Location: Off-Grid Neighborhood — Safe House — Night
The cloth sack was back on the man's head.
Water dripped from the fabric onto the concrete floor—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm that echoed off the empty walls. The steel chair creaked as the bound figure shifted, his wrists raw where the ropes bit into skin. His rings were gone. His power was gone. He was just a man now. Bruised. Broken. Breathing in wet, ragged gasps.
Lucian stood over him.
The plastic bottle hung from his fingers, half-empty. His face was calm. Blank. The face of someone who had done this before and would do it again without losing sleep.
"The Vein frame," Lucian said.
His voice was low. Flat.
"Where did Morrecca Brackside acquire it?"
The man's head turned. The cloth sack muffled his voice, but his silence was louder than any answer. His shoulders tensed. His hands curled into fists behind the chair.
Lucian looked at Gerry.
Gerry nodded. He stepped forward, grabbed the back of the steel chair, and tilted it backward—not far, just enough. The man's feet left the ground. His weight shifted. He gasped.
Lucian raised the bottle.
Water poured.
It splashed against the cloth sack, soaked through, streamed down the man's chest. He thrashed—not violently, just reflexively. His legs kicked. His wrists strained against the ropes. His breath came in wet, choking spasms.
Elijah watched from the folding table.
Behind the mask—Nathan Drayke's smug, punchable face—his eyes were cold. Still. Unblinking.
The Mysterium clan, he thought. This is their method. When they infiltrate governments that refuse their bana, when they capture prisoners who won't talk, this is what they do. Not fast. Not clean. Just... wet. Just enough to make the lungs burn and the mind break.
They've done this to hundreds. Thousands. Across the world.
And now it's being done in a converted gymnasium in the middle of nowhere.
The man coughed. Water sprayed from beneath the cloth.
Lucian stopped.
The bottle hung at his side.
"The Vein frame," he repeated. "Where did Morrecca get it?"
---
Elijah stood.
The chair scraped against the concrete floor. The sound cut through the dripping water, through the man's ragged breathing, through the stillness.
"That's enough."
Lucian turned. His expression didn't change, but his hand relaxed on the bottle.
Elijah walked to the steel chair. He looked down at the bound figure—the wet cloth, the trembling shoulders, the hands that had stopped fighting.
"It doesn't matter if he speaks," Elijah said. "I already have a plan."
Gerry, standing by the wall, crossed his arms.
His expression was sour. His lips pressed together. His eyes rolled—just slightly, just enough to be noticed. The look of someone who had heard one too many grand pronouncements and was tired of pretending to be impressed.
Elijah saw it.
Behind the mask, something flickered. Amusement.
He walked to Gerry. Placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Relax, buddy."
His voice was light. Almost friendly.
"You and I are in this together. Remember? You're my mate."
Gerry's internal thoughts were a scream.
Mate? Mate?! You literally have something inside me that you can activate whenever you want. I can't leave. I can't fight back. I can't even sneeze without you knowing about it. And now you're putting your hand on my shoulder and calling me buddy?
His face, however, was a mask of its own.
A smile stretched across his lips—tight, forced, the corners trembling slightly. His eyes widened in what might have been enthusiasm but looked closer to terror. He laughed. A short, hollow sound that died almost as soon as it left his throat.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, yeah. Totally. Together."
Elijah patted his shoulder twice.
"Good. But first—priority is you all improving."
He turned to Lucian.
The big man stood motionless, the bottle still in his hand, his face unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes were different. Quieter. As if something behind them had shifted.
"Come on," Elijah said. "Let's go somewhere."
---
The field was behind the building.
Not a field, really. A clearing. A patch of dirt and dead grass surrounded by broken fences and rusted cars. The ground was uneven, littered with stones and shards of glass that caught the moonlight. A single lamppost stood at the edge, its bulb flickering—orange, yellow, orange—casting the clearing in a sickly glow.
The inhabitants had followed.
They emerged from doorways, from alleyways, from windows where curtains had been pulled aside. Dark skin, bright clothes, eyes that had learned to be suspicious but couldn't resist curiosity. They gathered at the edges of the clearing—leaning against fences, sitting on car hoods, standing in groups of two and three.
"What's young boss man doing?"
"Don't know. But he's got them weird things on his arms."
A woman with braids and a gold tooth squinted at Lucian.
"Weird things? Look like bracelets. Maybe he's... you know..."
"Transitioned?"
The group laughed. Low, rumbling, the kind of laughter that came from bellies and throats, not from lungs.
"Nah, nah, that ain't it. Look at his face. He look confused as the rest of us."
Lucian's head turned.
His gaze swept across the group. Not fast. Not angry. Just... present. The kind of look that said I know who you are. I know where you live. I know what you did last week.
The laughter died.
One of the men—young, wearing a hoodie that was too big for him—whispered to the woman with the gold tooth.
"You should start packing. If I was you, I'd be out of here by morning."
Her face went pale.
She swallowed.
"I... I gotta... I forgot something."
She turned and walked away. Not fast. Not running. Just... leaving. Her footsteps echoed on the cracked asphalt until they faded into the night.
The others watched her go.
Then one of them snorted.
"Guess she won't be laughing tomorrow."
The group laughed again. Quieter this time. Wary.
---
Elijah stood in the center of the clearing.
The dirt crunched beneath his boots. The flickering lamplight caught the edges of his mask—Nathan Drayke's sharp jaw, his vacant eyes, his smug, punchable expression.
Lucian faced him.
The Vein frame was in Elijah's hand. Ten rings. Dark metal. Carved with symbols that seemed to absorb the light. He held them out.
"Try them."
Lucian's jaw tightened.
"What?"
"The Vein frame. I want to see what you can do."
"You want me to put on the things that nearly killed you?"
"Nearly," Elijah said. "Not quite."
He tossed the rings.
Lucian caught them. His fingers closed around the cold metal. The symbols on the rings flickered—dim, bright, dim—responding to his touch.
"The mechanism," Elijah said. "I'm sure a man of your caliber can handle it."
Lucian's eyes narrowed.
"You're using me as a guinea pig. For your amusement."
"Oh, what's this?" Elijah's hands spread wide—theatrical, mocking, his body leaning forward as if he was about to share a secret. "I thought you were dumb. I thought you couldn't speak. But here you are, forming words. Complete sentences. What's wrong, Lucian? Scared?"
Lucian's face contorted.
Not anger. Something uglier. His lips pulled back from his teeth. His nostrils flared. His hands—the ones holding the rings—trembled with the effort of not throwing them back in Elijah's face.
His internal thoughts were not kind.
I will cut him into pieces. Hundreds of pieces. Thousands. And even that will not be enough. Even that will not quench the rage. I will curse his ancestors. I will curse his children. I will curse the ground he walks on until nothing grows there ever again.
He slid the rings onto his arms.
One. Two. Three.
They glowed.
---
Around the clearing, whispers spread.
"Is it just me, or is young boss man being taken advantage of by that shameless goof?"
"Yeah. And look at him—he's so quiet. That ain't like him."
"Maybe he's scared."
"Freeman ain't scared of nothing."
Gerry leaned toward Tyla. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but his hands moved as he spoke—fingers wiggling, palms flipping, the universal gesture of someone who was enjoying themselves a little too much.
"Your boyfriend is wicked, you know that? Trying to assassinate a Freeman's character image. In front of his own people."
Tyla's face flushed.
Not pink. Red. A deep, burning red that spread from her throat to her cheeks to the tips of her ears.
"Who said he's my boyfriend?"
"Oh, now you're in denial." Gerry's hands traced a circle in the air, then pointed at her, then at Elijah. "While you two were all lovey-dovey in each other's arms, acting like nobody was watching—"
"That's not—"
"I'm just saying."
Tyla's flush deepened.
She looked away.
Gerry grinned.
---
The rings blazed.
Not with light—with something else. Something that made the air around Lucian's arms ripple and distort. The aetherflux conflux licked from the metal like flames in a windstorm—uncontrolled, hungry, alive. It curled around his biceps, his forearms, his hands. It crackled. It sparked. It made the dirt at his feet tremble.
The inhabitants watched.
Their eyes were wide. Their mouths hung open.
"Now that goof is going to get it," one of them said. "No one messes with a Freeman and lives to tell about it."
"Yeah. Look at that power. Young boss is about to—"
Lucian raised his fists.
The aetherflux conflux surged—brighter, hotter, less controlled. It licked at the edges of his body, hungry for release, hungry for something to strike.
Elijah stood motionless.
His hands were at his sides. His posture was loose. Relaxed. His mask caught the flickering lamplight—Nathan Drayke's smug expression, unchanged, untroubled.
One hand rose.
His palm faced Lucian. His fingers curled slightly—not a fist, not an open hand. Something in between. An invitation.
Come on, the gesture said. Give me what you've got.
Gerry shook his head.
"What a show-off."
Lucian's voice was a growl.
"Now you're going to get it, Eli—"
He lunged.
The aetherflux conflux blazed.
And Elijah—still, calm, unmoving—waited.
---