Location: Velmarch Heights — Underpass Industrial Zone — Vein Frame Workshop — Thirteenth Floor Corridor
The corridor stretched before them like a dark artery.
Carpeted floor, muffling footsteps. Wood-paneled walls, dark and polished, their surfaces reflecting the dim glow of sconces that hung at uneven intervals. The air was still, heavy, pressed down by the weight of the building above.
Lucian led the way.
Wilfred Von Bron hung over his shoulder—limp, unconscious, his glasses dangling from one ear, his mouth open, his breath shallow. The rings on Lucian's arm pulsed—slow, patient, like a second heartbeat.
Gerry walked behind him.
His cracked bow was slung across his back. His hands were empty, but his eyes moved constantly—left, right, up, down—tracking shadows that might have been threats and might have been nothing.
"That was easy," he said.
His voice echoed off the walls.
"Too easy," Tyla replied.
She walked on Lucian's left, her plates still attached, her humming reduced to a whisper. Her eyes were fixed on the end of the corridor, where the elevator waited.
"You think?" Gerry glanced at her. "We crashed a truck through the front door. Beat up a dozen security guards. Walked straight to the thirteenth floor. Knocked out the target. And now we're leaving."
"Yes."
"That sounds like a good day to me."
"That sounds like a trap to me."
Gerry opened his mouth to respond.
Then he saw the figure at the end of the corridor.
---
He stood in front of the elevator.
Tall. Lean. His suit was not fabric—it was armor. Dark gray, almost black, with lines of pale blue light that traced across the surface like veins. The lines pulsed—slow, rhythmic, as if they were breathing.
His face was young. Early thirties, maybe. His hair was dark, swept back. His eyes were pale, almost colorless, and they were fixed on Lucian.
Gerry stopped walking.
"Oh, great," he said.
He turned to Tyla.
His expression was the face of a man who had just been proven right and was not happy about it.
"You just had to jinx it, didn't you?"
Tyla didn't answer.
Her eyes were on the figure. Her plates hummed louder.
Lucian's expression shifted.
His jaw tightened. His shoulders squared. The rings on his arm pulsed—faster now, less patient.
"What's wrong?" Gerry asked.
"I know him."
The figure's lips curled.
"Oh, you know me, do you?"
His voice was low. Calm. The voice of someone who had never been afraid of anything.
"The thief knows the warden. How... poetic."
---
Eugene Torrent.
The name surfaced in Lucian's memory like a body rising from deep water.
Southern states. The Torrent family. Wardens, both of us, back at the Halcyon base. We were in charge of the fodder—the test subjects. The instruments. The ones who weren't strong enough to be operatives but weren't weak enough to be discarded.
He was good at his job. Cold. Efficient. Never asked questions.
And now he's here. In this building. Blocking our exit.
This isn't a coincidence.
This is a trap.
"How indolent of you," Eugene said.
He stepped forward.
His shoes made no sound on the carpet.
"To dare ambush the premises of a private research facility. To capture an important mind. To steal proprietary assets."
His head tilted.
"Did you really think no one would notice?"
Lucian shifted Wilfred's weight.
He turned to Gerry.
"Take him."
Gerry's eyes widened.
"Take him? Take him where? The dude is literally blocking—"
"Take him."
Lucian lowered Wilfred from his shoulder. Gerry stepped forward, awkwardly, and the unconscious man slumped against him. His glasses fell. Gerry caught them—stuffed them in his pocket—and wrapped his arms around Wilfred's chest.
"Now what? We can't just—"
Lucian smirked.
Gerry's stomach dropped.
"Oh no," he said. "Oh no, no, no—"
---
Lucian turned.
His arm swept toward the window at the end of the corridor—a floor-to-ceiling pane of reinforced glass, overlooking the underpass, the city, the dark sprawl of Velmarch Heights.
The rings on his arm detached.
Seven of them. Dark metal. Glowing.
They flew toward the window—not fast, not slow, just inevitable. They struck the glass in sequence—one, two, three—each impact spiderwebbing the surface with cracks.
The fourth ring shattered it.
Glass exploded outward—a cascade of shards that caught the orange light of the city and scattered it across the corridor. The wind rushed in, cold and sharp, carrying the smell of exhaust and rain.
Lucian grabbed Gerry by the shoulder.
"Hey—hey! What are you—"
Lucian winked.
Then he threw him.
Gerry's feet left the ground. His arms tightened around Wilfred. His mouth opened—not to scream, to yelp—and he sailed through the broken window, into the night, into the darkness below.
Tyla's plates detached.
They shot toward the window—not to follow, to catch. The energy between them spread, flattened, formed a translucent field that wrapped around Gerry's falling body.
He slowed.
His descent became a glide.
His yelp became a sigh.
He landed on the concrete below—hard, but not broken—and lay there, staring at the sky, Wilfred still clutched to his chest.
"I'm going to kill him," he said. "I'm going to kill him slowly."
---
Tyla turned back to the corridor.
Eugene was still standing there.
His arms were crossed. His expression was the face of someone who had watched a child throw a tantrum and was waiting for it to end.
"Did you know," he said, "what you two dummies just did?"
He uncrossed his arms.
"Do you have any idea who you're messing with?"
His voice dropped.
"If I were you, I would stop now. Or else."
Tyla raised her hands.
Her plates returned to her shoulders. They hovered, humming, their edges glowing pale blue.
"Or else what?"
Eugene's smile widened.
"Or else I stop being polite."
---
Tyla attacked.
Her body moved like water—not fast, not slow, just continuous. Her fist aimed for Eugene's throat. Her knee aimed for his stomach. Her plates shot forward—two of them, flanking her strike, ready to echo-wave him from both sides.
Eugene didn't move.
His hand came up—not fast, not slow, just first.
His palm caught her fist. The impact sent a shockwave through the corridor—papers flying, lights flickering, the carpet rippling.
He didn't step back.
He didn't flinch.
His other hand deflected the plates—not with force, with timing. They spun past him, missing by inches, and embedded themselves in the wall behind him.
"You're fast," he said.
He looked at her eyes.
"I like that."
Tyla pulled back.
Her plates tore themselves from the wall and returned to her shoulders.
"Your breath stinks," she said.
Eugene licked his lips.
"I like when they play hard to get."
He stepped forward.
The lines on his suit pulsed—faster now, brighter. The air around him shimmered, not with heat, with frequency. His skin prickled. His hair stood up. His mouth watered—not from hunger, from want.
Resonance absorption, Lucian thought. He's drawing from the environment. From the building. From us.
He's not just wearing an aethernova suit. He's become one with it.
He's a rank one circuit awakener.
---
Lucian moved.
His rings shot forward—seven of them, spinning, trailing crimson light. They circled Eugene, closing in from all sides, their edges sharp, their hunger palpable.
Eugene didn't turn.
He raised his hand.
The lines on his suit flared—pale blue, bright, blinding—and a field of energy erupted around him. It wasn't a barrier. It was a frequency. The rings struck it and stopped—not deflected, not destroyed, just... suspended.
Hovering.
Trapped.
"Kaelos," Eugene said.
He looked at Lucian.
His eyes were pale. Cold. Almost curious.
"The branch of Disorder. That's what you are, isn't it? One of the chaos brats."
He tilted his head.
"Interesting. Very interesting."
Lucian's jaw tightened.
He tried to call the rings back.
They didn't move.
---
Tyla attacked again.
Her plates shot forward—four of them, this time, spinning in a helix, their energy trails interlocking. The echo wave that followed was not wide—it was focused. A blade of pale blue frequency aimed at Eugene's chest.
Eugene's hand moved.
His palm met the wave—not to block, to absorb. The energy flowed into his suit, through his arm, into his chest. His eyes closed. His lips parted.
"Delicious," he said.
He opened his eyes.
His hand swept downward.
The ground beneath Tyla's feet buckled. Concrete cracked. Debris rose—chunks of stone and dust and broken carpet—and shot toward Lucian like a wave.
Lucian dove.
The wave struck the wall behind him—caving it in, sending dust clouds billowing through the corridor.
Tyla stumbled.
Her plates returned to her shoulders, but her balance was gone. Her knee hit the floor. Her palms pressed against the concrete.
She looked up.
Eugene was standing over her.
His smile was the smile of a man who had already won.
"You could be mine, you know," he said. "Drop the mask. Drop the attitude. Come work for me."
"In your dreams."
"I dream of you already."
He reached down.
His fingers brushed her chin.
---
Lucian's rings broke free.
The frequency field flickered—not because Eugene weakened, but because Lucian pushed. His will. His rage. His desperation. The rings spun faster, brighter, and tore through the field, returning to his arm.
He stood.
His chest heaved. His breath came in ragged gasps.
"You're stronger than I remember," he said.
"I've grown," Eugene replied.
He turned.
In the distance, sirens.
Faint at first—then louder, closer, their wails echoing off the concrete pillars of the underpass. Red and blue lights flickered through the broken window, casting the corridor in pulses of color.
Eugene's expression shifted.
His smile faded. His eyes narrowed.
"Cursed," he said.
He stepped back.
"We'll finish this another time."
He turned and walked toward the elevator.
The doors opened.
He stepped inside.
The doors closed.
And the corridor was silent except for the sirens and Tyla's breathing and Lucian's rings, which pulsed once, twice, and then went dark.
---