At A Bar Called O'Malley's #2

The pub’s main tap line hums under Scott’s hand, the same faint rhythm he noticed before. This time he follows it. The vibration leads through the floorboards, down into a hidden seam that was cut and patched over fast.

Scott pries the boards up. Cold air breathes out of the dark, and a basement cache sits below the bar, wired into the line like somebody wanted the whole place to act as a relay.

Mara crouches near the opening, eyes hard as she tracks the wiring. The hidden source is branded with Thorne’s supply markings, proof that Marcus Thorne’s attack was never random. O'Malley’s sat on a buried power feed he could exploit.

A burst of radio static crackles across the yard outside. In the broken light, the Dockhand backs away from the hole, panic written all over him as the truth lands between them.

Scott drives a fist into the cache housing. The metal box caves with a sharp crack, and the wiring jerks loose from the wall in a spray of sparks.

He follows through, smashing the frame again. The whole relay assembly buckles, its blue utility glow popping out one circuit at a time.

Below the bar, scorched cables sag into the dark. The hidden cache is wrecked, split open, and useless.

Mara snatches up the receipt and checks the torn wiring, already linking this ruin to the names on Thorne’s paper trail. Outside, the radio static keeps crackling through the night.