Location: Velmarch Heights — Underpass Industrial Zone — Vein Frame Workshop — Corridor
The baton descended.
Gerry's eyes widened behind his butterfly mask. His hands were empty—the bow was cracked, the arrow was gone, and the security's orange-tipped weapon was six inches from his face.
Then the air cracked.
A plate—Tyla's, blue-white, humming with stored echo—slammed into the baton's shaft. The metal bent. The orange glow died. The security's wrist twisted at an angle that wrists were not meant to twist.
He screamed.
The baton flew from his grip—spinning end over end, trailing sparks, and landed somewhere in the wreckage of the reception area.
Gerry didn't hesitate.
His hand shot out. His fingers closed around the security's collar. He pulled.
The man stumbled forward—off-balance, arms flailing—and Gerry's knee met his stomach. The air left his lungs in a rush. His visor fogged. He doubled over.
Gerry's other hand came down—a chop, not hard, precise—against the back of the man's neck.
He crumpled.
"Finally," Gerry said.
He straightened. His cracked bow hung from his shoulder. His hands flexed. His eyes—visible through the mask—were no longer panicked.
"Some action."
---
The remaining security had formed a defensive line.
Three of them. Their batons were raised. Their stances were wide, grounded, their weight distributed evenly. They had watched their comrades fall. They had no intention of sharing the same fate.
Gerry walked toward them.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... present.
The first security lunged—baton aimed at Gerry's ribs.
Gerry's body twisted. The baton passed where his side had been. His hand caught the man's wrist. His other hand struck the inside of the man's elbow—not a punch, a press. The joint bent. The baton dropped.
Gerry's foot swept the man's legs.
He fell.
"One," Gerry said.
The second security came from the left—baton raised high, coming down in an arc aimed at Gerry's shoulder.
Gerry stepped into the swing.
His shoulder pressed against the man's chest. His hip rotated. His arm wrapped around the man's waist. He lifted—not high, just enough—and threw.
The security crashed into the third man.
They went down together, their batons clattering, their visors cracking.
"Two," Gerry said. "Three."
He stood over them.
His chest heaved. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. But his eyes were bright.
"My, my," he said. "I haven't felt this in forever."
His lips curled behind the mask.
"Remind me to thank Elijah for this."
---
Lucian stood at the end of the corridor.
His rings were dim now—not dark, just... patient. The bodies of four security lay at his feet. Some were unconscious. Some were groaning, clutching ribs and shoulders and heads. One was crawling toward the exit, his baton dragging behind him.
Lucian didn't watch him leave.
Tyla stood near the elevator.
Her plates had returned to her arms. The hum had faded. The corridor behind her was empty—the security who had fled had fled far. The ones who had stayed were no longer standing.
She looked at Gerry.
"How much of a baby you behave sometimes," she said.
Gerry's head snapped toward her.
"Says the missus who acts that way toward certain scumbags I know."
Tyla's eyes narrowed.
Her plates detached.
They hovered beside her shoulders—not attacking, just... present. Their edges glowed blue-white. Their hum was low, almost threatening.
"Hey, hey, hey," Gerry said.
He raised his hands. His cracked bow swung from his shoulder.
"We all work for the same boss. Same team. Same side. I was kidding. Kidding!"
The plates didn't retreat.
But they didn't attack either.
"Enough."
Lucian's voice was flat.
"The cops will be here soon. We don't have time for your antics."
He walked to the elevator. His boots echoed on the concrete. He pressed the call button.
The doors slid open.
"Get in."
---
The elevator was small.
Bare metal walls. Fluorescent light, flickering, casting the three figures in shades of white and gray. The buttons were worn—decades of fingers pressing them. The floor was scuffed.
Gerry leaned against the back wall.
His arms were crossed. His cracked bow was slung over his shoulder. His leg bounced—not from fear, from energy.
"I really want to stay at your house," he hummed.
His voice was low, almost a whisper.
"I really want to stay at your house..."
His head nodded. His shoulders swayed. His foot tapped a rhythm that had no connection to the elevator's hum.
"Wrapped in your arms, in your warm embrace..."
His hips moved—side to side, a K-pop groove, his hands tracing circles in the air.
"I really want to stay at your house..."
Tyla stared at him.
Her expression was the face of someone who had seen too much and was no longer surprised, but was still disappointed.
She shook her head.
Lucian didn't look at Gerry.
His eyes were fixed on the floor indicator.
The numbers changed.
4... 5... 6...
"Thirteenth floor," he said.
Gerry stopped humming.
---
The elevator stopped.
The doors opened.
The corridor beyond was different from the one below. Carpeted. Quiet. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the kind that belonged in an executive suite. The lights were warm, not fluorescent.
At the end of the corridor, a door.
Wooden. Heavy. A brass nameplate: Wilfred Von Bron.
Gerry stepped out first.
"So," he said, his voice taking on a theatrical innocence, "is this the place where Wilfred Von Bron—the famous Everthorne professor—conducts his... research?"
No answer.
He knocked.
"Hello? Anyone home?"
From inside, a muffled voice: "I'm busy! Go away!"
Gerry glanced at Tyla.
She shrugged.
"Sorry to interrupt," Gerry called, "but we have a few questions. About Vein frames. About Frederick Morrecca. About—"
"I said I'm busy!"
The voice was closer now. Impatient.
"Didn't you hear me? I'm—"
Lucian's hand moved.
The rings on his fingers pulsed. Seven lines of crimson light traced the edges of the door—slicing through wood, through brass, through the lock.
The door fell inward.
---
The room beyond was an office.
Dark wood. Leather chairs. A desk the size of a small boat. Shelves lined the walls, filled with ledgers and files and things that had been hidden from the world.
Behind the desk, a woman.
She was young—mid-twenties, maybe—with dark hair and dark eyes and a dress that was too expensive for the room. Her lipstick was smeared. Her cheeks were flushed.
And on the desk, a man.
Wilfred Von Bron.
He was not young. His hair was gray, thinning, combed over a scalp that had seen better decades. His glasses were thick, round, the kind that magnified eyes and made them look larger than they were. His suit was expensive but rumpled, as if he had been wearing it for two days and had slept in it.
The woman yelped.
She scrambled off the desk, her heels clicking on the floor, her hands reaching for the door—any door—to escape.
Wilfred's face went red.
"What the—who the—security! SECURITY!"
Lucian stepped into the room.
His rings pulsed.
"Security is... unavailable," he said.
Wilfred's eyes darted to the door. To the fallen wood. To the corridor beyond, where the bodies of his guards had been dragged away.
He grabbed the woman.
His arm wrapped around her throat. His other hand pressed against her back. He pulled her against his chest—a shield, a hostage, a bargaining chip.
"Stay back!" he shouted. "I'll—I'll—"
The woman's eyes were wide. Her mouth opened. No sound came out.
Lucian's hand moved.
One ring detached from his arm. It spun through the air—slow, deliberate—and struck the woman's temple.
She went limp.
Wilfred's arm dropped. She slid to the floor. He stared at her, then at Lucian, then at the ring, which had returned to its place on the man's arm.
"You... you're the chump," Wilfred whispered. "The one that old fatty bought the Vein frame for. The one he sent to kill Nathan Drayke."
He backed away from the desk.
His legs hit the chair. He stumbled, caught himself, fell into the seat.
"What are you doing? What are you—"
Lucian stepped closer.
"Do you know what I don't like?"
He raised his fist.
"The worst types. The ones who never stop yapping."
His punch landed on Wilfred's jaw.
The man's head snapped back. His glasses flew off. His eyes rolled up. He slid from the chair and landed on the floor, unconscious, his mouth open, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
Lucian lowered his hand.
He turned.
His eyes met Gerry's.
Gerry's expression shifted.
His smile faded. His posture stiffened. His hand moved to his cracked bow—not to draw, just to hold.
"Creepy," he muttered.
He took a step back.
"Very creepy."
Lucian said nothing.
He walked toward the door.
"We have what we came for," he said. "Let's go."
---