The room smelled faintly of oil and metal.
This wasn't the kind of place where power gathered.
It wasn't grand, or guarded, or even particularly clean. Just the back room of a run-down motorbike shop in a rough part of the city, tucked behind rusted shutters and flickering lights. The kind of place most people wouldn't look at twice.
And yet, three of the most powerful Titled in the country sat within it.
General Harold Whitaker, the head of the USA Titled Association, stood near a cluttered workbench, his posture rigid as ever, steel-grey hair combed neatly despite the setting. His cold green eyes scanned the room like he was on a battlefield rather than in a mechanic's den.
Across from him leaned Lucas Holt, known as the Association's Bloodhound. Hands in his coat pockets, posture relaxed, but his gaze was sharp as always. He was the kind of man who looked like he was constantly piecing together a puzzle no one else could see.
And then, there was Kaela.
The Riot Valkyrie.
