Location: Off-Grid Neighborhood — Garage and Safe House — Evening
The garage smelled of oil and metal and old rubber.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting the space in a harsh white glow that made every scratch on the Veyron's hood look like a wound. The car was jacked up, its front tires removed, its undercarriage exposed like a patient on an operating table.
Lucian stood beside the engine bay.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His forearms were streaked with grease. The rings on his arm—seven of them, dark metal, carved with symbols—caught the light and threw it back in fragments. He held a wrench in one hand, a rag in the other. The engine purred—not running, just... alive. Waiting.
Bigo, Ageny, and Trioren stood on the other side of the car.
They were not mechanics. Their clothes were too clean, their hands too soft. But they watched Lucian with the intensity of fans watching a master at work.
"So," Trioren said. His voice was eager, almost boyish. "Is it true that your old man—Otis Freeman—once ran weapons for the Halverns? Like, the really illegal stuff? Ships that didn't exist? Crates that never got inspected?"
Lucian didn't look up.
"He did what he had to do."
"Yeah, yeah," Ageny added, nodding. "The black community—the less privileged—got thrown under the bus by the Crestwood Council. When Theodore Halvern was ousted from his consortium, the surplus packages of free supplies to our people got cut off. Overnight. Days without food."
He leaned against a tool chest.
"Then Otis Freeman stepped up. He not only made sure we got stimulus—rent-free housing in the neighborhoods he owned—but he gave us a voice. Employment opportunities. Even if the work was... ugly... we gladly accepted. He was our goddamn benefactor."
Bigo's face was flushed with fervor.
"We were in the darkest parts of obscurity. If it wasn't for your old man, I don't know if we'd still be alive."
Lucian set down the wrench.
He picked up a rag, wiped his hands slowly, deliberately. His expression didn't change. But his shoulders—broad, tense—seemed to relax, just slightly.
"He was a good man," Lucian said. "Flawed. But good."
"So just know," Bigo said, stepping closer, "that me and my comrades here—we decided we'll go through thick and thin with you, Sir Lucian. No matter what."
Lucian didn't answer.
He finished wiping his hands. He draped the rag over his shoulder. He closed the hood of the Veyron—not a slam, a press. The latch clicked.
Then he reached into a cooler on the workbench and pulled out a can.
The label was faded. The metal was cold. He tossed it to Bigo.
Bigo caught it—fumbled, recovered.
"Thanks," he said.
Lucian walked away.
His boots echoed on the concrete floor—tap, tap, tap—and then he was gone, through the side door, into the darkness beyond.
Trioren stared at the can in Bigo's hand.
His eyes were wide. His mouth was slightly open.
"Are you going to... share?"
Bigo cracked open the can. He took a long drink. Then he lowered it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and walked away without a word.
Trioren's face fell.
Ageny patted him on the shoulder.
"There, there," he said. "Maybe next time."
Trioren sighed.
"It's never next time."
---
Elijah's room was on the second floor.
The walls were bare. The furniture was sparse—a desk, a chair, a bed that looked like it had been slept in but not enjoyed. The only light came from the monitors: three of them, arranged in a curve, their screens casting a blue-white glow that made the shadows in the corners seem deeper than they should be.
The PC hummed.
The fans whispered.
Elijah sat in the chair.
His mask was off. Nathan Drayke's punchable face was set aside, and beneath it, his real features were pale, tired, his eyes fixed on the monitor. His fingers rested on the keyboard—not typing, just... waiting.
Ever since the incident, he thought. That old fatso Fredebum sent an aethernova freak and a Vein frame poser after me. Word of it leaked through Calvetti's channels. Those guys are always nosy in other people's affairs, especially when it involves the turf factions.
And with the old fatso's death, my alter ego—Nathan Drayke—is currently under their radar.
Can you believe that?
He shook his head.
I need to stay low. Keep moving. And in the meantime...
He tapped the spacebar.
The monitor flickered.
The game.
---
The loading screen filled the center monitor.
Echo of Vaults.
The logo was stylized—cracked stone, glowing glyphs, a spear that pointed downward through the center of the letters. The music was low, atmospheric, a hum that seemed to come from somewhere far away.
It started as a mobile game, Elijah thought. Seven dungeons across the globe. Virtual, but connected to real places. Coordinates hidden in the settlements, in the landscapes, in the architecture.
Wilder found one. The Hollow. Not just a pocket space—an actual key. A key that lets you pass through the celestial barrier in the sky, unlocking the path to one of the seven celestial bodies.
And the power that comes with it?
Godly, they say. If you can survive the demon beasts.
The game loaded.
A menu appeared—user settings, character selection, the familiar interface of a hundred hours of play. Elijah's fingers moved across the keyboard. He typed in his username.
EMI.
The screen flickered again.
The character select screen showed three avatars: one with an inverted spear, one with a shield and sword, one with a hooded cloak.
Elijah selected the inverted spear.
The loading bar filled.
And the world of Echo of Vaults opened before him.
---
The door opened.
Tyla stepped in.
She held a tray—a glass of water, a bowl of something that steamed, a napkin folded into a neat square. Her footsteps were quiet, almost hesitant. She set the tray on the corner of the desk, careful not to disturb the cables.
"You should eat," she said.
"I will."
"You said that two hours ago."
"And I meant it then."
She stood there.
Her hands hung at her sides. Her eyes moved from the monitor to Elijah's face and back to the monitor. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
"Do you... need anything else?"
"No."
"Okay."
She didn't leave.
She stood there, awkward, her fingers twining together, her gaze wandering around the room as if she was looking for something to land on.
Wonko's voice pressed against Elijah's skull.
"Seriously? You are that narcissistic? You are going to ignore this girl's feelings?"
"I'm not ignoring anything."
"You are. She brought you food. She's standing there like a lost puppy. And you're staring at a screen."
"I'm gathering intelligence."
"You're being dense."
"I enjoy it."
"Enjoy what? Her discomfort?"
"The attention."
Wonko's mental voice was flat.
"You are impossible."
"Thank you."
Elijah turned in his chair.
He looked at Tyla.
She was still standing there, her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere above his left shoulder.
"Do you want to sit?" he asked.
"Oh. No. I'm fine. I should—"
"I insist."
He gestured to the edge of the bed.
Tyla hesitated. Her internal thoughts churned.
Don't think too much into it. He dated a Halvern. He had Crestwood's most beautiful anchorwoman falling for him. Compared to them, I'm not that special.
But I don't care.
Even if it's just wishful thinking...
I'd gladly enjoy it.
She sat.
Her hands rested on her knees. Her posture was stiff, formal, the posture of someone who was trying very hard not to seem nervous and was failing.
She glanced at him.
Elijah was already looking at her.
Their eyes met.
Tyla's face went red. She looked away—fast, too fast, her head snapping toward the window as if something fascinating was happening outside.
"I was just... looking at the screen," she said. "Your game. It looks... interesting."
"It is."
"What's it about?"
"Seven keys. Seven dungeons. A way to unlock the celestial barrier."
"Sounds complicated."
"It is."
She nodded.
Her eyes stayed on the window.
Elijah turned back to the monitor.
The corner of his mouth curved—just slightly, just enough.
He chuckled.
"What?" Tyla asked.
"Nothing."
"You're laughing."
"I'm not laughing. I'm... appreciating the moment."
Tyla's flush deepened.
She didn't look at him.
But she didn't leave, either.
---