At A Bar Called O'Malley's #2

The service gate grinds wide, and the cannery’s hidden room breathes cold light. Rows of server racks hum like a nest of hornets, while monitors flash live feeds of O'Malley’s front, bar, and cellar from angles Scott has never seen.

The Dockhand freezes at the threshold, eyes locked on the cables and labels he helped run. His knees shake, and he backs into the frame of the gate as if the room itself might accuse him.

One monitor shifts to a live feed of O'Malley’s tap line, another to the back office door. Onscreen, red tags mark delivery windows, power loads, and access codes. Scott can see the chain now, the cannery is the nerve center keeping Thorne’s strike alive.

A warning tone chirps from the rack nearest the wall. Someone on the network has noticed the breach, and the room’s locked doors begin to seal.

Scott throws the charge wide, and the room answers with a brutal blue flash. Monitors burst into black glass, rack lights pop out one by one, and a wave of heat rolls off the dead banks.

The surge rips through cables and switches, dumping sparks across the floor. The dead lamp overhead swings once, then goes dark, leaving only emergency red.

A final screen hangs on long enough to show O'Malley’s feeds freezing in place, then collapsing into static. The hidden room goes suddenly, eerily quiet.

The Dockhand flinches at the pop of another fuse, staring at the scorched wall of hardware like it might accuse him too.

Scott’s right hand smokes at the knuckles, the cost of the blast plain even as the server racks sag and die. Somewhere deeper in the cannery, an alarm starts answering the blackout.