Ninety Nine

Atlas drove his black SUV with precision, navigating the winding roads that led to the safehouse.

The security measures were intense: guards stationed at strategic points, surveillance cameras covering every angle, and a massive iron gate that swung open only after a thorough inspection.

He parked the car and glanced at me, his expression that of concern.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice steady but with an edge of tension.

I nodded, gripping the handle of my backpack. "Let's do this."

We exited the car and walked towards the entrance, where two burly guards in black suits nodded at Atlas and stepped aside. Inside, the decor was minimalistic, almost clinical, and designed for functionality rather than comfort.

Tony met us in the hallway, his sharp eyes assessing us quickly.

"Follow me," he said, turning on his heel without waiting for a response. We trailed behind him, our footsteps echoing on the cold tile floor.

He led us to a staircase that descended into the basement. The atmosphere