Conus sat hunched on the cold steel bench inside the back of the ambulance. The faint vibration of the engine traveled through the soles of his boots, rattling his bones with every idle growl.
His chest rose and fell with short, sharp breaths. Sweat mixed with streaks of blood that had dried into his torn shirt, a grim reminder of how close he had come to being torn apart.
Outside, the street swelled with life, not the ordinary kind, but the frantic rhythm that followed disaster. Blue and red lights pulsed across walls and windows, the constant flashing painting the night like a restless heartbeat.
Police tape snapped in the wind as officers held back a throng of onlookers pressing against the barricades, their voices buzzing with speculation and fear.
Firefighters moved briskly along the fractured street, inspecting weakened foundations and toppled structures. Reporters swarmed the edge of the scene, microphones jutting forward like weapons, their faces flushed with the thrill of breaking news.
Medics hurried between the wounded, and the acrid smell of antiseptic mixed with concrete dust thickened the air until it was almost choking.
Beside Conus, a Pugnator medical officer crouched, her gloves glowing faintly with a pale green light. She moved with clinical precision, her hands hovering just above his battered ribs.
"Hold still," she murmured.
Conus gritted his teeth. A sharp, burning sensation spread through his side as the magic worked. His torn flesh knit together before his eyes, blood sealing, skin smoothing over as if no wound had ever existed.
The deeper pain, the one rooted in cracked bone and bruised muscle, healed even more slowly as the glow seeped deeper. His body shuddered under the process. It was efficient, but it felt like fire crawling beneath his skin.
At last, the officer withdrew her hands. "There. You'll be sore for a while, but nothing permanent. Thankfully, there are no internal bleeding. You are stable."
Before Conus could reply, a familiar voice rang from the open door.
"Not bad, huh? For someone who looked like he was about to be flattened into soup, you look to be doing quite well."
Conus turned his head. Lucas leaned against the ambulance doorframe, arms crossed, a crooked grin pulling at his dirt-streaked face. His blond hair was a mess, his eyes bright with relief that hid beneath humor.
"You were something out there," Lucas went on, stepping closer. "When you ducked under those arms and went for the ribs, pure brilliance. And the way that thing screamed? Ha! It was like this."
Lucas flailed his limbs in an exaggerated mimicry of the monster's thrashing and let out a strangled shriek so ridiculous that a few medics looked over, blinking in confusion.
Against his will, Conus let out a bark of laughter, but his aching body made him stop.
"Idiot," he muttered, shaking his head.
"Easy now," Lucas said a smirk, though the softness in his gaze betrayed his relief.
Their moment cracked at the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Mr. Aromane."
Both boys turned. Inspector Hoppins stood a few paces away, his coat still crisp and immaculate despite the chaos of the street. His thin-rimmed glasses glinted under the flashing lights, and his presence carried the weight of a man long used to commanding silence.
He approached without hurry, his voice measured. "I need to ask you a few questions."
Conus sat straighter, the ache in his ribs returning with the movement. "Go ahead."
Hoppins pulled a small leather notebook from his pocket and clicked his pen. His gaze never wavered from Conus as he spoke. "Did you see a portal? Anything unusual before the creature appeared?"
Conus shook his head. "No. It just came. Out of nowhere."
The inspector's pen scratched the page. "Anyone with you close enough to confirm that?"
"Lucas, and probably many others in the restaurant right there." Conus answered without hesitation, pointing to the restaurant.
Hoppins's eyes flicked briefly toward Lucas and the restaurant before returning to his notes. "And the creature? Did it display anything unusual before you engaged?"
Conus thought back to the blank face, the writhing arms, the terrible speed. He shook his head again. "It came straight at me once it saw me. There was no time to think."
The silence between them stretched. Then Hoppins closed the notebook and slipped it back into his coat. His tone softened by a fraction. "You did well. If you hadn't stepped in, the casualty count would be far higher tonight."
Conus lowered his gaze, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench.
The whine of machinery cut through the noise. Both boys looked up as a crane lowered a massive reinforced container onto the street. Chains rattled as the monster's corpse, limp and twisted, was secured inside.
Its many arms dangled, its eyeless head bent at an unnatural angle. The restraints glowed faintly with power, sealing it against whatever spark might still linger. Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions. The crowd pressed forward, restless and hungry for answers.
Conus stared at the broken body. "Do you know what it was?" he asked quietly.
Hoppins's eyes stayed fixed on the container. His expression, normally controlled, was unreadable. "In twenty-five years of hunting across worlds and managing Pugnators, I have never seen anything like it."
Before more could be said, another voice carried across the noise.
"Conus."
Ishira Aromane pushed through the gathered crowd. Relief softened the hard lines of his face the moment he saw his son. Without hesitation, he clasped Hoppins's hand firmly.
"Inspector," Ishira greeted. "Thank you for keeping watch over him."
Then he turned, his voice gentler. "Are you hurt?"
Conus stood quickly, shaking his head. "I'm fine."
Ishira's arm wrapped around his shoulders in a brief, fierce hug. "Let me take my son home."
Hoppins considered them for a moment, then nodded. "Go. We will be in touch."
Lucas joined them, and together the three moved toward a sleek black car waiting near the barricades. As the vehicle pulled away, Conus glanced back once. The flashing lights of the disaster scene shrank in the rear window until they vanished completely.
On the street, Inspector Hoppins remained where they left him, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes followed the retreating car, his expression unreadable.
"You've got that look again," a gruff voice said behind him.
Bob, his long-time partner, ambled over with his coat half unbuttoned. He held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, his easy stride at odds with the tension still buzzing through the air.
"You only wear that face when something's clawing around in your skull," Bob added.
"Something is," Hoppins replied, his tone calm but edged.
Bob arched a brow. "Care to share?"
Hoppins finally looked at him. "I didn't kill that creature."
Bob blinked. "What are you talking about? You landed the last blow."
"I know," Hoppins said steadily. "But when I kill an Otherworlder, I always feel it. A twinge in my skull. A scratch in the air when their aura breaks. It has been that way my entire career." His eyes hardened. "This time, there was nothing."
Bob frowned. "Maybe you were distracted. It happens."
"No." Hoppins's voice cut firm. "I was not distracted. That monster died, but not by my hand."
Bob stared, trying to gauge him. "Then what are you saying?"
Hoppins's gaze drifted down the road where the black car had vanished. "I believe the boy did it."
Bob snorted, shaking his head. "Come on. An F-rank kid against something like that? Be serious. That thing was close to D-rank, maybe in it. The boy is lucky to be standing, let alone breathing." He flicked the cigarette to the ground, still unlit, and turned away. "You're overthinking."
Hoppins said nothing. The noise of the scene dulled around him. His eyes stayed fixed on the distance, the thought circling tighter and tighter.
Far away, Conus was stepping through the front door of his home.
The door swung open with a creak, releasing the warmth of polished wood and the faint scent of spices from the kitchen. Conus's boots felt heavy against the marble floor, every step dragging with exhaustion. Lucas followed close behind.
"Conus?"
His mother's voice called from the sitting room. Alora appeared in the doorway, flour dusting her hands. The moment she saw her son, she crossed the room and wrapped him in a tight embrace.
"My boy," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We heard about the attack. I thought I would lose you." Her hands skimmed across his shoulders and arms as if expecting to find hidden wounds. "You are pale. Are you sure you're not hurt?"
Conus let out a tired laugh and gently eased her back. "I'm fine, Mother. Truly. Just sore."
Her brows knit together, worry refusing to ease. "Sore is not fine."
"I promise. The medics patched me up. What I need now is sleep."
Lucas grinned from behind, clearly amused, while Ishira stepped past with a quiet shake of his head, already loosening his coat.
Alora sighed, conceding reluctantly. "All right. But you will eat something tomorrow morning. No skipping meals."
"I won't," Conus said softly. Exhaustion pressed heavier with every word. "Goodnight."