Location: Fenwick District — The Golden Jackal — Back Alley — Night
Emilio's body was trembling.
Not the trembling of fear—the trembling of a man who had crossed a threshold and could not find his way back. His eyes were wide, unfocused, darting from Lucian to Tyla to the dark mouth of the alley. His breath came in short, ragged gasps. His hands were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white. Sweat beaded on his forehead, tracing slow paths down his temples.
"You—"
His voice cracked.
"You might be the biggest idiot in the whole of Fenwick District."
"Wait—the whole of Crestwood."
"To dare use me to infiltrate a highly restricted area—"
"—you don't know what you're doing."
"You don't have any authorization."
"You don't know the insides of it."
"You don't know who you're really messing with."
"Delinquent punk."
"If you did—"
"—you would unhand me this very instant."
Lucian's expression didn't change.
His hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
The rings on his arm pulsed—pale light bleeding from their surfaces, jagged and bright. The air around them shimmered, distorting with the force of the energy. The metal bands rotated slowly, each one spinning at a different speed, casting long shadows across the alley walls. The hum was low, resonant, vibrating in the teeth.
"You see," Lucian said.
His voice was flat.
"Where I was born—"
"—we don't give a shit about something or someone's treasures."
"Or who they are."
"If we want to take anything that catches our eyes—"
"—we do take it."
"And those that don't like to cooperate—"
"—we are so gladly to give them proper treatment."
"The kind that gives them the motivation to realize what is really happening to them."
The rings pulsed again, the light intensifying for a brief moment before settling back into their steady rhythm.
Emilio's face went pale.
His throat moved. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His eyes were fixed on the rings, on the pale light bleeding from their surfaces. He looked like a man who had just realized that the ground beneath his feet was not solid.
"I—"
"I—"
"I—"
He couldn't finish the sentence.
---
Tyla's voice was calm, almost conversational.
"By the way—"
"—we dug some info on your life."
"Not that there was anything interesting."
"Apart from the fact that you're a loner middle-aged loser with nothing to your name."
"And the only thing you value is some chick you like visiting in one of the courtesan bars in lower Fenwick."
Emilio's face went pale.
His eyes went wide.
His body stiffened.
"How—"
"How do you—"
"How do you know that?"
Tyla smiled.
"Based on your reaction—"
"—she isn't just an ordinary companion for temporary visits, is she?"
"Well—"
"—if you don't want any harm to come her way—"
"—you better cooperate well with us."
Emilio's throat moved.
His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
"I—"
"I—"
"I'll do it."
"I'll do whatever you want."
"Just—"
"Just don't hurt her."
"Please."
"Don't hurt her."
---
Caleb stood beside his Dodge Charger.
The parking lot was empty, the streetlights casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt. The air was cold, damp, carrying the smell of exhaust and something else—something that clung to the back of the throat like copper. A single light flickered above the diner entrance, its buzz the only sound in the silence.
He took a bite of his donut.
It was stale, dry, tasteless. He didn't notice. His mind was elsewhere, churning through the events of the past weeks.
"Seriously," he thought.
"Where the heck did a couple of thousand crooks suddenly vanish in one night?"
"And no one has any clues about their location?"
"Really frustrating."
He took another bite.
"What's more—"
"—I'm being threatened with transfer to the southern dead bit region of the country."
"If I don't do as told by those bastards."
"And all because of that Azaqor."
His jaw tightened.
"Lost almost everything."
"Elijah Marcus Isley—"
"—I doubt he is Azaqor."
"Had anything to do with Aubrey's disappearance."
---
The memory came without warning.
Maylene Wynter.
She was standing in a dazzling red dress, her hair dark, her eyes bright, her smile warm. The venue was opulent—chandeliers, crystal glasses, the murmur of polite conversation. She was greeting guests, her hand extended, her voice soft.
"Lieutenant Saye," she said.
"So good to see you."
"You look well."
"Thank you, Mrs. Wynter."
"Please—call me Maylene."
"Maylene."
"How are the children?"
"They're—"
He paused.
"—they're fine."
"Good."
"Good."
---
The memory faded.
Caleb's eyes were distant.
"What a great woman she really was," he thought.
"I don't get it."
"The Wynters are a respected family in the country."
"More so Maylene's family."
"Why didn't they give her protection?"
"In her life—"
"—against situations like that?"
"She died very unjustly at the hands of that killer."
"My girl."
His hands tightened on the donut.
"My boy—"
"—Elijah."
"No matter if you are really Azaqor—"
"—you still have blood on your hands."
"And that of my own blood."
"I'm never forgiving you for that."
---
The air in the car shifted.
Not temperature—pressure. The kind of pressure that came before a storm, the kind that made the skin prickle and the hair stand on end. The darkness seemed to deepen, to pulse, to breathe. The shadows in the corners stretched, reaching toward the center of the car.
A voice came from the back seat.
Soft. Familiar. Wrong.
"My delicious father—"
"—you really still love me."
"Feeding me these sweets."
Caleb's body stiffened.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. His breath caught in his throat.
"What—"
"What—"
"What—"
"What do you want?"
The voice didn't answer.
Marcus stepped out of the car.
His movements were fluid, unhurried. His eyes were fixed on a point in the distance. His body was still, but his presence was heavy, pressing against the space like the weight of a mountain.
"What now?" Caleb asked.
"I sense something."
"Sense what?"
"A conflux practitioner."
"So?"
"What's the point of making a big deal out of it?"
"Thanks to that taskforce—"
"—they're everywhere now in parts of Crestwood."
Marcus's lips curved.
"No."
"This is different."
"I don't sense any of my kind in that user."
Caleb's eyes narrowed.
"Meaning—"
"—whoever it is—"
"—isn't someone of the Mysterium clan or the taskforce."
Marcus's smile widened.
"You know what that means, don't you?"
Caleb stared at the point in the distance.
His expression shifted.
His eyes narrowed.
His jaw tightened.
---