Location: Velmarch Heights — Underpass Industrial Zone — Vein Frame Workshop — Corridor
The corridor became a cage.
Eleven figures in tactical black, their batons glowing orange, their visors reflecting the three intruders in butterfly masks. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly white-green glow that made the shadows under the security team's jaws look like bruises.
Gerry stared at the broken arrow on the floor.
His hand was still wrapped around his bow. His knuckles were white. His mask—black, silver-veined—hid his expression, but his voice did not.
"Seriously?"
He kicked the arrow shaft. It skittered across the concrete.
"The one time I finally get some action—the one time—and this happens?"
He spread his arms wide. The bow swung in his grip.
"Seriously, seriously, seriously!"
His head turned from side to side. His shoulders rose and fell. He looked like a man who had been promised a feast and had been served a single cracker.
"What is wrong with this world? Has everything gone mad?"
The security team didn't answer.
They moved.
---
The first wave came from the left.
Three of them—batons raised, their orange tips leaving trails of light in the air. Their footwork was not sloppy. Not professional either. Somewhere in between. The kind of movement that came from memorizing forms in a dojo, not from surviving fights in the street.
Tai chi, Tyla thought. Or something like it. They've been trained. But not well.
Her hands came up.
The plates on her arms detached—not all of them, just four. They hovered beside her shoulders, trailing cords of pale blue energy. The hum intensified.
Echo wave, she thought. Low charge. Wide spread.
She thrust her palm forward.
The plates shot down the corridor—not straight, in an arc. They banked left, then right, then left again, their trajectories intersecting like threads in a loom. The energy between them crackled, spread, expanded.
The shockwave hit the first three security.
Not hard enough to break bones. Hard enough to lift them off their feet. Their batons flew from their hands. Their bodies slammed into the walls—left, right, left—and they crumpled to the floor.
Three down, Tyla thought. Eight to go.
---
Lucian moved.
His rings pulsed—not all seven, just the ones on his left arm. Dark metal. Hungry. They spun as he stepped forward, each rotation sending a ripple of distortion through the air.
The second wave came at him from the right.
Five of them. Their batons were raised, their stances wider than the first group. More grounded. More stable.
They watched the first group fall, Lucian thought. They adjusted.
The first security swung his baton—a horizontal arc aimed at Lucian's throat.
Lucian's left hand came up.
His palm caught the baton. The rings flared. The orange glow of the weapon flickered, dimmed, then died.
The security's eyes widened behind his visor.
Lucian's right fist struck his chest.
Not hard. Precise. The rings on his right arm pulsed once—and the man flew backward, his body folding around the impact, his feet leaving the ground.
He crashed into the two men behind him.
They went down in a tangle of limbs and batons and confused shouts.
Three more, Lucian thought. Two left.
---
The remaining two from the second wave circled him.
They were smarter than the others. They didn't charge. They moved laterally, keeping their distance, their batons held low, their eyes tracking Lucian's rings.
One of them feinted left—then struck right.
Lucian's arm rose. The baton clanged against the rings on his forearm. Sparks flew. The orange glow flickered.
The second security came from behind.
His baton aimed at Lucian's kidney.
Lucian didn't turn.
His foot swept backward—not a kick, a hook. His heel caught the inside of the man's knee. The leg buckled. The baton swing went wide, striking the wall instead of Lucian's side.
The first security tried to retreat.
Lucian's hand shot out.
His fingers wrapped around the man's wrist. The rings pulsed. The security's baton arm went numb. He dropped his weapon.
Lucian pulled.
The man stumbled forward—and met Lucian's forehead with his own.
The visor cracked. The man's eyes rolled back. He collapsed.
The second security, still on one knee, looked up.
Lucian stared down at him.
The man dropped his baton.
"I yield," he said.
Lucian turned away.
---
Gerry had found cover.
The receptionist's desk was overturned—a heavy thing, real wood, scarred by years of coffee cups and elbows. He crouched behind it, his bow clutched to his chest, his eyes peeking over the top.
"This is not fair," he muttered. "A professional S-rank assassin like myself. Left to be a background watcher. Not even a participant."
He shook his head.
"Seriously. What's wrong with this world? Has things gone mad?"
Behind him, a security crawled out from under the wreckage of the reception area.
His baton was still in his hand. The orange tip glowed—dim, but alive. He pushed himself to his feet, silent, his eyes fixed on Gerry's exposed back.
He raised the baton.
---
Tyla's plates returned to her arms.
The echo wave had cleared the immediate threat—five security lay sprawled across the corridor, groaning, clutching ribs and shoulders and heads. But more were coming. She could hear their boots on the concrete, their breathing, the crackle of their batons.
Four, she thought. Maybe five.
She didn't turn.
Her plates detached again—two this time, not four. They hovered beside her shoulders, waiting.
The first security appeared from around the corner.
He saw her. He raised his baton.
The plate shot forward.
Not a shockwave this time. A disc. It spun through the air, its edge glowing blue, and struck the baton's tip.
The orange light died.
The security stared at his weapon. Then at Tyla. Then at the plate, which had returned to her shoulder and was now humming softly.
He dropped the baton.
"I'm out," he said.
He turned and walked away.
---
Lucian's rings were spinning faster.
The remaining security had formed a loose semicircle around him—four of them, their batons raised, their stances cautious. They had seen what happened to their comrades. They had no intention of sharing the same fate.
One of them lunged.
Lucian's hand moved.
Not to block—to redirect. His palm struck the inside of the man's wrist. The baton swung wide. Lucian's other hand caught the man's elbow and pushed.
The security's arm bent backward.
He screamed.
Lucian released him. The man stumbled into his comrades, knocking two of them off balance.
The fourth security tried to circle behind him.
Lucian's foot came down on the man's instep. His elbow struck the man's ribs. His rings pulsed—once, twice—and the security's breath left him in a rush.
He fell to his knees.
Lucian stepped over him.
"Anyone else?" he asked.
No one answered.
---
Gerry felt the air shift behind him.
Not wind. Something else. A pressure, a heat, the sense of a weapon raised and ready to fall.
He didn't turn.
He rolled.
His shoulder hit the floor. His body spun. His bow came up—not to shoot, to block.
The baton struck the wood.
The bow cracked—not broken, but splintered. The orange glow of the baton flickered, dimmed, and died.
Gerry stared at the security standing over him.
The man's visor was cracked. His breathing was heavy. His baton was still raised, ready for a second swing.
"Mother of all goodness," Gerry said.
His voice was high. Almost a squeak.
"Tell me you didn't—"
The baton came down.
---