded it what to do.
They hit the ground in tangled disarray.
Bruises formed instantly beneath torn uniforms. Blood seeped into cracks in the concrete.
Through smoke and dust—
FDC soldiers advanced.
Calmly.
Their footsteps were unhurried.
Those wielding AK rifles slung them momentarily and drew combat knives. No anger colored their expressions. No triumph.
Just efficiency.
They crouched beside the wounded GAM survivors.
One swift motion.
Steel entered flesh at the throat.
Warm blood sprayed across gloved hands.
They did not flinch.
Behind them stood a girl.
Her chestnut-brown hair was tied neatly at the back, long strands swaying faintly with each step. Her blue eyes were startlingly clear—almost too clear for this environment. Like a sky that did not belong underground.
Her skin was pale. Unmarked.
She wore a simple T-shirt and dark trousers. Nothing ornamental. Nothing that screamed authority.
Yet in her arms rested a heavy RPG-7 launcher.
The weight made her shoulders tense slightly. She adjusted her grip with quiet determination and spoke into her communicator.
Her tone was light. Almost polite.
Professional.
Elsewhere, in another corridor—
Only three GAM soldiers remained.
Across from them stood more than a dozen enemies.
No one spoke.
They looked at each other.
Understood.
One of them slowly removed a grenade. His fingers trembled—but only once. He raised three fingers.
The others tightened their grips on their rifles and nodded.
Three.
Two.
One.
The grenade arced forward.
The explosion blossomed like a brief sun in the narrow hallway.
Before the dust settled, gunfire erupted—violent and unrestrained. The two remaining soldiers charged through smoke, screaming wordlessly as they emptied their magazines.
Bullets tore into bodies at close range. Muzzle flashes illuminated faces twisted by adrenaline and fury.
For a fleeting moment—
They became something beyond fear.
Beyond survival.
They became inevitability.
When the smoke thinned—
Only silence answered.
And the red emergency lights continued to flicker.
Flash.
Dark.
Flash.
Dark.
As if the corridor itself were blinking—
Trying not to witness what humanity had become. I
---
[To be continued]