《Replica》 001: The Nightmare "Hey Mel, Liz! Rough night, eh?" Robert greeted us in the hallway, locking his door with a click that echoed down the corridor. "Hey, Rob..." I replied wearily, "The concert went on longer than expected. We had to clean up a lot afterward too..." "Yeah, I figured as much, judging by your state... And Mel''s too, haha!" He chuckled, pointing at Melanie, who was barely standing and leaning heavily on me. "Anyway, I''ve got to head to work myself. Rest up, girls!" With that, Robert patted my shoulder in his usual, slightly paternal manner before heading out. With the small talk over, I resumed my mission of getting home safely with my half-asleep, adorable girlfriend. Just a few more meters to navigate before the challenge of finding my keys while supporting Mel. "Ngggh... water..." came a cute, groggy murmur from Mel, her voice muffled against my shoulder. "Yes, yes, babe. We¡¯re almost home..." I whispered, fumbling in my purse for the keys. "There we go!" Finally, with the keys in hand, I unlocked the door to our cozy haven. Our studio apartment, painted with the vibrant hues of our shared passion for music, greeted us warmly. I guided Mel towards the bed at the back of the spacious room, dropping my purse to the floor. Using all my strength, I managed to lower her onto the bed, though not as gently as I¡¯d hoped. "Hey babe, you okay?" I whispered. "Still want that glass of water, or do you just want to sleep now?" "Nggg... Cuddles..." Mel''s voice, still groggy, seemed a bit less exhausted, perhaps helped by the brief nap she took on my shoulder during the walk home. "Alright, alright, you cuddle addict, let me get a bit more comfortable first..." I began, but a sudden force rocked my body, causing me to fall onto the bed with Mel. "C''mon, Mel...!" I laughed as she wrapped her arms around me, nuzzling into my neck. "Love you, Liz..." she whispered softly. "I love you too, cu-" My words were cut off as the entire room shook violently. "What was that?!" Mel cried out, now fully awake and alert. Another tremor, even stronger. I glanced out the window, expecting the rising sun, but instead, a massive shadow loomed outside. "What the hell is going on?!" Mel shouted, her fear mirroring mine. From outside, we could hear the wail of sirens approaching rapidly. "Ms. Kai! Stop it now, can''t you see what you''ve done to the city?!" A booming voice resonated through the air. "That''s Gravitas?! Wait, Ms. Kai?!" I exclaimed, shocked by the sudden appearance of two supers right next to our apartment. "Fuck, we need to get out of here-" My words were drowned out by a deafening crash. Not just any crash, but a series of metallic bangs and a monstrous roar. I barely had time to react before the entire structure began to collapse around us. The walls shook violently, plaster raining down as the ceiling cracked and split. I grabbed Mel''s hand, trying to pull her towards the door, but the floor buckled beneath us, sending us sprawling. "Move, Liz! We have to get out!" Mel screamed, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of destruction. I stumbled to my feet, dragging Mel with me, but another quake sent us crashing back to the ground. Through the dust and debris, I saw the hulking form of Ms. Kai, her monstrous silhouette illuminated by the flickering street lights outside. Gravitas was battling her, his power taking hold of the debris around him, maintaining them up in the air. "Mel, we need to find cover!" I shouted, trying to steady myself as the floor heaved once more. We crawled towards the doorway, dodging falling beams and shards of glass. The air was thick with dust, making it hard to breathe. I could feel Mel''s grip on my hand tightening, her fear palpable. "Almost there, just a little further!" I encouraged, though my own heart was pounding with terror. Suddenly, the roof gave way entirely, and I saw the night sky above, filled with the eerie glow of fire and chaos. Gravitas and Ms. Kai''s battle raged on, oblivious to the destruction they were causing below. With a final, desperate push, we made it to the door. I kicked it open, and we stumbled out into the hallway, only to be met with more debris and confusion. The entire building seemed to be collapsing in on itself. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. "Down the stairs, quickly!" I urged, pulling Mel towards the emergency exit. We half-ran, half-fell down the stairwell, the building groaning and shuddering with each step. Just as we reached the ground floor, a massive explosion rocked the foundation, throwing us against the wall. Dazed and disoriented, I looked up to see Gravitas and Ms. Kai fighting. Ms.Kai deflecting the debris Gravitas sent her way with powerful clawed slashes "Mel, come on! We have to keep moving!" I shouted, trying to lift her to her feet. But it was too late. The final blow came, and the entire building began to collapse in earnest. The last thing I saw was the twisted wreckage above us, falling in slow motion, before everything went black. As the world around me faded to darkness, an abhorrent sight emerged from the murky depths of a swamp. A decomposing corpse, its stench overpowering and unmistakable, lay lifeless amidst the muck and mire. My eyes adjusted to the putrid atmosphere, revealing every grotesque detail of the macabre scene. But just as I began to process this grisly tableau, another image supplanted it ¨C a towering, monstrous form looming overhead. Its countless, glowing eyes seemed to pierce right through me, communicating something incomprehensible yet profound. As its massive bulk swayed eerily, tentacles undulating with a primordial grace, I felt myself drawn into an otherworldly conversation. Suddenly, the scene shifted again. This time, my own lifeless body was revealed ¨C impaled by a rusted girder, blood pooling around the wound. The camera sped up relentlessly, chronicling my corporeal decay at an accelerated pace. Blackened flesh fell away from bone, revealing the rot that set in with my final breath. The visions intensified, each more horrifying than the last. I watched helplessly as maggots feasted on my rotting remains, as my bones were picked clean by scavengers, and finally, as nothing remained but piles of ash and rubble slowly eroding back into the swamp. Just when it seemed like all hope was lost, an excruciating pain tore through me ¨C a searing agony that snapped me back to consciousness. Gasping for air, I found myself staring up at the twisted metal that had impaled me, the girder cold and unforgiving against my chest. The pain is excruciating, but surprisingly less than I imagined a girder piercing my chest would cause. Over time, it seemed the only sensations left were the warmth and dampness of my blood soaking my shirt. Oddly, my body began moving on its own, slowly extracting the metal rod from my torso. It felt surreal, as if I were an observer watching someone else¡¯s body move. I couldn''t even register the texture of the rod in my hand or the pressure in my chest. Despite my passive role, the girder was finally pulled free, and that¡¯s when the sensations came flooding back. Heat radiated around my chest, while a chilling emptiness settled in my torso. It made sense; there was a gaping hole. A hole? My heart? How was I still conscious without my heart? Panic set in as I contemplated my imminent death. Suddenly, I felt a surge of something, like an ethereal string extending from the center of my body toward a nearby location. The string felt intangible yet very real, as if I could grasp it at any moment. Unconsciously, I pulled on it, and the chilling sensation vanished instantly. I didn¡¯t need to look at my chest to know¡ªthe wound had disappeared. No time to think about it¡ªMel! "Mel! Are you alright?!" I shouted, finally able to fully control my body again. I searched frantically for my girlfriend. "She must be nearby; we were right next to each other..." My anxiety spiked. Despite my efforts, I couldn¡¯t see her anywhere. It made no sense; she should be close. Where was she? Where? Where? My memories afterward are hazy. I remember sifting through the debris, then being guided toward an ambulance by the rescue squad. On the way out, I noticed Robert with a large hole in his torso, similar to the one I had earlier. His shirt was intact, but he was clearly dead. The sight of Robert¡¯s lifeless body, with an injury identical to mine, brought a new wave of confusion and dread. The rescue team hurried me to the ambulance, their voices a blur in the background as my mind struggled to comprehend what had happened. I was supposed to be dead. Instead, I was here, unscathed, while Robert lay lifeless. As I sat in the ambulance, the events replayed in my mind. The concert, the return home, the battle between Gravitas and Ms. Kai, and the catastrophic collapse of our apartment. Each moment felt surreal, as if it had happened to someone else. The paramedics¡¯ questions pulled me back to the present, but I had no answers to give them. My thoughts were consumed by Mel. Where was she? Was she safe? I tried to push aside the growing fear and focus on the present. The paramedics were doing their best to check for injuries, but I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something was profoundly wrong. I kept glancing at Robert¡¯s body, the hole in his torso a grim reminder of my own brush with death. The memory of the intangible string and the way it had healed me felt like a bizarre dream. Eventually, the rescue team moved Robert''s body, covering him with a sheet. The sight of it made my stomach churn. Why had I survived while he hadn¡¯t? What kind of power had I awakened, and what did it mean for me now? I leaned back against the ambulance¡¯s interior, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and fear. The ambulance ride to the hospital was a blur. My mind kept drifting back to Mel. Her voice, her laughter, the way she had held me moments before the collapse. I had to find her. She had to be okay. As soon as the ambulance doors opened at the hospital, I pushed past the paramedics, desperate to get answers. The hospital was chaos, filled with the injured and the dying. I called out for Mel, my voice hoarse and frantic. The nurses tried to calm me, but I couldn¡¯t be soothed. I needed to know if she was alive. They eventually guided me to a waiting area, where I sat among other anxious faces, all of us united by our fear and uncertainty. Time seemed to stretch endlessly. Each second without news of Mel felt like an eternity. I replayed the events over and over, trying to make sense of the surreal sequence of events. The power I had discovered, the way it had healed me, and the inexplicable string that had connected me to Robert''s fate. And now those that connected me to the rescue squad, which had... stretched since they dropped me here. Then, reality set in as the minutes turned to hours. My hope began to wane as I sat in that waiting area, surrounded by the cacophony of beeping machines and murmured conversations. The doctor finally approached me, his expression grave. "I''m sorry," he said softly. "We haven''t found anyone else from your apartment. It¡¯s possible they didn¡¯t make it." The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Mel was gone. The love of my life, lost to the chaos of the battle outside. I felt like I was drowning in sorrow, my heart a heavy weight in my chest. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? Damned heroes and villains. 002: Going Slow I wake up to the sound of construction outside. The noise drilling into my skull, as if taunting me with the events from that night. Opening my eyes, I am greeted by an impersonal room. Almost clinical. "Meta Fight Disaster Relief Resources" they call it. Appartments given to the victim of metahumans in case they lost it. That''s the least they can do with pushing meta into their Hero or Metapol programs... Every day since Mel disappeared has been a struggle. My mornings are filled with a hollow routine¡ªwake up, eat, try to find something to occupy my time. Despite Paul''s offer to continue working as usual at the shop, I can''t work now; the fear of another fight between metahumans keeps me from leaving for too long the house. I can''t even walk down the street without flinching at every loud noise, every shadow that moves too quickly. The nights are worse. That''s when the visions come, vivid and relentless. I relive the moment of awakening my power over and over again. The sight of Robert¡¯s lifeless body, a hole in his torso bleeding, mirrors my own terror and confusion. The feeling of that ethereal string pulling, the way my wound vanished¡ªit haunts me. I keep thinking, why me? Why did I survive when so many others- When Mel didn''t? When my brain isn''t occupied by some magazine I get sent or other, it turns back to my visions. The large writhing mass of tentacles and eyes from before my awakening... It''s terifying, whenever I think of it, it feels like it looks at me. And then, the vision of my rotting body comes instead. I feel like vomitting whenever that happens, but as if my "fixed" body was something alien, nothing ever actually comes out. Not even bile. My days have been continuing like this in a blur. I don''t know how long for sure, what I do know is that the sound of the construction works are slowly reducing. I know I''ll need to move out of this place soon, and will need money to get a place to stay at... As the sun sets, the sound of the worker''s cries now vanished, the city outside my window erupts into chaos. The familiar sounds of battle fill the air¡ªexplosions, screams, the shattering of glass. I can feel the tremors through the floor, and my heart races. I force myself to breathe, but it¡¯s no use. The panic grips me, tight and unyielding. "Not again," I whisper to the empty room. My mind flashes back to that night, the last night I saw Mel. I can still hear her voice, her laughter, the way she clung to me when the building started to collapse. The fear in her eyes as we tried to escape. The desperate hope that we might make it out alive, only to be crushed by the reality of our fate. I get out of bed and move to the window, looking out at the distant flashes of light and smoke. Gravitas and Ms. Kai, or maybe some other Meta are tearing through the city once more. Their battles are a spectacle for some, but for me, it¡¯s a nightmare. I see people running, trying to find shelter, their lives upended by powers they can''t comprehend or control. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to find some semblance of comfort. It¡¯s a futile effort. The apartment is cold and unfeeling, much like the world outside. I think about the visions, the grotesque scenes of my own death and decay, and wonder if this is all some twisted joke. What¡¯s the point of surviving if this is all that¡¯s left? In the kitchen, I reach for a glass of water, hoping it will calm the storm inside me. But my hands betray me, trembling uncontrollably, the water splashing onto the cold, lifeless countertop. The noise outside is deafening¡ªexplosions, the roar of battle between metahumans. My grip weakens further, and the glass slips from my hand, shattering on the floor just like my composure. My legs buckle, and I slide down the counter, landing hard on the floor, my back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wood. I try to breathe, but each breath is a ragged, shuddering gasp. My chest tightens as if an invisible hand is squeezing the life out of me. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting, carving wet paths down to my chin. The world outside seems to fade, the sounds of destruction becoming distant echoes. All that¡¯s left is the sound of my own sobs, loud and desperate, filling the empty apartment. And then, as if my mind wants to punish me further, the images begin to flood in. They start gently, almost sweetly¡ªMel¡¯s smile, radiant and warm, the way she always looked at me with those bright, loving eyes. I see us on our first date, the way she laughed when I awkwardly spilled wine on my dress, the way we walked hand in hand through the park, talking about everything and nothing. But then, like a cruel twist of fate, the images shift. The brightness of Mel¡¯s smile dims, the corners of her mouth dripping with blood. Her eyes, once full of life, cloud over with fear and pain. I see her lying on the ground, her body broken and lifeless amidst a landscape of debris and fire. The park where we walked hand in hand is now a wasteland, trees scorched and blackened, the air thick with smoke. The visions won¡¯t stop. I¡¯m pulled back to the day we moved in together, carrying boxes up the stairs, laughing as we argued over where to put the couch. But the laughter quickly turns to screams in my mind. The walls of our home crack and crumble, the floor gives way beneath us, and I watch in helpless horror as Mel falls into the abyss below, her hands reaching out for mine, but I¡¯m too far, too slow. The ground swallows her up, and all that¡¯s left is the echo of her scream, reverberating in my mind. In the kitchen, I reach for a glass of water, hoping it will calm the storm inside me. But my hands betray me, trembling uncontrollably, the water splashing onto the cold, lifeless countertop. The noise outside is deafening¡ªexplosions, the roar of battle between metahumans. My grip weakens further, and the glass slips from my hand, shattering on the floor just like my composure. My legs buckle, and I slide down the counter, landing hard on the floor, my back pressed against the cold, unforgiving wood. I try to breathe, but each breath is a ragged, shuddering gasp. My chest tightens as if an invisible hand is squeezing the life out of me. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting, carving wet paths down to my chin. The world outside seems to fade, the sounds of destruction becoming distant echoes. All that¡¯s left is the sound of my own sobs, loud and desperate, filling the empty apartment. And then, as if my mind wants to punish me further, the images begin to flood in. They start gently, almost sweetly¡ªMel¡¯s smile, radiant and warm, the way she always looked at me with those bright, loving eyes. I see us on our first date, the way she laughed when I awkwardly spilled wine on my dress, the way we walked hand in hand through the park, talking about everything and nothing. But then, like a cruel twist of fate, the images shift. The brightness of Mel¡¯s smile dims, the corners of her mouth dripping with blood. Her eyes, once full of life, cloud over with fear and pain. I see her lying on the ground, her body broken and lifeless amidst a landscape of debris and fire. The park where we walked hand in hand is now a wasteland, trees scorched and blackened, the air thick with smoke. The visions won¡¯t stop. I¡¯m pulled back to the day we moved in together, carrying boxes up the stairs, laughing as we argued over where to put the couch. But the laughter quickly turns to screams in my mind. The walls of our home crack and crumble, the floor gives way beneath us, and I watch in helpless horror as Mel falls into the abyss below, her hands reaching out for mine, but I¡¯m too far, too slow. The ground swallows her up, and all that¡¯s left is the echo of her scream, reverberating in my mind. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. And then there¡¯s the concert, the night everything changed. I see Mel on stage, her silhouette bathed in soft, golden light as she plays her guitar, fingers moving with a grace that seems almost unreal. The music wraps around me, pulling me in, and for a moment, I¡¯m back at the bar, watching her with adoration as I serve drinks to the crowd. She¡¯s beautiful, radiant, the very picture of everything I love. But the vision shifts, warping into a nightmare as blood splatters across the stage. The audience screams, the music distorts into a hellish cacophony, and Mel¡¯s beautiful form is consumed by the flames that erupt around her. The tears flow faster, my sobs choking me as I try to breathe through the agony. My own subconscious is tormenting me, taking the happiest moments of my life and twisting them into nightmares. Each memory is tainted, stained with blood and death, as if the universe itself is mocking me, asking why I survived when she didn¡¯t. I curl up on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible, as if I could disappear entirely. The images continue to assault me, a relentless onslaught of grief and guilt. I see our home, the place we were supposed to grow old together, reduced to a pile of rubble. I see Mel, lying among the debris, her body broken and lifeless, the life we were supposed to have together nothing more than dust. I don¡¯t know how long I lie there, lost in the torment of my mind. The sounds of the fight outside fade into nothingness as the visions take over. I¡¯m trapped in this hell, reliving the worst moments over and over again, the weight of my grief crushing me until I can¡¯t breathe. I lie on the floor, time slipping by in a haze of pain and exhaustion. My body feels like it¡¯s made of lead, too heavy to move, too tired to care. The tears have dried, leaving my eyes raw and my face streaked with salt. The images have faded into the recesses of my mind, but the emptiness they leave behind is almost worse. It¡¯s a void that threatens to swallow me whole, a darkness that seems impossible to escape. I try to stand, but my legs are weak, shaky, as if they can¡¯t remember how to hold me up. I grasp the edge of the counter for support, pulling myself to my feet. The room spins slightly, and I have to close my eyes to steady myself. When I finally manage to open them again, the sight of the shattered glass on the floor makes my stomach turn. It¡¯s like looking at the pieces of my own broken life, scattered and beyond repair. The fight outside has moved on, the noise now distant and muffled. The city will be left with more damage, more lives destroyed, all in the name of justice or whatever excuse the metahumans tell themselves to justify the destruction they cause. But here, in this cold, sterile apartment, none of that matters. The world could burn, and it wouldn¡¯t make a difference to the emptiness I feel inside. I force myself to start picking up the shards of glass, each piece sharp and jagged, a reflection of the way I feel. I¡¯m careful, not because I¡¯m afraid of getting cut, but because the pain of a physical wound might be a welcome distraction. But I know better than to let myself fall into that trap. Pain doesn¡¯t fix anything. It doesn¡¯t bring Mel back, it doesn¡¯t make the visions stop, and it doesn¡¯t fill the void. Once the glass is cleaned up, I move on autopilot, going through the motions of living because I don¡¯t know what else to do. I make a cup of tea, the warmth of the mug a small comfort against the cold. I sit at the small kitchen table, staring out the window at the city that used to be my home. Now, it¡¯s just a reminder of everything I¡¯ve lost. The tea grows cold in my hands, untouched. I know I should drink it, that I should try to take care of myself, but the effort seems monumental. I¡¯m so tired, not just physically, but in my soul. Tired of the nightmares, tired of the fear, tired of the memories that refuse to let me go. A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts, a sharp rap that echoes through the apartment. For a moment, I consider ignoring it, letting whoever it is think I¡¯m not home. But something in me stirs, a tiny flicker of curiosity or maybe hope, and I find myself standing, moving toward the door. I hesitate before opening the door, a sense of dread creeping up my spine. The knock is unexpected, a sharp intrusion into my isolated world. My hand hovers over the doorknob as a million thoughts race through my mind. Who could it be at this hour? A neighbor? The police? Another Metapol officer, perhaps, with questions about that night? Taking a deep breath, I open it slowly, cautiously, half-expecting another nightmare to be standing on the other side. But instead, I¡¯m met with the sight of a familiar face¡ªPaul. His expression is one of concern, his eyes soft with pity, and I almost slam the door shut, the sudden surge of emotion too much to handle. But I don¡¯t. I can¡¯t. He¡¯s the only person who¡¯s tried to reach out, the only person who hasn¡¯t treated me like I¡¯m some kind of ghost or a broken doll. So I let him in, stepping aside to allow him entry into the apartment that has become my prison. Paul doesn¡¯t say anything at first, just looks around the room, taking in the mess, the emptiness. I can see the sympathy in his eyes, and it makes me want to scream, to tell him that I don¡¯t need his pity. But the words die in my throat, replaced by a wave of overwhelming sadness. ¡°I was worried about you,¡± he finally says, his voice gentle. ¡°You haven¡¯t been answering your phone.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± I manage to reply, my voice hoarse from crying. ¡°I just¡­ I couldn¡¯t.¡± He nods, as if he understands, though I know he can¡¯t. No one can. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± he says. ¡°I just wanted to make sure you¡¯re alright.¡± Paul''s words hang in the air, but they feel distant, almost unreal. I nod, though I¡¯m not sure if I''m really agreeing or just trying to make the silence go away. He moves closer, cautiously, as if I might break if he gets too close. And maybe I will. But he doesn¡¯t touch me. Instead, he stands there, just offering his presence, a quiet reminder that I¡¯m not completely alone. We sit together in the small living room, the remnants of my breakdown scattered around us like forgotten debris. I can''t bring myself to meet his eyes, afraid of what I might see there¡ªpity, sorrow, or maybe even disappointment. Instead, I focus on my hands, fingers tangled together, trying to keep myself grounded. After a while, Paul speaks, his voice soft and tentative. ¡°I know things have been... hard. And I can''t pretend to understand what you''re going through, but... you don''t have to go through it alone.¡± His words stir something inside me, a mixture of gratitude and anger. How can he say that when he doesn¡¯t know the weight of this darkness, the suffocating guilt that wraps itself around my heart? But I swallow the bitterness, because he¡¯s here, and that¡¯s more than I deserve. ¡°I don¡¯t know how to keep going,¡± I confess, my voice barely more than a whisper. The admission feels like a betrayal of all the strength I once thought I had, but it¡¯s the truth, and I¡¯m too tired to lie. Paul looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment, the world outside fades away. ¡°You don¡¯t have to have all the answers right now,¡± he says. ¡°Just take it one day at a time. And if you can¡¯t... then I¡¯ll help you. We¡¯ll figure it out together.¡± His words are a lifeline, a small glimmer of hope in the midst of my despair. I don¡¯t know if I can believe in them, if I can trust myself to even try, but I want to. I want to believe that there¡¯s still something left to fight for, something worth living for, even if I can¡¯t see it right now. Paul stays for a while longer, talking about nothing in particular¡ªhow the shop is doing, the latest gossip from the neighborhood. I let his words wash over me, a gentle distraction from the chaos in my mind. For a brief moment, I allow myself to imagine a future, one where the pain isn¡¯t so overwhelming, where the memories of Mel don¡¯t tear me apart every time I close my eyes. When the shy morning rays already changed into midday light, Paul stood up and approached me with a hug. I didn''t move in his embrace, as he bid me farewell. As I watch the door close behind him, I can''t help but notice the tether which now links both of us. A literal lifeline. Moral and Physical. "One day at a time..." 003: Survival I didn¡¯t sleep, but I felt more awake than I had in days, despite the exhaustion gnawing at my mind. Or maybe the mental breakdown counted as rest now. Everything had blurred together¡ªone day fading into the next with no real distinction. Paul¡¯s visit had been a rare interruption in this suffocating silence. His words still lingered, hanging over the room like a lifeline I couldn¡¯t quite grasp. The tether I saw between us had vanished after an hour or two, leaving me wondering whether it was just another hallucination or part of my abilities. I stared at the ceiling of the impersonal apartment. The cracks in the plaster were as familiar to me as the grotesque images that haunted my dreams. My thoughts kept wandering back to the moment of impact¡ªthe clash between Gravitas and Ms. Kai that shattered my world. Their battle, and the tremors that followed, echoed through my life even now. Every distant boom or crash from another meta fight pulled me back to that night, to Mel clinging to me as the building crumbled around us. Her voice, once so soft and full of life, had been swallowed by the noise of destruction. Gone, like everything else. I sat up slowly, rubbing my eyes. The visions weren¡¯t going away. Every time I closed them, I was dragged back to that strange, otherworldly place¡ªthe writhing mass of tentacles, the countless eyes watching me. I saw my body decomposing in the mud, felt the weight of the decay. It had to mean something. I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that this wasn¡¯t just a dream. These images were too vivid, too real. But what meaning could I pull from them? My life outside the window was just as chaotic. Metahumans tore through the city weekly, if not daily, battles raging like a constant storm. Was this the reality we were supposed to live with? Powers destroying the world while the rest of us just tried to survive? I got out of bed, ignoring the ache in my body. Paul had been right¡ªone day at a time, he¡¯d said. But today, I couldn¡¯t stay here. The walls were closing in on me, the visions pressing in every time I stopped moving. I needed air, space¡ªanything to remind me that there was still a world beyond my nightmares. Stepping outside felt like stepping into a cacophony of sound. The city hummed with life, but underneath that noise was an ever-present tension. I wrapped my coat tighter around me as I walked. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke, and the faint tang of metal lingered in the wind¡ªa reminder of the recent battles. Broken glass crunched beneath my boots, littering the sidewalks like confetti after a parade, but instead of celebration, the city wore a cloak of ruin. Scaffolding surrounded half-demolished buildings, the skeletal remains of what used to be homes and businesses. Graffiti covered the walls, some of it angry slogans decrying metahumans, others exalting them as gods. The duality of it all was sickening. Metahumans had become both saviours and destroyers, revered and hated in equal measure. I could feel the weight of their presence in every corner of the city, as if the buildings themselves groaned under the strain of their battles. Metahumans¡ªpeople like me, I guess¡ªwere rare, but their influence was everywhere. Their battles left scars on the city, like the one in me. The thought hit me with a new clarity: I was one of them now. Maybe not by choice, but by some cruel twist of fate. The destruction they caused, the way they ripped through cities and lives without a second thought¡ªwas that my future? Was I bound to leave my own trail of ruin? I couldn¡¯t stop thinking about how metahuman fights had become normalised, part of the city¡¯s routine, like the changing of the seasons or the rising of the sun. People went about their lives, learning to duck when buildings collapsed or to avoid certain areas altogether because they knew a battle had taken place there recently. It was strange to me, this acceptance of chaos. The constant destruction should have sparked more outrage, more rebellion, but instead, it had fostered a numb kind of resilience. And now, I was a part of that cycle, tied to the very force I once despised. But there was no one to explain how to navigate this new life, no handbook for the newly empowered. How many others like me had awakened to this nightmare, unsure whether to join the ranks of heroes, villains, or remain unseen? I kept my eyes on the ground, avoiding the gaze of the people around me. I didn¡¯t trust anyone anymore. How could I, when the heroes who were supposed to protect had instead destroyed everything I cared about? Gravitas and Ms. Kai didn¡¯t care about the collateral damage. Why should I care about them? This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. Still, I couldn¡¯t help but wonder if things would¡¯ve been different had Mel and I lived somewhere else, somewhere far from the battles. If we had just been in another building that night, would we have survived? What if Mel was the one that survived instead? I wondered how Mel would¡¯ve handled all of this. She had always been the stronger one, the one with boundless energy and optimism, the one who could brush off a bad day and find some beauty in the wreckage. Would she have stayed hopeful even after everything? Would she have found a way to turn this new reality into something livable, something less broken? Or maybe she would¡¯ve hated it, too¡ªhated the city, hated the metahumans, hated the way her life had been ripped apart. I could almost hear her voice, full of sarcastic wit, telling me to snap out of it, to stop moping and get on with things. But that voice was just another ghost in my mind now, a shadow of who she¡¯d been. I walked aimlessly, letting my feet carry me wherever. The city felt like it was constantly teetering on the edge of collapse, a fragile balance between chaos and rebuilding. I passed construction workers struggling to patch up a building that had been hit in the last fight. They worked tirelessly to repair what was broken, but what was the point? The city would just be torn apart again. Eventually, my wandering brought me to the outskirts of the city, where the buildings were older, forgotten relics of a past life. Here, it was quiet. Peaceful, almost. The fights hadn¡¯t reached this far yet. I sat on a rusted bench, watching the world move around me while my mind churned. I looked down at my hands, turning them over slowly. These hands had taken a life¡ªor given it, depending on how you looked at it. When I transferred my injury to Robert that night, I didn¡¯t know what I was doing. It had happened so fast, like some primal instinct had kicked in. Since then, I hadn¡¯t dared to use my power, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised I had to. What if I could stop someone else from dying? What if I could turn this curse into something useful? But there was another thought, darker and more seductive. Why should I help anyone at all? The world had taken everything from me. Why shouldn¡¯t I take something back? I wasn¡¯t a hero. I wasn¡¯t even sure I was a good person. Before all this, I¡¯d been ordinary¡ªhelping neighbours moving their furniture, serving drinks at the bar, living life quietly. I hadn¡¯t been the type to stand up and fight for anything. But now, with this power, I wasn¡¯t sure what kind of person I would become. Or if I was still a person at all.
The next few weeks passed in a haze of practice and exhaustion. I wandered the city at night, finding quiet corners to test the boundaries of my ability. At first, it was instinctual¡ªtouching something or someone and seeing the tether forming. It wasn¡¯t a conscious choice; it was something that welled up from deep inside me, like breathing. The first time I tried to swap an injury deliberately, it left me breathless, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I transferred a small cut from my hand to a stray cat, watching with morbid fascination as the scrape disappeared from my skin and appeared on the cat¡¯s paw. The cat limped away, confused but unharmed. It was a small victory, but it felt monumental. Over time, I realised I could transfer more than just injuries. Pain, fatigue, even a fever¡ªI could shift these things from myself to others. The power scared me. It felt like I was playing with forces I didn¡¯t understand, forces that could easily spiral out of control if I wasn¡¯t careful. There were moments my fingertips itched after stumbling into a passerby, as if I unconsciously wanted to use my power; to tug on the newly formed tether. But with each experiment, I grew more confident. I learned the limits of my power, the delicate balance between giving and taking. I felt like I was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that could either save lives or destroy them.
As the days passed, I found myself returning to the edges of the city, watching from the shadows as metahumans clashed. Heroes, villains¡ªit didn¡¯t matter anymore. They were all the same, tearing the world apart in the name of their own agendas. I stayed hidden, hands in my pockets, wondering if I should step in. The fights I watched were brutal, savage displays of strength and chaos. Sometimes it was a hero, sometimes a villain, but in the end, it didn¡¯t matter. They were all the same¡ªunstoppable forces crashing through buildings, lives, and futures without a second thought. I wondered if they even saw the people running from their destruction. Did they know what it was like to be powerless? Did they care? I doubted it. But I wasn¡¯t like them. I didn¡¯t want to be part of their chaos, but I couldn¡¯t ignore it anymore. The world was falling apart, and I had a power that could make a difference, even if I didn¡¯t know what that difference would be. In the end, I made a choice. I wasn¡¯t going to be a hero, and I wasn¡¯t going to be a villain. I was going to survive. I was going to use my power to keep myself safe, to keep others from ending up like Mel. I wasn¡¯t sure what that made me¡ªmaybe something in between, something undefined. But it didn¡¯t matter anymore. I had power, and it was time to use it. 004: Encounter The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie, silver glow across the deserted streets. I hadn¡¯t planned on staying out this late, but the quiet corners of the city felt less suffocating than the confines of my apartment. I had taken to wandering these streets more often, finding solace in the ruins and forgotten places that the metahuman battles had left behind. It was in these places, far from the chaos of the city centre, that I felt like I could breathe. Tonight, however, something felt different.The air was colder tonight, the kind of sharp chill that bit through layers of clothing and settled deep into your bones. I wrapped my coat tighter around me, pushing through the city streets that stretched ahead like a maze of cracked concrete and flickering street lights. The silence was deceiving¡ªthere was always something lurking in the corners, always a sense of danger that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I had no destination in mind, no real plan. My legs just kept moving, as if the motion would somehow quiet the storm that raged inside me. It didn¡¯t, of course. The visions still haunted me, the memories of that night with Mel playing over and over in my mind, twisting my gut into knots. But tonight, I wasn¡¯t just running from the memories. I was searching for something, though I wasn¡¯t quite sure what. Maybe understanding. Maybe control. The streets grew darker as I walked farther from the city¡¯s heart, where the ruins left behind by metahuman battles sprawled in forgotten chaos. The farther I ventured, the more abandoned the world became¡ªbroken windows, scorched walls, and collapsed roofs, all remnants of a war no one could control. I stopped at the edge of a crumbling building, the skeletal remains of what used to be a home or shop, and stared into the emptiness. Those ruins could only lead me to one simple idea. Powers weren¡¯t a gift¡ªthey were a curse, a plague on this city, on everyone who lived here. Whether they called themselves heroes, villains, vigilantes, or rogues, metahumans all left destruction in their wake. The so-called heroes, like Gravitas, pretended to be protectors, but they caused just as much damage as the villains they fought. They tore through buildings, shattered lives, and left people like me to pick up the pieces. And for what? A pat on the back, a public relations stunt, or the approval of MetaPol. They weren¡¯t saviours¡ªthey were walking disasters. The villains weren¡¯t any better, of course. They embraced the chaos, thrived on the fear and destruction they caused. Ms. Kai, with her monstrous powers, didn¡¯t care about the lives she destroyed¡ªpeople like Mel and I were nothing but collateral damage in their endless battles for power. They waged war in the streets, caring more about their vendettas or territories, than the lives they shattered. In the end, both sides were playing the same game, just wearing different masks. Whether they were branded as villains or heroes, the outcome was always the same: death and destruction. On those in-between? They weren¡¯t that different. New Moon, claiming to be fighting for justice, operating outside the law because they can¡¯t trust the system. But that self-righteous attitude only makes them more dangerous. They don¡¯t even answer to anyone, don¡¯t care about the rules or the lives caught in their path. They crossed lines, killed without hesitation, all under the guise of doing what was ¡°necessary.¡± But necessary for who? Certainly not for the people left cleaning up the mess. Or even guys like the Blood Watch, only caring about the highest bidder. Only pursuing where money was made. No morals but that of the money. At least, those were straightforward¡­ Easy to guess where they¡¯ll go, but harder to know how much damage they¡¯d do¡­ My thoughts stopped when I sensed it¡ªanother presence, watching me from the shadows. I stopped, my heart quickening. The air around me felt heavy, thick with tension. Slowly, I turned, scanning the street behind me. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and hulking, his face obscured by the low hood of his jacket. He stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, and I could see the glint of something metallic in his hand. A knife. ¡°Hey,¡± his voice was rough, low. ¡°Give me your bag.¡± I didn¡¯t move, the rush of adrenaline sharp and immediate. Fear prickled at my skin, but beneath it, something else stirred¡ªa darker, more dangerous instinct. I just need to touch him¡­ Or him to touch me¡­ One small touch and the tether would be there to help me. I wasn¡¯t proficient in any martial arts, but still took on a defensive stance. Or at least what I thought was one. My fist clenched tight, the right one going up in front of my face, the left one doing the same around my stomach. Like what you could see in those old boxing videos my father watched years ago. ¡°Don¡¯t make this harder than it needs to be,¡± the man growled, stepping closer. His knife caught the moonlight, glinting sharply. The attacker lunged forward with surprising speed, his knife flashing in the dim light. I instinctively raised my arms to block, but my form was sloppy, more a reflex than any real defence. His blade sliced through the air, catching the side of my arm as I twisted away. The pain I expected to flare instantly didn¡¯t come. Or at least, not as strong as I expected it to be. I stumbled backwards, surprised by the move as much as the sensations, my feet unsteady on the cracked pavement. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. My mind raced, trying to recall anything useful from those old videos I barely remembered. But no amount of hazy childhood memories could make up for my lack of training. My fists were up, awkward and shaky, and I had no idea how to move in a real fight. The man¡¯s movements, however, were calculated, methodical. He had done this before. He came at me again, the knife slashing toward my torso. I tried to dodge, but I was too slow. The blade grazed my side, tearing through my coat and biting into my skin. I cried out, stumbling back again, but there was nowhere to run. My breath was ragged, fear surging through me as blood seeped from the wound. I had to act, had to reach out¡ªbut he was too fast, and I couldn¡¯t get close enough. The next attack came swiftly, his knife cutting toward my abdomen. Desperation fueled me, and I tried to parry his arm away with a clumsy swing. I missed it. The blade found its mark, slashing across my midsection. White-hot pain coursed through me, and I doubled over, gasping. I could feel the warmth of my blood spreading, soaking into my shirt. This was bad¡ªreally bad. Panic gripped me, but somewhere beneath the fear, that dark instinct flared again. The tether. I just needed to touch him, just for a second. My vision blurred, but I forced myself to focus. He was close now, closing in for another strike. This time, I lunged¡ªnot to fight, but to make contact. My hand shot out, grazing his wrist as he swung the knife toward me again. The tether snapped into place as his knife plunged in the meat of my shoulder. ¡°Psycho.¡± He half-sighed, half-panted as he pulled out his knife and took quick steps away from me. ¡°See what it did¡­ To fight back, bitch!¡± He spits on the ground, playing slightly with his knife before brandishing back at me. ¡°Now gimme your purse, cunt! Or else¡­¡± Before he could finish, I felt the newly formed tether connecting us both. I quickly pulled on it, willing for our states to switch around. A sudden rush of energy surged through me as I yanked on the tether. The pain in my shoulder disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a dull sensation¡ªa distant, throbbing ache that no longer belonged to me. My body felt lighter, the weight of my wounds now his to bear. The attacker froze mid-step, confusion flashing in his eyes as the knife wavered in his hand. "What the¡­?" he muttered, glancing down at his arm. Blood dripped from a fresh wound, the same spot where he had stabbed me moments ago. He staggered back, his face twisting in disbelief as he clutched at the injury. I could see the realisation dawning on him, the shock that something wasn¡¯t right. His confusion quickly turned to anger, and he raised the knife again, but I could see the hesitation in his movements now. The wound had weakened him, made him slower. It wasn¡¯t just the physical pain¡ªthere was fear in his eyes. He didn¡¯t understand what had happened, but he knew something was terribly wrong. "You¡­ What did you do?" His voice wavered, a mix of rage and bewilderment. He stumbled forward, trying to maintain his threatening posture, but I could see him faltering from pain. His momentary pause let me gather my thoughts. They were clearer now, without the pain. It felt like I knew which actions I needed to take to press on. He lunged again, his movements still aggressive but not as precise. I sidestepped, my body reacting faster than before. The knife swung past me, cutting through empty air. My fists came up in a tighter formation, the stance feeling more familiar now, more natural. I moved without thinking, stepping into his space as if guided by an unseen instinct. My muscles responded smoothly, my feet shifting with an ease that hadn¡¯t been there moments ago. He tried to swipe at me again, but I ducked low, my body twisting just out of reach. I could feel the rhythm of the fight settling into my bones, each move flowing into the next. His attacks came predictably now¡ªclumsy, desperate slashes meant to scare more than to hit. My mind started to anticipate them, seeing the gaps in his defense. I pivoted sharply, avoiding another wild strike, and delivered a punch to his side. The force behind it surprised me, as did the accuracy. My knuckles connected with his ribs, the impact sending a shockwave up my arm. He grunted, stumbling back from the blow, his balance faltering. I pressed forward, my confidence growing with each second. A part of me registered the shift in my movements¡ªthe fluidity of my strikes, the way my feet moved almost instinctively. I had never fought like this before, but now, it was as if I could predict his every move. When he raised the knife again, I caught his wrist, twisting it sharply until the weapon clattered to the ground. He gasped, his eyes wide with panic as the knife fell from his grip, clattering uselessly on the cracked pavement. I kept my hold on his wrist, twisting harder, forcing him to his knees. His face contorted in pain, and the anger that had once fueled his attack drained away, replaced by raw fear. ¡°Let go!¡± he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. I loosened my grip just enough to let him jerk his arm free, but I stayed standing over him, ready to act if he tried anything else. He scrambled backward, clutching his injured wrist, his breaths coming in shallow, frantic gasps. ¡°You¡¯re¡ªyou''re one of them!¡± he spat, his words trembling. His eyes darted from me to the dark alley behind him, clearly weighing his options. I could see the fight leaving him, the bravado melting away as he realised he was outmatched. ¡°I-I didn¡¯t know! Just... let me go, okay?¡± I didn¡¯t move. My heart was still pounding, but the fear that had gripped me earlier had been replaced by something else¡ªa cold, detached clarity. He took a hesitant step backward, his eyes flickering toward the street as if he was planning his escape. ¡°I... I don¡¯t want any more trouble,¡± he muttered, inching away. ¡°Just let me go, alright? I won¡¯t come near you again, I swear.¡± For a moment, I considered letting him run. He was weak, scared, and no longer a threat. But something about the way he looked at me¡ªlike I was some kind of monster¡ªstirred something dark inside me. I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, and he flinched, falling back onto the ground. ¡°Run,¡± I said quietly, my voice steady and cold. 005: A New Path The alley was quiet now, the echoes of the fight fading into the night, but my heart still pounded in my chest. I stood there, staring at the place where the mugger had disappeared into the shadows, his blood staining the pavement where he''d fallen. My fingers trembled slightly, but it wasn¡¯t from fear. No, it was something else¡ªsomething darker, more complicated. Satisfaction. I had won. I had used my power on him, and for the first time, I hadn''t hesitated. I hadn¡¯t just survived, I had fought back. The realisation sent a shiver down my spine. But it didn¡¯t stop there. That tether¡­ I could still see it, stretching as he was fleeing away. I could remove the pain he was feeling at any moment. But that would mean I¡¯d be the one suffering. And also, a darker part of me revelled in how he tasted his own medicine. He deserved it. For all the fear he tried to instil in me, for every drop of blood he drew. But the longer I stood there, staring at the spot where the mugger had disappeared, the more the initial rush faded, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease. My fingers, still outstretched from where I¡¯d yanked on the tether, felt cold, almost numb. The satisfaction was still there, lingering at the edges of my mind, but it was shadowed by something else¡ªa creeping dread. What had I just done? Not the self-defense part¡ªthat I could justify easily enough. But the way I had used my power, the ease with which I¡¯d switched our pain. It was instinctual, natural even, like breathing. And that scared me more than I wanted to admit. I knew metahumans left something behind when they used their powers. Power Traces, they called them, though not everyone could sense them. Most people wouldn¡¯t notice, but there were others¡ªmore dangerous ones¡ªwho could. People like MetaPol. If they traced it back to me... No. I couldn¡¯t think about that right now. But still, the thought lingered, a shadow in the back of my mind. I glanced around, as if expecting someone to emerge from the shadows, tracking the faint remnants of what I had done. There was nothing. The city slept on, oblivious to the fight that had just taken place. But I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that I¡¯d left a mark, invisible to most, but there. I needed to be more careful. My heart was still pounding, though now it was from the realisation of what I¡¯d risked. I couldn¡¯t afford to be reckless, not with a power like mine. I didn¡¯t know enough about how it worked, how much of me it left behind. Maybe no one had noticed this time, but what about the next? Or the time after that? I couldn¡¯t count on staying invisible forever, not if I kept using my powers so openly. In a world where metahumans were constantly tracked and monitored, where people like MetaPol existed to police those with powers, I couldn¡¯t afford to be careless. I took a deep breath, letting the cold night air fill my lungs as the adrenaline slowly ebbed away. My fingers still tingled with the memory of the tether, but now, there was something else too¡ªa sense of control, of purpose. I had power, real power, and for the first time, I wasn¡¯t afraid of it. I could use it, not just to survive, but to live. And if I played my cards right, no one would ever know. The thought was liberating. Dangerous, yes, but liberating. For too long, I had been stuck in the past, haunted by memories of Mel, of that night, of everything I had lost. But now, I had something else¡ªa future. And maybe, just maybe, I could take back some of the control that had been stolen from me. I wouldn¡¯t let the metahumans rule over my life any longer. I could live. The idea grew in the quiet of the alley, taking root in the spaces my fear had once filled. What if I didn¡¯t have to hide in the shadows forever? What if I could step out, use my power to carve a place for myself? Not like those self-righteous heroes or the villainous brutes who thrived on chaos. I didn¡¯t want to be like them. But I didn¡¯t have to be powerless either. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Maybe, just maybe, I could use this to my advantage. I could get a little revenge¡ªnot on some petty mugger, but on the ones who had taken everything from me. Metahumans, like Gravitas and Ms. Kai, who tore through my life as if it meant nothing. I couldn¡¯t fight them outright, not yet. But I could use what I had, chip away at their world, slowly, from the shadows. It wouldn¡¯t be reckless if I was careful, if I made sure no one saw me coming. The idea was dangerous, seductive even. But it made sense, didn¡¯t it? If I played it right, I could live a little more freely. Maybe I could even get a bit of justice for Mel, for everything that had happened. I couldn¡¯t bring her back, but I could make sure that others felt the same loss. I could do it quietly, without anyone noticing. I could move in silence, leave no trace. No one would see me coming. But to do that, I¡¯d need to be more than just Liz. I couldn¡¯t be the girl stumbling through the city, afraid of every shadow. I¡¯d need to become something else, someone else¡ªsomeone who could step in and out of the chaos without leaving a mark. A costume. That¡¯s what the big names had, wasn¡¯t it? Heroes, villains, even rogues¡ªthey all had an identity, a mask to wear. It made them untouchable, gave them a sense of control, of anonymity. If I wanted to live more freely, to move without drawing attention, I¡¯d need that too. But costumes weren¡¯t free, and neither was anonymity. I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. My life had been reduced to counting coins just to stay afloat, but now, I¡¯d need money for something more. Fabric, gear¡ªwhatever it took to create a new version of myself, someone who could slip in and out of places unnoticed. It wouldn¡¯t be flashy, nothing that screamed for attention. I needed subtlety, precision. Something that let me blend into the background until it was too late for anyone to realize who I really was. And to afford that, I had to get back to work. I winced at the thought of going back to Paul¡¯s shop. After everything that had happened, the normalcy of that place seemed so far away. But it was a means to an end. I needed money, and that was the only way to get it, at least for now. Plus, the shop was quiet, off the radar, the perfect place to start laying low. No one would suspect anything from the quiet girl stocking shelves and minding her business. I started walking, the adrenaline finally ebbing away, leaving me with a cool determination. I had a plan now, a real plan. No more hiding, no more waiting for the next disaster. I was going to take control of my life, use my power the way I wanted, not as a victim but as someone with purpose. I wasn¡¯t sure where this path would lead, but for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a direction. As the city lights flickered around me, I made my way home, the beginnings of something new forming in my mind. I wouldn¡¯t be like the others¡ªchaotic, reckless, loud. I would be a ghost in the shadows, slipping through the cracks, unnoticed but always there. And soon, I¡¯d have everything I needed to become exactly that.
The next morning, I made my way to Paul¡¯s shop, the familiar bell above the door jingling as I stepped inside. The place hadn¡¯t changed¡ªshelves lined with vinyl records, old cassettes, and vintage guitars hanging from the walls. The smell of aged wood and leather cases filled the air, blending with a faint hint of coffee. Paul''s shop was a sanctuary of sound, where every corner seemed to hum with the presence of music history. Behind the counter, Paul was hunched over a turntable, his grey hair tucked beneath a worn beanie, eyes closed as he tested an old jazz record. The soft crackle of the vinyl filled the shop, a slow, mournful tune spilling out as the needle glided across the grooves. Paul''s eyes flickered open when he heard me enter, his face lighting up with a familiar warmth. "Liz," he greeted, his voice gentle, as if afraid of startling me. "Didn''t think I''d see you back so soon. You holding up okay?" I hesitated for a moment, caught between the weight of everything I had experienced and the safety Paul¡¯s shop offered. The normalcy of it felt like a lifeline, something to ground me before I drifted too far into the darkness I¡¯d touched last night. "Yeah," I managed, offering him a small smile that didn¡¯t quite reach my eyes. "Just needed something to do. Thought I¡¯d come by." Paul nodded slowly, his sharp eyes studying me for a moment. I could feel the weight of his gaze, as if he was searching for cracks, for signs of the Liz who had walked through that door before. ¡°Of course. You take all the time you need, but I¡¯m glad to see you. Things have been quiet without you around.¡± He gestured toward a stack of records piled near the counter. "Hop on!¡± He forced out an authoritative voice. One that didn¡¯t match his style, but one so nostalgic to me. The machine was falling back in place. ¡°Those need sorting; Customers have been rummaging through them, and it¡¯s a mess back there." I glanced at the records, feeling the weight of everything I hadn¡¯t said still hanging between us. But this¡ªthis was something I could do. A task simple enough to keep my mind from spiralling. I walked over to the stack and began to sort through them, the familiar weight of vinyl grounding me as the music played on in the background. For now, it was enough. Enough to start on this new path in the world of metahumans. 006: Daydreaming The bell above the door jingled cheerfully as I entered Paul¡¯s shop, the familiar sound bringing a momentary smile to my lips. The warm, inviting atmosphere enveloped me, a stark contrast to the chaos I had embraced just days before. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, casting golden rays over the shelves lined with vinyl records, guitars, and vintage memorabilia. The scent of aged wood mixed with freshly brewed coffee filled the air, creating a comforting embrace that grounded me. Paul was behind the counter, immersed in setting up a new turntable. He glanced up and greeted me with a nod. ¡°Hey, Liz! You¡¯re back!¡± His voice was warm, filled with genuine delight. ¡°Yeah, I figured I should help out more,¡± I replied, my smile a bit more authentic this time. ¡°Plus, I can¡¯t spend all day wallowing, can I?¡± ¡°Exactly!¡± he said, a glimmer of relief in his eyes. ¡°Just let me know if you need anything. I¡¯m around if you have questions.¡± I wandered to the back of the shop, where the chaos of my thoughts was beginning to settle. The familiar rows of records, with their colorful covers, were like old friends, reminding me of simpler times. As I sorted through the stacks, my mind drifted to the plans I had begun to formulate. This was a temporary haven, a normal life I was trying to reclaim, but it felt increasingly difficult to do so. The memories of that night¡ªthe moment I took control of my own power, the rush of adrenaline as I fought back¡ªwere like an itch under my skin. Each day, I found myself thinking about the tether I had formed with the mugger, how I had turned the pain back on him with a single touch. What would it mean if I began to explore this power further? What if I could become something more? I pulled a record from the shelf, its cover depicting a serene landscape¡ªa tranquil beach at sunset. The contrast was jarring. I longed for that serenity, but my mind was occupied with thoughts of a new identity. I needed to create a persona, someone who could move through the shadows without being seen. Someone who could use their power not just to survive, but to fight back. ¡°Okay, let¡¯s brainstorm,¡± I muttered under my breath, glancing around to ensure no one was within earshot. I needed to find a name. Something that resonated with my newfound purpose but also kept me hidden from the eyes of MetaPol and other metahumans. What would I call myself? Shadow Weaver? That had a nice ring to it, conjuring images of someone who could blend into the dark. But it felt a bit too mystical, like a character from a fantasy novel. Too long, too pretentious sounding in a sense. "¡­Not me, not the image I want..." I whispered under my breath, a habit I¡¯d always had when my thoughts were in overdrive. "Mirage?" I considered. That had a certain appeal. Something elusive, like a trick of the light. But it felt too illusory, too fleeting. I wasn¡¯t an illusion¡ªI was real, and the power I wielded was tangible. I wasn¡¯t vanishing into thin air; I was becoming something more. The hum of the turntable in the background was soothing, but my mind raced ahead. I caught myself staring at a vinyl record on the shelf¡ªDavid Bowie. The cover was familiar, his iconic face staring back at me, one eye shadowed, the other bright and alert. Bowie had always been a chameleon, changing his persona with each era, each album. He was never one thing, always shifting, always adapting. That idea resonated with me. I wasn¡¯t just the Liz who worked in a record shop anymore. I was something more now. Something that could change, adapt, and mirror whatever was thrown at me. Mirror. That wasn¡¯t it, but it was close. I rolled the thought around in my head, and then it hit me. "Replica." I whispered the word aloud, feeling it settle on my tongue. It was perfect¡ªsomething that could reflect back, mirror the pain and power of others. A copy, but not an illusion. Real. Solid. I liked it. ¡°Replica...¡± I tested it again under my breath, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. It was simple, effective. It gave nothing away, and yet it described exactly what I could do. I wasn¡¯t the original force in this world of chaos, but I could become a reflection of whatever tried to hurt me. And I could turn that power against them. My thoughts wandered further as I sorted the records, the monotonous task allowing my mind to continue its wandering. I needed more than just a name¡ªI needed a costume. If I was going to step into this new identity, I couldn¡¯t look like an average person off the street. The heroes, villains, even the vigilantes like New Moon had costumes, something to separate them from the ordinary people they protected or fought against. But I didn¡¯t want something flashy, nothing that screamed for attention like the garish costumes of Gravitas. I needed something sleek, something practical. Something that let me move through the shadows without being seen. A dark cloak? No, too dramatic. Leather? Maybe. Functional, tough, and easy to move in. But it needed to be more than just practical. It had to be subtle, blending into the city¡¯s crumbling streets, yet durable enough to handle the chaos I was bound to face. But not too much, so that I could actually get hurt to dish it out to others. ¡°Need a good balance¡­¡± I picked up an album from the shelf and stared at the cover without really seeing it. Black and silver¡­ those colours kept coming to mind. Black for the shadows, for anonymity. Silver for the sharpness, for the tether that connected me to others. I imagined a sleek black suit¡ªsomething that hugged my frame, flexible enough to allow for quick movements, but sturdy enough to protect me. Maybe with silver accents that caught the light just enough to remind my enemies that I was there, always a step ahead, always reflecting back their power. A hood, maybe? That could work, something to shroud my face when needed, adding an air of mystery. Gloves, definitely¨C from previous experiences, I don¡¯t need direct contact of skin to tether to someone¨C I pulled myself out of the daydream as the bell above the door jingled again. A customer wandered in, an older man in a worn leather jacket, his eyes scanning the shelves. I straightened up, offering a polite smile as I slipped back into the role of ¡°Liz the record shop assistant,¡± but my mind was still racing with ideas for Replica. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The man approached the counter, mumbling about an old rock album he¡¯d been searching for, and I helped him find it, my hands moving automatically as my thoughts continued their silent planning. I was no longer just a scared girl reacting to the chaos around me. I was becoming something else¡ªsomeone who could fight back, who could move through this metahuman world without being noticed until it was too late. I wasn¡¯t a hero, and I wasn¡¯t a villain. I was something in between. A rogue, maybe? The customer paid for his album and left, the bell jingling again as the door closed behind him. I let out a breath, my mind still buzzing with ideas. Where was I going to get the materials for the costume? I didn¡¯t have much money, and fabric shops weren¡¯t exactly on my usual list of haunts. Maybe I could use what I already had¡ªold clothes, secondhand finds. I didn¡¯t need anything expensive. The less conspicuous, the better. The door opened again, and this time it was Paul who wandered over, giving me a curious look. ¡°You okay? You seem a bit lost in thought today.¡± I nodded, forcing a smile. ¡°Yeah, just... thinking about some stuff.¡± I tried to keep my tone light, but the weight of what I was planning felt heavy in the air. Paul didn¡¯t pry, though. He just nodded and went back to fill in the storage. As the day wore on, I continued to slip between my normal life at the shop and my growing plans for Replica. The duality of it all¡ªnormalcy versus the power I felt in the shadows¡ªwas strange but comforting in its own way. I could live in both worlds for now, but soon, I¡¯d have to step fully into one. I glanced at the clock, realising the afternoon had passed quicker than I expected. The shop was quiet, the usual hum of customers absent. Paul had gone to the back room, leaving me alone at the counter. I let my fingers drum softly on the wood, my thoughts drifting once again to my costume. ¡°...Something sleek, something practical," I whispered to myself again, picturing the balance of stealth and durability I needed for my new identity. The practicality of it all consumed me¡ªevery detail had to serve a purpose, not just aesthetic appeal. Black and silver, that was clear now. Those colours had stuck with me all day, like they belonged to Replica as much as I did. The silver, I decided, would represent the tether, the invisible thread that tied me to others. A reminder of the power I wielded, a power that felt sharper than any blade. The thought of the tether reminded me of the mugger¡¯s face¡ªhis fear, his pain, his realisation that he wasn¡¯t in control anymore. That feeling of control lingered in my mind. Was this how the metahumans felt all the time? Did they always walk through the world with the knowledge that they could bend reality to their will? I understood now how it could be intoxicating. My eyes scanned the shop again as I tried to focus. Paul was still busy fiddling with equipment, but there was something grounding about the slow, familiar rhythm of the shop. The soft crackle of a record playing in the background, the smell of coffee lingering in the air¡ªthese small details kept me tethered to reality. The normal world still existed, even as I crafted a plan to step into a darker one. But I wasn¡¯t leaving this world behind entirely. I still needed it. I needed Paul¡¯s shop for now¡ªmoney for materials, a place to blend in while I prepared. That was the key. Blending in. Replica had to be more than just a name and a costume. She had to be invisible until it was time to strike. The idea of sneaking through the cracks of the city, unnoticed, made me feel... powerful. Like I could carve out a space for myself without anyone knowing until it was too late. What kind of material would I use? Something flexible but resistant. Again, leather was a possibility, but it could be expensive, and if I wanted to keep a low profile, I¡¯d need to find something cheaper, for now. Maybe I could patch together pieces of old clothing, make it look like urban camouflage. Something pieced together from the scraps of the city itself¡ªsymbolic, in a way. A reflection of how I felt inside, patched together after the destruction, trying to rebuild. ¡°Liz?¡± Paul¡¯s voice broke my concentration. I looked up to see him waving a hand in front of my face, a knowing smile on his lips. ¡°You¡¯ve been zoning out all afternoon. Everything okay?¡± I blinked, forcing myself to snap back to reality. ¡°Yeah, sorry. Just¡­ thinking about a lot of things.¡± Paul chuckled, leaning against the counter. ¡°I can tell. You¡¯ve got that ¡®deep in thought¡¯ look on your face.¡± He paused, eyeing me with concern. ¡°If you ever need to talk, you know I¡¯m here, right?¡± I nodded, giving him a small smile. ¡°I know, Paul. Thanks.¡± But the truth was, there was no way I could tell him what I was really planning. Paul was a good guy, and the shop felt like a safe haven, but the world I was about to step into wasn¡¯t one he would understand. It was my burden to carry, my secret to keep. I glanced at the clock. It was nearing closing time, and the shop had emptied out for the day. I could feel the weight of the day settling in, the exhaustion from constantly shifting between my thoughts of Replica and the routine of the shop. But I didn¡¯t mind the exhaustion. It felt like progress, like each day I was getting closer to something concrete. ¡°Want me to lock up tonight?¡± I asked, already moving toward the door. Paul waved me off. ¡°Nah, I¡¯ve got it. You head home, get some rest. You¡¯ve been working hard today.¡± I offered him a grateful smile and grabbed my bag. ¡°Thanks, Paul. I¡¯ll see you tomorrow.¡± The cool evening air hit me as I stepped out of the shop, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. I zipped up my jacket and started walking, my mind still racing with thoughts of Replica. Every step felt like I was inching closer to this new identity, like the normal life I had known was slipping further away. But I was okay with that. I wasn¡¯t afraid anymore. As I walked through the streets, I thought about what the name "Replica" truly meant. It wasn¡¯t just about reflecting the pain of others¡ªit was about adapting, about becoming whatever I needed to survive. Replica wouldn¡¯t be defined by the rules of heroes and villains. She would exist outside of that system, moving through the shadows without anyone realising she was there until it was too late. I reached into my bag, pulling out the small notepad I had started carrying around. I flipped it open, scribbling down ideas for the costume. I paused, looking over my notes. It wasn¡¯t much yet, but it was a start. I had the framework of something. All I needed now was the materials and a plan for how to put it all together. As I neared my apartment, I felt a surge of determination. This wasn¡¯t just about surviving anymore. It was about taking control. Replica would be my way of doing that¡ªmy way of stepping into the metahuman world on my terms. I wasn¡¯t going to be like the heroes or villains who left destruction in their wake. I would be something else, something more precise, more calculated. Once I got home, I set the notepad down on the kitchen table and looked around my temporary apartment. It was still as impersonal as always. That too, would require funds. The ¡°Meta Fight Disaster Relief Resources¡± wouldn¡¯t let me live here forever¡­ Lots of expenses, and little money¡­ I moved to the window, staring out at the city below. The lights of the buildings flickered in the distance, and I could hear the faint hum of traffic. Somewhere out there, metahumans were probably fighting, tearing through the city like they always did. But this time, I didn¡¯t feel powerless. I wasn¡¯t just watching from the sidelines anymore. And maybe I could make use of that for more funds¡­ 007: Purpose The morning news flickered on the old television in the corner of my apartment, the muted voices barely registering over the sound of the kettle boiling. I wasn¡¯t usually one for watching TV, but it had become a habit lately¡ªa way to keep track of the world outside, a world that seemed increasingly detached from me. I poured myself a cup of tea and sat down at the small table by the window, absently stirring the cup as the news droned on. ¡°Vladimir Vostokof, hero name Snegovik, was reported dead by the Metahuman¡¯s Republic of Asia. The former president and leader of the MRA didn¡¯t make a public appearance since his retirement in 2012. Qiu Aleksandrova, hero name Parlour, announced a cardiac arrest due to Snegovik¡¯s old age of 94. This would mark the first ever Touched to die of Natural Causes. Aleksandra Vostokof, still currently residing in the UCE, hasn¡¯t made any declaration on her father¡¯s death, the exile¨C¡± The news anchor¡¯s polished tone faded into the background as I stared at the TV, unblinking. Snegovik. The first metahuman. The origin of it all. My mind flickered back to the countless documentaries I¡¯d half-watched in school, all highlighting how the meteors of 1952 had changed the world forever. How Vostokof¡¯s powers had defined an era. His death, they were saying, was natural, the first of its kind among the Touched¡ªthose who had powers thrust upon them by fate, rather than inherited or stolen like the rest. But the idea of ¡°natural causes¡± didn¡¯t sit right with me. I wondered if that was what they wanted us to believe. A figure like Snegovik didn¡¯t just disappear quietly into the night. Metahumans didn¡¯t die quietly. And if they did, it was never as simple as a ¡°cardiac arrest.¡± The screen shifted, revealing a shot of the Metahuman¡¯s Republic of Asia¡ªMRA, one of the most powerful superstates. The sprawling city of Vladivostok gleamed beneath an artificial sun, towers glistening with technology developed by Thinkers and Shapers. The utopian facade barely hid the undercurrents of control, power plays, and manipulation. They showed a clip of Parlour, Snegovik¡¯s successor, speaking to a massive crowd, her delicate, porcelain-like features stark against the cold backdrop of military precision. Her words were carefully crafted, offering condolences to the world as if they were more than just a political move. I sipped my tea, the bitter taste matching the growing cynicism that bubbled inside me. Snegovik had shaped so much of the world I hated¡ªthis obsession with power, the need to divide humanity between the strong and the weak, the special and the expendable. His death wouldn¡¯t change that. If anything, it would give the next generation of metas more excuses to tighten their grip. The anchor¡¯s voice cut through my thoughts again. ¡°In related news, the Metahuman Council of the United Countries of Europe has officially declared the week of mourning for Vladimir Vostokof, marking the first intercontinental gesture of solidarity between the MRA and UCE since 1995. World leaders from both sides of the Atlantic are expected to attend the memorial service. In lighter news, Geneva reports record-high exports of Thinker-engineered crops, solidifying the UCE¡¯s position as a leading agricultural power, while tensions rise in Neo Lyon following¨C¡± I gritted my teeth, slamming my cup down a bit too hard on the table. The sharp clink reverberated through the small apartment, matching the irritation now bubbling up inside me. Record-high exports, I thought bitterly. Tensions rising. That was their news. International politics, technological utopias, and carefully crafted smiles for cameras. They painted it as progress, as if the world had become a better place since the arrival of people like Snegovik. But in reality, it was still the same world. The metas had only changed the players, not the game. Cities might gleam under artificial suns, but there were always shadows. Shadows where people like me, like Mel, fell through the cracks. The news shifted again, this time closer to home. "In Neo Lyon today, Metapol forces clashed with rogue elements in the La Croix district during a pursuit of suspected villain activity. The League of Chaos, now reformed, is believed to be behind several high-profile incidents in recent weeks, including the destruction of government property and the suspected death of three officers. MetaPol has announced a renewed effort to curb vigilante and rogue activities within the city limits, emphasising that¨C" My knuckles tightened around the edge of the table as I listened. League of Chaos, I thought. Another name for the endless, rotating roster of villains that caused death and destruction in the name of chaos or greed. They might as well have said ¡°business as usual.¡± The only difference now was that Neo Lyon had become a hotspot for metahuman activity, a constant battlefield where the rest of us just tried to stay out of the way. The images on the screen showed rubble-strewn streets, fire-scorched buildings, and the twisted remains of cars that had been caught in the crossfire. People were running for cover, cowering behind whatever debris hadn¡¯t already been obliterated. It was the same scene I had seen too many times before. The voice of a witness crackled through the speakers. "I saw one of them. A big guy, with... flames all around him. He just... he just threw fire everywhere! We didn¡¯t stand a chance, and the police... they were barely holding him back." The voice of the news anchor came back. ¡°A fire attacking the city of Neo-Lyon, much like what happened to the city¡¯s predecessor in 1988? Some people are fearing Feu Divin escaped but the Guildmaster was prompt in declaring that Bastille was inescapable and Feu Divin was still detained.¡± If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. I stared at the screen as images of burning streets flashed before my eyes, reminiscent of the chaos that seemed to follow metahumans like a shadow. Feu Divin¡¯s power, they said, was biblical in scale¡ªholy fire, divine punishment. But what struck me most was how he, like so many others, had been caught in the cyclical game of power. His imprisonment in Bastille was supposed to bring peace, yet here we were again, haunted by fire and destruction. I finished my tea in silence, the warmth doing little to ease the cold knot that had formed in my stomach. It was all so predictable¡ªheroes, villains, governments vying for control, and the rest of us caught in the crossfire. No matter how much they pretended things had changed since Snegovik''s time, the reality was the same: power ruled, and everyone else suffered for it. Setting the cup down, I moved to the window and glanced out at the city below. The skyline of Neo Lyon glittered, a false promise of stability and progress. I turned away from the window, my thoughts shifting back to the night before. The ideas of Replica had taken root, growing stronger with each passing day. The name, the costume, the plan¡ªit all felt like pieces falling into place, like I was finally taking control of something in a world that constantly tried to strip it away. But even with this newfound determination, there was one thing I couldn¡¯t ignore: money. With Paul¡¯s work, I had barely enough for daily expenses and the move to a normal apartment instead of this temporary one. ¡°I¡¯d need more sources of income for materials and tools for Replica¡­¡± My gaze shifted to the notepad sitting on the kitchen table, filled with scribbled notes about fabrics, colors, and designs. I could make do with secondhand clothes, sure, but for what I was planning, I needed something more durable, more professional. Something that could withstand the kind of damage I expected to face. A thought gnawed at the back of my mind. I could make money¡ªmore than enough¡ªif I used my powers strategically. The idea of using them for personal gain was tempting, a little too tempting. It wasn¡¯t like I wanted to rob banks or anything, but the darker part of me wondered: if the world was so willing to use people like me, why shouldn¡¯t I take advantage of it? I shook the thought off and stood up, moving to get ready for the day. I had to head to Paul¡¯s shop soon, and as much as I was mentally preparing to step into the shadows as Replica, for now, I still needed to play the part of ¡°Liz the shop assistant.¡± But the line between those two worlds was blurring fast. The walk to Paul¡¯s shop was uneventful, but the city felt more tense than usual. People moved quickly, heads down, as if the threat of another metahuman fight was hanging in the air like a storm cloud. It wasn¡¯t paranoia¡ªit was reality. Neo Lyon was a city built on cracks, always one battle away from falling apart completely. And it wasn¡¯t just the villains that made it dangerous. Heroes like Gravitas, with their well-meaning but devastating powers, could wreak just as much havoc. When I arrived at the shop, the familiar jingle of the bell greeted me, followed by Paul¡¯s usual nod of acknowledgement. The shop was quiet, a few customers browsing the shelves. I took my place behind the counter, slipping easily into the routine. But my mind kept drifting. How long could I stay here, pretending everything was normal? I had already started gathering pieces for my costume¡ªdark clothing that would blend into the shadows, gloves to keep my hands from leaving prints. But it wasn¡¯t enough. I needed more. More gear, more resources, and more information. And to get those things, I had to step deeper into the world I was trying to infiltrate. I glanced up as a customer entered¡ªa young woman, slightly taller than my average height. Nothing of note but her green eyes, a weird fit on someone of mixed ethnicity like she was. She moved with a certain ease, her eyes scanning the shelves before settling on me. There was something about her that made me uneasy, though I couldn¡¯t quite place why. She was too deliberate, too composed, as if she was used to moving unnoticed and knew more than she should. She approached the counter, her expression neutral. "Do you have any blues records? Something from the 60s or 70s?" Her voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, like she was assessing me with every word. ¡°It is rare to see a young lady like yourself look for old-school stuff like that¡± I lightly laugh at my remark. She smiled slightly at my remark, but it didn¡¯t reach her eyes. ¡°It¡¯s not the music that¡¯s old,¡± she replied, her voice smooth and measured. ¡°It¡¯s the stories they tell.¡± There was something unsettling about her calm demeanour, the way she carried herself with quiet confidence. Her gaze flicked over me for a moment, like she was sizing me up, but before I could respond, she continued, ¡°Blues records have a way of sticking around, even when the world forgets the people behind them.¡± I nodded, feeling the weight of her words, even if I didn¡¯t fully understand them. ¡°I¡¯ll check the back. We might have a few hidden gems back there.¡± As I moved toward the backroom, I couldn¡¯t shake the unease that settled in my chest. There was something off about this woman. She didn¡¯t seem like a typical customer¡ªher questions, her cryptic responses, everything about her felt calculated, like she knew exactly what she was doing by being here. I returned with a couple of records, laying them on the counter. ¡°These might be what you¡¯re looking for.¡± She picked one up, briefly flipping through the vinyl, her fingers running over the cover with a kind of reverence. ¡°Perfect,¡± she said, but her tone was more contemplative than excited. She paid for the albums without any further conversation, but just before she left, she paused at the door, glancing back at me. "Be careful out there," she said, her tone low and cryptic. "The city¡¯s changing fast." With that, she disappeared into the street, leaving me standing by the counter with a strange knot in my chest. The rest of the day passed in a blur, the encounter lingering in the back of my mind. There was something about that woman¡ªsomething I couldn¡¯t shake. She wasn¡¯t just a customer. She clearly knew something. By the time I closed up shop, I was more certain than ever that I needed to act. Replica couldn¡¯t wait any longer. The city was on the edge of something, and I had to be ready. Whatever came next, I couldn¡¯t afford to be caught off guard. As I walked home, the distant sound of sirens echoed through the streets, a reminder of the constant threat looming over Neo Lyon. But this time, I didn¡¯t feel powerless. This time, I felt like I was finally ready to step into the shadows. And when I did, I¡¯d do it for my own purposes. 008: Outing The city was alive with flickering lights and distant sounds as I stood on the rooftop, my breath coming in slow, measured puffs. Neo Lyon sprawled beneath me, a mess of towering buildings and narrow alleys, bustling streets and quiet corners, all bathed in the harsh glow of streetlights. The wind tugged at the edges of my coat, the makeshift costume I had pieced together over the past few days. It wasn¡¯t perfect¡ªjust scraps of dark fabric and leather stitched into something functional¡ªbut it was enough for tonight. Enough for my first steps as Replica. The black suit clung to my body, flexible and sturdy, perfect for movement. I¡¯d kept the design simple: black and grey, with silver accents that caught the light only when I wanted them to. My face was hidden beneath a mask that covered the lower half of my features, leaving only my eyes visible. I¡¯d considered a full mask, something to obscure my identity completely, but I needed to see clearly, to be aware of every shadow, every flicker of movement. The gloves, snug and thin, allowed me the dexterity I needed while keeping me anonymous. My hands itched slightly, not from discomfort but from anticipation. Tonight was the first time I would step into the world of Neo Lyon¡¯s shadows not as Liz, the girl who barely scraped by, but as Replica. And I needed this. I needed to prove that I could control my powers, that I could navigate this chaotic world in a way that suited me¡ªwithout being a hero or a villain but as myself. Far below, the city hummed with its usual energy: cars honking, people shouting, and the occasional rumble of far-off conflict. Neo Lyon was never quiet. Even now, I could hear the wail of sirens in the distance, no doubt heading toward another metahuman conflict. It wasn¡¯t my business tonight. I had something smaller in mind for my first outing¡ªsomething that would let me test the waters before diving into deeper, more dangerous currents. I¡¯d overheard enough at Paul¡¯s shop and from passing conversations on the street to know where I could start. A petty gang called the Red Hands had been causing trouble in a nearby district, shaking down local businesses, especially those too small or insignificant for MetaPol to bother with. They weren¡¯t major players, but they were perfect for tonight. Low stakes, minimal risk. From the information I garnered, they seemed to tend to attack every 3 to 4 days a new business while staying in the Brotteaux District. That meant they had little choices nowadays with how many places they attacked this past few months. It¡¯s been 4 days since their last attacks. It meant that tonight was the night, and they would either attack this nightclub, or the 24/7 shop with barely any customers at the opposite side of the District. ¡°...Or they could have moved to a new kind of Modus Operandi¡­¡± I whispered, surveying the nightclub from the opposite building. The Vault. It is almost a hole in the wall kind of nightclub, yet, I saw at least a hundred different faces queuing and entering the establishment in the 3 hours I have been monitoring. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s not such a low stake, minimal risk, first outing¡­¡± I sigh in the cold air. ¡°Or maybe it was a dud¡­ Where are they¡­?¡± I sighed again, exasperated. I shifted my weight slightly, feeling my body ache all over from staying in the same position for so long. The night air was crisp, filling my lungs with a cool bite that kept me alert. I wasn¡¯t nervous¡ªat least, that¡¯s what I told myself. This wasn¡¯t my first confrontation with danger, but it was different this time. This time, I was choosing to face it. This time, I was Replica. My eyes scanned the alleyways around the club. It was the perfect spot for the Red Hands to make their move. They preferred back entrances, the quiet moments between security checks, when businesses were busy enough to cover their tracks but not so crowded that they couldn''t make a clean getaway. They liked to blend in with the usual chaos and disappear as quickly as they came. A flicker of movement caught my attention. I tensed, focusing on the alley to the left of the nightclub where three figures emerged from the shadows. My heart rate quickened, though I remained calm, watching as they approached the side door with practiced ease. Each of them was dressed in nondescript dark clothing, the kind that blended easily with the night. They weren¡¯t armed¡ªat least not visibly¡ªbut the way they moved, with confidence and precision, marked them as professionals. These weren¡¯t petty thugs. One of the men approached the door, pulling a small device from his pocket and pressing it against the lock. A soft click echoed through the alleyway as the door swung open. No alarms, no guards. It was like they¡¯d done this a hundred times before. I narrowed my eyes. The Red Hands had a reputation for being thorough, but this was too smooth. They weren¡¯t just here for a shake-down; this was something bigger. I had two choices¡ªwait for them to do whatever they came to do, or make my move now, before they got too deep inside. I crouched low, tightening my grip on the edge of the rooftop. My breath came slow and steady, matching the cool night breeze. The Red Hands were making their move, and I was ready to test my new identity, my powers, and my control over this chaotic world. Think, Liz. If I jumped in too soon, I risked being outnumbered and overwhelmed. But waiting too long would mean giving them the upper hand inside the club, with more variables at play. They moved like pros, and something about their precision bothered me. These weren¡¯t just common street thugs¡ªthey were organised, calculated. No hesitation, I told myself, channelling the focus I¡¯d need as Replica. I shifted slightly, muscles tense and ready to act, while my mind weighed the risks. I decided to follow them inside¡ªobserve, gather information, and strike when I had the upper hand. My powers gave me an edge, but I didn¡¯t fully know what they were capable of yet. This was my first real field test, and the stakes, while not catastrophic, were high enough to demand precision. The last man slipped inside, leaving the alley empty except for the dull hum of the city behind me. I silently climbed down the fire escape, careful to keep to the shadows. The streetlight cast long shadows over the alley, masking my descent as I reached the ground without making a sound. My heart pounded, not from fear but anticipation. I wasn¡¯t running from danger anymore; I was running toward it. The back door to The Vault stood slightly ajar, a small invitation for trouble. I crept closer, hearing muffled voices from inside. They were quick and methodical, already working on whatever they had planned. Get in, assess, disrupt. I slipped inside, the cold metal of the door brushing against my gloved hand. My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the hallway. The sounds of the nightclub beyond were faint, the heavy bass thumping through the walls. Ahead, I could hear the men moving, but they were out of sight, deeper into the club¡¯s private area. I stayed close to the wall, moving quietly through the corridor, avoiding the cameras that were either off or hacked by their device. The hallway opened into a storeroom filled with crates of alcohol and cleaning supplies. I crouched behind a large stack of boxes, peeking around the edge to get a better view. There they were¡ªthree of them, as I¡¯d seen before. One was crouched over a safe embedded in the wall, fiddling with what looked like a sophisticated lock-picking device. The other two stood nearby, watching the door to the main part of the club. They were armed now, with small handguns holstered under their jackets. Definitely not petty criminals. The man at the safe clicked something on the device, and the lock made a soft beep. A quiet rush of air escaped the vault as he pulled the door open. My pulse quickened. This wasn¡¯t a routine shake-down¡ªthis was a robbery, and not just any robbery. They knew exactly what they were doing. There was something valuable in that safe, something worth all this trouble. I watched closely, waiting for the right moment. They were focused, unaware of me, which meant I had the element of surprise. I could hurt myself before touching one of them to transfer my wounds. But that would make me vulnerable until then, and I¡¯d still need to handle the other two. The sounds of their murmurs were drowned out by the thumping bass that vibrated through the walls. They were too focused on the safe, their bodies tense and their gazes locked on the prize, whatever it was inside. This was my moment. My mind raced as I calculated my options. I could approach quietly, surprise them, and try to incapacitate one before the others noticed. But I wasn¡¯t skilled in hand-to-hand combat¡ªnot yet. I needed an edge. My power. I¡¯d been practising with small injuries, cuts, and bruises, but this was different. I needed to cause real damage to myself if I wanted to transfer that to them. And I didn¡¯t know how long I¡¯d have before the others turned on me. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. I slowly crouched behind the crates and pulled a small blade from my boot. It wasn¡¯t much, just a regular knife I¡¯d gotten for cheap at a pawn shop, but it would do the job. The cold metal pressed against my skin, and I hesitated for a moment, steeling myself for the pain to come. Without allowing myself to think any further, I slashed the blade across my left forearm. The pain was strangely manageable, again. Did my power come with pain tolerance somehow, or do I need to cut myself more if I want it to be destabilizing? Can¡¯t dawdle on that, they seem distracted, if I have to strike it should be now. I jump out of my cover to the closest Red Hand. However I was too short on the leap and barely grazed them. I cursed under my breath as I landed just short of the first Red Hand. My body twisted in midair, barely managing to brush the back of his jacket. But it was enough. I felt the tether form instantly, that strange, invisible connection snapping into place between us. Not wasting any time after my blunder, I pull on the tether sharply, transferring my wound to him. With it came a slight toothache. A small price to pay, I guess to incapacitate the unhygienic thug. I watched as his body jerked in surprise, his hand shooting up to clutch his left arm, blood already seeping through his jacket¡¯s sleeve. The shock on his face was instant, but I couldn¡¯t dwell on it. I had to move fast. The other two turned toward the sound of his muffled gasp, their confusion quickly turning into alarm. "What the hell¡ª?"the other guard growled, reaching for his gun. With a grace I shouldn¡¯t possess, I lunged at the other man, grabbing his wrist before he could reach the weapon. Another tether formed, but the little toothache from his comrade wasn¡¯t enough of a distraction, I thought. So I pulled him hard. The movement felt both natural and unnatural at the same time. Destabilized, he fell forward onto the floor and I used the momentum to slam his face against the concrete ground, hard enough to disorient him. He groaned, dazed, but still struggled to reach for his gun. I couldn¡¯t let him recover. My hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and twisting it sharply until the weapon clattered uselessly on the ground. The third man had more time thanks to my altercation with his friends. His hand darted toward his gun as I whirled around to face him. My heart pounded, time seemed to slow. I felt that old instinctual fear rising inside me, but this time, I pushed it down. This time, I had control. With a quick leap, I closed the distance between us, but he was faster, his gun already in hand. He shot. A sharp, hot, pain engulfed my right arm. Somehow, I knew he¡¯d miss, but the sudden pain still made me falter enough for the first Red Hand to have me at gunpoint too. ¡°I am fucked¡­¡± I muttered. ¡°You don¡¯t say, missy..¡± The lockpicker answered my self talk. The cold edge of the gun pressed into my back as I stood, my heart pounding as the adrenaline surged through me. I had miscalculated, taken too many risks, and now I was trapped. The wound in my arm throbbed, a reminder of how easily things could spiral out of control. This wasn¡¯t like the petty criminals or thugs I had envisioned confronting as Replica. These men were professionals, and they had me at gunpoint. The one I had disarmed moments earlier groaned from the floor, clutching his head, but the other two were still standing, and both had their weapons trained on me. I felt the tether humming between us, fragile but present. I could still feel their injuries¡ªthe transferred pain¡ªbut it wasn¡¯t enough to give me the upper hand. "Who the hell are you?" the lockpicker growled, his voice dripping with hostility as he kicked the safe door shut. "You one of those MetaPol heroes? A new vigilante? Thought you''d take us down all by yourself?" I gritted my teeth, suppressing the urge to let my fear show. I wasn¡¯t a MetaPol officer, and I wasn¡¯t about to let them mistake me for some self-righteous hero. I was something else. I was me. "Does it matter?" I shot back, keeping my voice steady despite the growing tension. "You¡¯re done here. Walk away now, and I won¡¯t make it worse." The two men exchanged glances before the one with the gun stepped forward, his face twisted in a sneer. "Make it worse? Lady, you¡¯re bleeding. You''re not in any position to be making threats." I could feel my breath quickening, the panic rising. But I couldn¡¯t let them see that. I had to keep control. The wound in my arm sent waves of pain shooting through me, but I could use that. I could transfer it, just like before. But with both of them armed, I had to be smart, deliberate. One wrong move, and I¡¯d be finished. And if I sent it to the first one, I¡¯d end up back with the gash on the other arm. And I didn¡¯t manage to touch the lockpicker¡­ Looking around, I notice the two tethers still hanging between the two Red Hands I scuffed with. Maybe I could¡­ With a quick succession of pulls, I exchanged the downed guard¡¯s wound to me, then the man who threatened me. The motion was slightly disorienting to me, but now the two other men had their wounds swapped while I was still the same. I felt the rush of pain shift between us, passing through the invisible tether I controlled. The man holding me at gunpoint tensed suddenly screamed as he held his face. I quickly glanced at the man who was down, but he wasn¡¯t moving. The sudden pain of his companion made the lockpicker falter slightly. This was enough for me to jump into the fray and grab his wrist. And with that movement, I exchanged our wounds. The cold, sharp pain in my arm vanished almost instantly as I transferred it to the lockpicker. His eyes widened in shock, and he gasped as the fresh wound materialised on his body. His hand reflexively shot to his side, the injury pulling him into a desperate stagger. His grip on the gun weakened, and in that split second, I yanked the weapon from his hand, tossing it to the floor. "Wh¡ªwhat the hell are you?" he sputtered, his voice quivering in disbelief as he clutched his now bleeding arm. I didn¡¯t answer. My breath came in ragged gasps, adrenaline pumping through me as I felt a strange, dark satisfaction growing inside. I had the upper hand now, the power to control not just my own pain but theirs too. They didn¡¯t understand what was happening, and I wasn¡¯t about to enlighten them. It was better this way¡ªlet them think I was some kind of monster, something beyond their comprehension. The other man, still holding his face in agony, stumbled back, his legs unsteady. He was no longer a threat, his gun forgotten on the ground. I glanced at the one I had slammed into the floor earlier¡ªstill unconscious, his face twisted in a daze of pain and confusion. The odds had shifted in my favor, but I couldn¡¯t afford to be careless. I had won this round, but only barely. I kicked the guns out of reach, then turned to the lockpicker, who was still trying to process the agony shooting through his arm. He wasn¡¯t going to be picking any locks for a while, that much was certain. "Here¡¯s how this is going to go," I said, my voice cold and steady. "You¡¯re going to leave now, and you¡¯re not going to come back. Tell your boss that the Red Hands are finished in this district." He looked up at me, his eyes burning with a mix of hatred and fear. "You think you¡¯ve won, huh?" he spat, wincing as the movement caused his wound to throb. "You don¡¯t know who you¡¯re messing with. The Red Hands have connections¡ªbig ones. You¡¯re just a small-time freak trying to play hero." I leaned in, close enough for him to see the determination in my eyes. "I¡¯m not a hero," I whispered, my voice filled with the calm certainty of someone who had nothing left to lose. ¡°I am just a Replica.¡± For a moment, we stared at each other, the tension thick in the air. Then, without another word, he pulled himself to his feet, still cradling his injured arm. He cast one last, hateful glance in my direction before limping toward the door, dragging his companion along with him. They disappeared into the night, leaving me alone in the dimly lit storeroom. I stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, my body still humming with adrenaline. My arm, though no longer bleeding, ached with the memory of the wound. The power I had used left me feeling drained, like I had pulled not just pain but something more from the men. But I couldn¡¯t dwell on that now. I had won¡ªbarely¡ªbut I had won. I moved to the safe, still open from the lockpicker¡¯s earlier work. Inside, I saw stacks of cash, along with a few small packages I didn¡¯t recognize. I reached out, my gloved fingers brushing against the edge of the cash. The weight of the decision pressed down on me, and for a moment, I hesitated. But then I thought about Mel¡ªabout everything I had lost, everything that had been taken from me. The metas had all the power, all the control. Why should I keep playing by their rules when they never played by mine? I wasn¡¯t going to be a pawn in their world any longer. With swift movements, I stuffed some of the cash and the packages into my bag. I didn¡¯t know what was in the packages, but I¡¯d figure it out later. For now, I had what I came for¡ªpower, in the form of resources. Money to fund my transformation, to buy better materials for my suit, to gain the tools I needed to survive in this world. ¡°A little fee for saving you from a full-on theft¡± I lightly laughed before taking my leave. I closed the safe door quietly, taking one last glance around the storeroom to make sure I left no trace. The adrenaline was still buzzing in my veins, but there was also a strange calm that settled over me. I had done it. I had faced danger, taken control, and come out on top. But this was only the beginning. As I made my way back through the darkened hallway, I felt a growing sense of certainty. I wasn¡¯t Liz anymore¡ªnot here, not now. I was Replica, and tonight, I had taken my first real step into the shadows. Outside, the cool night air greeted me, a stark contrast to the stuffy heat of the club. The streets were still alive with the pulse of Neo Lyon, but for the first time, I didn¡¯t feel like I was just surviving. I was part of it now, moving through the cracks, unseen and unnoticed. I ducked into an alley, pulling my hood low over my face as I disappeared into the night. The city¡¯s noise faded into the background as I slipped through the streets, my mind buzzing with the possibilities ahead. I needed to lay low for now, assess the packages I¡¯d taken, and figure out my next move. But I knew one thing for certain: this wouldn¡¯t be the last time Neo Lyon¡¯s underworld heard from Replica. 009: Loot The apartment was as I had left it¡ªquiet, impersonal, the dim lighting barely illuminating the worn furniture and empty walls. My bag, heavy with cash and the stolen packages, hit the floor with a soft thud as I shut the door behind me, the deadbolt clicking into place. Outside, the muffled hum of Neo Lyon continued, a city that never truly slept, even when the shadows deepened. I leaned against the door, catching my breath. The adrenaline from the fight still coursed through me, making my hands tremble slightly. But it wasn¡¯t just the fight that had my heart racing¡ªit was everything that came after. The tethering, the theft, the power I had wielded so effortlessly. My mind buzzed with the memory of the Red Hands¡¯ confused faces, their bodies crumbling under the weight of the injuries I had inflicted, injuries that had been mine moments before. I should¡¯ve felt something¡ªguilt, fear, maybe even a sense of regret. But all I could feel was¡­ satisfaction. The thought gnawed at the back of my mind as I pulled off my makeshift mask, tossing it onto the table. The black fabric of my suit clung to my skin, drenched with sweat and the lingering scent of the night air. My muscles ached from the fight, the wound in my arm just a phantom. A mirror across the room caught my reflection¡ªdark, hollow eyes, and a face I barely recognized beneath the grime and exhaustion. I didn¡¯t look like Liz anymore. Not the girl who used to work quietly at Paul¡¯s shop, keeping her head down and hoping the chaos of the city would pass her by. No, I looked like someone else now. Replica. I pushed off the door and made my way to the small bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered to life overhead, casting a cold, sterile glow across the cracked tiles and faded walls. I turned on the faucet, letting the water run as I splashed it onto my face, the cool sensation momentarily clearing my head. My reflection stared back at me, fractured by the beads of water dripping down the mirror. I studied my face, searching for some trace of the girl I used to be. But she was gone, replaced by someone who could hurt others without flinching, someone who had crossed a line tonight that she couldn¡¯t come back from. I wasn¡¯t a hero. I wasn¡¯t even sure I was still a good person. But I survived. The quiet of the apartment was unnerving. The thrill of the fight was gone, replaced by an oppressive silence. I leaned against the sink, the chill of the porcelain biting through my gloves, grounding me. For the first time since becoming Replica, the weight of what I¡¯d done settled heavily on my shoulders. The line between Liz and Replica felt thin, almost indistinguishable. I¡¯d chosen to hurt others¡ªto take control and survive by any means necessary. The satisfaction I¡¯d felt earlier now wavered, a flickering ember I couldn¡¯t decide whether to snuff out or stoke into a blaze. ¡°Why am I even doing this¡­?¡± I sighed, perplexed, lost. The sight of my bag, slumped and spilling cash and packages onto the floor, pulled me out of my thoughts. My fingers twitched involuntarily, the idea of money holding a new significance now. I needed it for gear, for supplies, for a way to live without depending on anyone else. And yet, in this dim light, it looked grimy, like evidence of a crime. Maybe it was. But I had bigger questions to answer. The packages, small and nondescript, were tucked into the side pocket of the bag, as if waiting patiently to reveal their secrets. I sat on the floor, picking one up and weighing it in my hand. What had the Red Hands wanted from that vault? It wasn¡¯t just about money. They¡¯d been prepared, and they were clearly aiming to retrieve something specific. Something worth the risk. I peeled back the tape on the first package, the adhesive resisting at first before giving way with a soft tear. Inside was a small, glass vial containing a colourless liquid that caught the dim light in faint ripples. There was no label, no indication of what it might be, but the weight of it in my hand felt significant. I examined the other packages quickly¡ªtwo more vials, identical to the first, and a small USB drive wrapped in thin tissue paper. No markings, no symbols. Nothing to indicate why the Red Hands would go to such lengths to retrieve them. ¡°What are you?¡± I whispered to the glass vials, twisting one in the light. I considered the possibilities. With the resources the Red Hands'' seemed to have spent for this particular heist, I¡¯d wager this isn¡¯t your average drug. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I carefully examined the vials one by one. The liquid inside was perfectly clear, almost mesmerising as it caught the light in subtle reflections. I wrapped the vials back up and placed them carefully on the table, turning my attention to the USB drive. There had to be a reason it was hidden with these vials¡ªsome connection between them, maybe something that could explain their value. I reached into my bag for my old laptop, hesitating for a moment. If this drive was important enough to steal, it could be encrypted, or worse, booby-trapped with tracking software. But curiosity got the best of me. I plugged in the USB drive, half-expecting my laptop to glitch or some alarm to go off. Instead, a single folder popped up on the screen labelled ¡°GENESIS.¡± Just one word, in all caps, staring back at me. I opened it, finding several files¡ªdocuments, images, and one video file named ¡°PROTOTYPE_IX.mp4.¡± My pulse quickened. I clicked on the first document. It was a research report, dense with technical jargon. But certain words stood out in bold: ¡°biochemical augmentation,¡± ¡°metahuman awakening,¡± ¡°Tampered stabilisation trials.¡± I skimmed the paragraphs, piecing together what I could. Whoever authored these reports had been experimenting with creating metahumans. A chill ran down my spine. Neo Lyon was already a fractured world with natural metahumans causing destruction¡ªnow, someone wanted to engineer more of them? I scrolled through more of the document, trying to absorb the dense language, though many terms were foreign. My heart thudded as I read phrases like ¡°genetic manipulation¡± and ¡°forced biological adaptation.¡± This wasn¡¯t just experimenting on humans; it was the creation of something unnatural, an entirely new form of life that could be weaponized. Like in the 60s¡­Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. I clicked open another file, this one a series of medical records, each marked with a number instead of a name. They all detailed transformations, some successful, others¡­ not. Words like ¡°haemorrhaging,¡± ¡°psychotic breakdowns,¡± and ¡°cellular decay¡± leapt off the screen. They were willing to push people to the edge of death to force powers to emerge. It was horrifying. Whoever was behind this had no qualms about turning human lives into expendable test subjects. The last file was a scanned image, a blueprint of what appeared to be a facility. It had rooms labelled ¡°Containment,¡± ¡°Regen,¡± and ¡°Disposal.¡± I felt sick, imagining what those terms meant. The Red Hands clearly hadn¡¯t been after money tonight. They were trying to retrieve this information for whoever funded this project. Finally, I clicked on the video file, PROTOTYPE_IX.mp4, bracing myself for whatever it might reveal. The screen flickered, the video loading slowly, and then a sterile white room, medical equipment lined along one wall, was shown. The camera was stable, right in the middle of the sterile room. A man entered the frame from the left, wearing a lab coat. "...Subject 1000. Injection 4 of the Gen-IX serum," he muttered, consulting a tablet. His voice was clinical, detached, but his eyes held a faint, unsettling gleam. In his other hand, he held a small syringe filled with a liquid that looked identical to the vials I¡¯d taken. He turned toward someone just out of frame, nodding. A second figure moved into view¡ªa young man, his arms restrained and head slumped forward, eyes glazed over. He looked barely conscious, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead under the stark fluorescent lights. The lab-coated man moved closer, holding the syringe up to inspect it. The silence in the room was almost reverent, broken only by the hum of the equipment. ¡°Subject 1000, this will be your final injection," the man said in a disturbingly calm tone. He leaned in, the needle hovering close to the young man¡¯s arm. "Remember, once the serum enters your bloodstream, you must focus. Draw out the potential within yourself. No matter what happens, stay focused." He pressed the syringe into the subject¡¯s arm, and within seconds, the young man convulsed violently, his entire body seizing up. His veins darkened, spreading like ink across his skin, his muscles tensing as if an electric current was ripping through him. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his eyes wide with terror and pain. The man in the lab coat watched, unfazed, his eyes tracking every muscle spasm, every laboured breath. The camera zoomed in on the subject¡¯s face, contorted with agony as the serum¡¯s effects intensified. Suddenly, his skin began to shimmer, the muscles beneath rippling unnaturally. His veins pulsed a deep, sickly green, and his eyes briefly glowed the same unnatural colour. A moment later, the convulsions stopped, and he slumped forward, panting, seemingly exhausted. The man in the lab coat moved closer, adjusting a small device strapped to the subject¡¯s wrist. "Subject 1000. Report your condition." The young man looked up, his expression dazed. His breathing was shallow, his eyes unfocused, a kind of fur covering half his visage. He managed a nod, though his voice came out a rough whisper. "I¡­ I can feel something¡­ it¡¯s like¡­ if¡­ it feels as if I had no weight¡­¡± ¡°Good,¡± the scientist answered, noting things on his pad. ¡°Anything else? Do you feel any physical change?¡± The subject paused, his gaze drifting as if he were searching for words. "It feels... like my bones are lighter, almost hollow." He flexed his fingers, the movement sluggish, uncertain, as though he were testing his own body for the first time. "And it feels like I can sense all air currents¡­? Wait, is that fur?!" The man exclaimed after looking at his arms. And surely, there were patches of black fur, like on his face. ¡°It seems like your power came with physical mutations.¡± The doctor answered. ¡°Seems like we have a 20% rate of mutants with this serum¡­¡± He then muttered, while taking notes. ¡°I am a mutant?! You told me I¡¯d be a metahuman! You never said anything about mutations!¡± The test subject started struggling against his confines violently. ¡°You monster! Like the League!¡± As the test subject continued to trash, the video suddenly stopped. The last image looks as if the restraint were on the verge of giving out. The screen went black, leaving me staring at my own pale reflection in the monitor, heart pounding with a sickening mix of fear and disbelief. The last few seconds of the video played over and over in my mind: the look of horror in the subject¡¯s eyes, the calm indifference of the scientist, the grotesque transformation, and the implication that this was only one of many experiments. I shut the laptop slowly, my thoughts racing. The Red Hands hadn¡¯t been after money¡ªthey¡¯d been after something far more valuable, a serum that could force metahuman abilities out of ordinary people, even if it twisted their bodies in the process. The mere existence of this substance made the vials I had stolen potentially worth more than anything else Neo Lyon had to offer. They were pure power, carefully contained in fragile glass. But this power was a gamble, with consequences too horrifying to ignore. The man in the video hadn¡¯t become a god or a hero; he had been transformed, turned into something grotesque. And he had been lied to, manipulated. Forcing powers out of someone, without consent and at such a brutal cost, went against everything I had told myself I stood for. And yet...I couldn¡¯t deny the allure of it. If the serum worked, if it could grant powers with minimal side effects, what would that mean for people like me? I already had my tethering ability, but what if this serum could enhance it, make me stronger, faster, able to push my power to its full potential without the limits I¡¯d been grappling with? The thought made my skin prickle. I could become more than just a shadow in the night; I could become someone unstoppable. I shook my head, trying to clear it. This wasn¡¯t the time to entertain fantasies. These vials were dangerous, too dangerous to mess with until I knew more. The files on the USB drive had shown me that the side effects were unpredictable, sometimes fatal. The thought of using it on myself made my stomach twist with fear and intrigue in equal measure. Pulling out a notebook, I jotted down key words from the documents I had read: biochemical augmentation, metahuman awakening, forced adaptation. I scribbled a few notes on the side effects, the high mortality rates, and the mutations. Then, underlined in bold letters, I wrote: League of Chaos? Whoever was behind this was willing to turn people into monsters, possibly even mutants, for the sake of creating metahumans. Like how the League of Order did in the 60s. But with current international laws, this had to be done by a major Villain group. ¡°Their way of having fun or recruiting more people, maybe¡­¡± Now with all this in my hands, I was unsure of what to do. I could search about this drug more but I didn¡¯t want to be swept into too big of a metahuman storm yet. It opened so many questions. How did this package get into the hands of a random nightclub? How did the Red Hands know about it? What were they going to do with it? Are the Red Hands working for a bigger organisation? So many questions, and I had yet to sleep for work in 4 hours. ¡°Let¡¯s rest, after all things always look better in the morning¡­¡± 010: The Web The day bled into evening by the time I left Paul¡¯s shop. My steps were slow, my mind a relentless churn of thoughts. After the chaos of the night before, I¡¯d forced myself to keep a low profile today, slipping back into the role of Liz¡ªthe quiet girl behind the counter, the one who restocked records and counted change. But my mind wasn¡¯t in the shop. It was still wrapped around the stolen vials, the Genesis serum, and the horrific transformation I¡¯d witnessed in that video. My fingers twitched at the memory, as if the sickly green glow of that man¡¯s veins was still etched into my skin. The city seemed quieter tonight, the low hum of Neo Lyon¡¯s neon lights and distant sirens muted as I made my way home. Every streetlight seemed to cast longer shadows, every alleyway seemed darker. I turned into my building and climbed the stairs two at a time, eager to get back to the apartment, back to the vials. I couldn¡¯t shake the pull they held over me, the twisted allure of that liquid power sealed behind fragile glass. Inside, the air felt thick, oppressive. I tossed my bag onto the table, my gaze drawn instantly to the vials lined up like silent sentries. The three vials of clear liquid glinted under the dim light, each one promising a future I wasn¡¯t sure I wanted to face. Beside them lay the USB drive, its dark surface a stark contrast to the glimmering vials. I picked it up, the weight of its secrets grounding me as I considered everything I¡¯d read. Those files on the Genesis project made one thing abundantly clear: this serum had been designed for a single purpose¡ªto create metahumans, regardless of the cost. Whoever it was that tailored them, the League of Chaos, or another such organisation with great resources, they were clearly devoid of morals. The most disconcerting, however, was the involvement of The Vault or even the Red Hands. I know I have to lay low for now, but I also lack information. ¡°I really need to gather a network for my other side¡­¡± I whispered, as I went towards a drawer. It stored the little things I could salvage from the accident. Among those, laid an old laptop that barely worked anymore. It¡¯d be enough for searching the metawiki, though. Despite all my hate towards how the site worked almost like a cult worshipping metahumans, it was clearly a treasure trove for information on their target of worship before even the news could relay information, most of the time. The clunky fan of my old laptop whirred to life as the screen flickered on, illuminating the small table in my dimly lit apartment. The interface was slow, and the Wi-Fi signal wavered, but eventually, I pulled up Metawiki. I¡¯d used it before, mostly out of morbid curiosity, but now, I scanned it with a different intent. ¡°Know thine enemy, right¡­¡± As I whispered, I started typing on my keyboard. First, we¡¯ll look at the known villain organisations that would be big enough to finance that Genesis serum¡¯s research. As the page loaded, I felt the weight of the vials on the table behind me, a reminder of the twisted science they contained. With a few keystrokes, I navigated through the basic directory of Metawiki, and there, in the notorious Villain Organisations section, I started to sift through the most infamous groups in Neo Lyon¡¯s criminal underground. The League of Chaos came up first, as it was also present pretty much everywhere on the Earth with people living. I clicked on it. A grainy logo filled the screen¡ªa red, handprint-like smudge that mirrored its members¡¯ destructive tendencies. The organisation had roots that stretched back decades, and though their membership and tactics had evolved, their mission hadn¡¯t changed: to instil fear and distrust in metahuman society. However, their primary aim was chaos itself¡ªrandom attacks, public unrest, and a desire to make civilians fear metahumans. It was unsettling but didn¡¯t align with the precision of the Genesis project. ¡°Not exactly subtle enough for something so¡­ scientific,¡± I muttered, scrolling past pages of details on their known members and tactics. I went to the next entry on the list. Again, a group that is active around the world and not only Neo Lyon: The Gilded Forge. They were known as a large meetup for the brightest, craftiest and most immoral metahumans in the world. They tended to build contraptions or plans to steal or embezzle money so they could build even bigger contraptions. "¡­Nothing concrete that would fit a bioweapon." I kept scrolling through the Metawiki entry, frowning as I reached the footnote sections. The Gilded Forge was too tech-oriented, more likely to build machines or weapons than fund a biochemical project as grim as Genesis. But I couldn¡¯t ignore them completely. If they partnered with the right people, they could provide the resources for something like this. Frustration churned in my gut as I scanned through entry after entry, each one falling short of the profile I needed. Reaching the last entry, I clicked on the Red Hands hyperlink. The article was really short, clearly noting the supposedly small size of the group. "Primarily a street gang with minor affiliations and a history of small-time crimes, including extortion, burglary, and minor theft," the article read. "Known to operate in the Brotteaux District, primarily targeting local businesses and occasional high-stakes robberies with minimal casualties. Minimal metahuman activity reported. Nothing new since last time?" The page was really succinct, apart from what I used to pinpoint their next attack, I noticed the comments on the article. MetaEyes69: What¡¯s really weird about them is that they are clearly led by some metahumans wearing red gloves, but the dude showed up like 3 times, during their first few activities and since then he''s been missing from. LowProfileV: So you are telling me they named their organisation after their leader and then didn¡¯t make actual costumes to fit the name? lolololDid you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. GravitasN1Fan: I think you missed the point when MetaEyes said the leader hasn¡¯t appeared since their debuts. Think he¡¯s ded? MetaEyes69: Dunno bout that, but they should have ransacked the whole Brotteaux District at least once by now. Any clue why they aren¡¯t enlarging their territory? LowProfileV: You forgot that there are other groups maintaining territory in the city doing their stuff. Like real groups. MetaEyes69: Sure, but why Brotteaux? Moon-Eaters half control the district normally, yet they attack business there? The discussion stops here, with the last comment being posted yesterday, a few hours before the attack I thwarted on the Vault. ¡°So they were clearly looking for the Genesis vials and didn¡¯t fear the Moon-Eaters attacking them? They are clearly working for some bigger organisation, or even maybe for the Moon-Eaters?¡± I read the final comment once more, frowning. The Moon-Eaters¡ªNew Moon¡¯s notorious self-named nemesis. Known for their ruthlessness and wide network of contacts in the city¡¯s underbelly. Their influence had seeped into many Districts, Brotteaux included, marking the areas as their territory. If the Red Hands were acting under their protection, it would explain why they dared to operate so openly. I drummed my fingers against the keyboard, the realisation weighing on me.I glanced back at the vials on the table, feeling a sense of dread settle over me. I had no idea what these were truly capable of, but in the hands of an organised crime group, they were undoubtedly a weapon. ¡°Whatever the fact, I¡¯ll have to be cautious as Replica, the wiki talked about one metahuman in their ranks. Whether he is alive or not, he could be a danger for me¡­.¡± Scrolling back up on the page, I try to find mention of the leader or anything, but the page is still as empty as it was a few minutes ago. ¡°And it¡¯s pretty much an unknown enemy¡­¡± I wondered if I should ask the wiki for more info on the Red Hands meta, but knowing how the internet worked, I decided against it. Best not to leave any digital footprint¡­ After thinking with myself for a few seconds what I should search for on the site, my hands moved almost by themselves, typing a familiar name. ¡°No results¡­ Good, I am still under the radar for now.¡± Despite the small relief, I also felt weirdly disappointed. I know it¡¯s been barely 24 hours since my first appearance and being known wouldn¡¯t help me at all. But this slight disappointment couldn¡¯t quite go away despite all my rationalisation. Pushing my feelings away, I went to the more forum-like part of the site, where everything and anything was discussed. My goal was to see if there were any news in Neo Lyon that didn¡¯t make it to the TV because they were too small for it to be covered. The forum was bustling with chatter about Neo Lyon¡¯s most recent disturbances¡ªsmaller incidents the news wouldn¡¯t cover. Threads titled ¡®Brotteaux Fire Incident - Metahuman Rumors?¡¯ and ¡®Fights in the Lower Districts: New Vigilante or Rogue?¡¯ dotted the page. Each post was filled with speculation, theories, and half-baked conspiracies. Among them, there was one thread that caught my eye: ¡°Red Hands vs. Moon-Eaters turf war? Recent Escalations in Brotteaux.¡± I clicked on it, and the page opened to an array of posts filled with rumours, theories, and a few photos of vandalised buildings marked with the Moon-Eaters¡¯ symbol. Apparently, tensions had been rising in Brotteaux, with the Red Hands pushing harder and more frequently against the Moon-Eaters'' grip in the district. Posts from alleged locals spoke of increased street fights, strange sightings, and more recent attacks on businesses. AnonymoUser: ¡°Heard from a friend that there was a break-in at some club in Brotteaux last night. They didn¡¯t get away with much, but rumour is they were looking for something specific. Anybody know what?¡± GravyLover101: ¡°It¡¯s all about territory. They want to edge the Moon-Eaters out. But this is the Red Hands¡ªsince when did they start aiming big?¡± ¡°Since when indeed¡­¡± I thrummed my fingers in the beat of one of Mel¡¯s favourite song The rhythmic drumming of my fingers against the keyboard faded as I pieced together the story unfolding in Neo Lyon. The Red Hands were stirring up trouble in Brotteaux, taking risks and shifting their focus from petty theft to something bigger¡ªpotentially at the command of the Moon-Eaters. But what was it about the Genesis serum that made it worth such escalation? I leaned back, feeling the weight of the new questions stacking up in my mind. Metawiki was a solid starting point, but it was clear I needed real information, something that hadn¡¯t been sifted through by the chaos of Neo Lyon¡¯s underground gossip mill. ¡°Alright, Replica,¡± I murmured, looking at the neatly discarded costume of my other self sitting atop the table. ¡°If I¡¯m going to continue to live, I can¡¯t just lurk in forums and hope the truth shows up on Metawiki.¡± I stood up, stretching out the tension in my shoulders. The city outside my window was a maze of darkened buildings, its edges blurred by a hazy glow from distant lights. Seeing how the Red Hands had been serious with how they tried to steal from The Vault, then they wouldn¡¯t hesitate to retaliate against someone who dared to mess with them. I picked up one of the vials, feeling the cold glass against my skin as I considered the possibilities. The serum could be dangerous; I had no way of knowing what kind of effect it might have on me. Yet, the drive it ignited in me was undeniable. With a little more knowledge, I could be ready to deal with metas like those in the Red Hands¡ªand perhaps others who might be hunting me in the near future. The thread from the forum lingered in my mind, replaying fragments of conversation about the Moon-Eaters'' hold on Brotteaux. If the Red Hands were in conflict with them, it would mean the Moon-Eaters had an interest in the serum or, at the very least, the territory that was caught up in it. And if they were willing to fight over the turf, then the serum might be more than just another street drug; it could be a gateway to a kind of metahuman power Neo Lyon had never seen before. I held the vial up to the light. ¡°Whatever you are,¡± I muttered, ¡°you¡¯ve caused enough trouble to be worth a war.¡± A notification pinged from my laptop, the tinny sound cutting through the room¡¯s silence. The forum thread I had left open earlier had a new post from AnonymoUser. AnonymoUser: So uh, take this with a grain of salt. But I know someone who knows someone and all that jazz who might know a dude working with the Red Hands. Dude¡¯s real speedy with his car and all that so he tends to take uncommon driving jobs. Anyway, apparently he was asked to get some package in the outer edge of Brotteaux. And by package I mean some Red Hands along with money or whatever they stole from their last attack. ¡°Looks like I¡¯ll be getting some answers sooner than I thought,¡± I murmured, slipping the mask over my face and securing the hood of my makeshift suit. 011: Investigation I started as Replica yesterday and I¡¯m already back on the field with barely 4 hours of sleep in. And despite all that, I didn¡¯t feel any exhaustion. Actually, it was more exhilarating than anything. I thought I could maybe thrive here and now. I strangely feel at ease with the situation. Running to the edge of a district in hope of catching some clues on a villain group was grounding. Despite all that, though, doubt still lingered at the edges of my mind. I had no concrete plan, no idea what I¡¯d find or who I¡¯d run into. The faint streetlights of Brotteaux cast long, wavering shadows over cracked sidewalks and grimy alleys. The district seemed quieter than usual, an eerie silence blanketing the streets. The only sound was the rhythmic tap of my boots against the ground as I jogged through narrow passages, blending into the dark like a shadow slipping through the cracks. The forum post kept replaying in my mind: ¡°a package in the outer edge of Brotteaux¡±. The Red Hands had been seen making a move, and it was likely related to what I had stolen from them. If they were scrambling for answers or retaliation, I needed to know. The adrenaline surged through me, every muscle in my body taut with anticipation. A flicker of motion caught my eye as I rounded a corner. I skidded to a stop, pressing my back against the rough brick wall of a run-down building. Two figures were huddled near a rusted dumpster, their voices low and hurried. One of them¡ªa wiry man with a shaved head¡ªglanced over his shoulder nervously, eyes darting back and forth before returning to the conversation. The other, a woman with short-cropped hair and a jagged scar running across her cheek, leaned in close, gesturing animatedly. ¡°...He said it¡¯s the last time we take jobs like this without proper backup. Whatever we were looking for, it¡¯s worth more than our necks,¡± the man muttered, voice strained. The woman scoffed, shaking her head. ¡°We don¡¯t have a choice. You saw what happened at The Vault. Boss wants answers, and if we don¡¯t find out who hit us, we¡¯re next on the chopping block.¡± I swallowed hard, my breath coming out in a barely audible whisper. I struck gold with those I needed to find, and they were talking about yesterday. Clearly the Genesis serum was their goal. The man sighed, running a hand over his face. ¡°Let¡¯s move. If anyone¡¯s lurking around, we don¡¯t want to be here when they show up.¡± I pressed myself tighter against the wall as the two figures walked past, their boots crunching softly against the cracked pavement. I waited until their footsteps faded before slipping back into the shadows, following them at a safe distance. The narrow alleys twisted like veins, each turn more disorienting than the last. Brotteaux was a maze, a labyrinth mimicking what was the old city of Lyon. The two Red Hands operatives stopped near a row of old, boarded-up shops, their voices dropping as they spoke with another figure¡ªa large, imposing man with a deep voice that carried through the silence like a low rumble. I crept closer, my heart pounding as I strained to catch their words. ¡°...boss isn¡¯t happy,¡± the big man said, crossing his arms over his chest. ¡°Says if we don¡¯t find out who messed with our plans, the creeper will make sure we pay double.¡± The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken dread. I felt my pulse quicken, and the hairs on my neck stood on end. The creeper. I didn¡¯t know who or what that was, but the way the big man said it sent a chill down my spine. Whoever¡ªor whatever¡ªit was, the Red Hands feared it. And fear in a group like theirs wasn¡¯t just for show; it was real and warranted. The trio stood beneath a flickering neon sign that read Antiquit¨¦s et Curiosit¨¦s, its cracked facade hiding the once-vibrant shop it had been. The larger man stepped back slightly, revealing a sharp profile under the dim light. He was tall and muscular, his shadow spilling across the cobblestone like a giant, and his eyes were sharp, scanning the street for signs of movement. I held my breath, remaining motionless as he glanced in my direction. The shadows were deep enough to keep me concealed, but one wrong move, one slip of sound, and this night could end in disaster. ¡°Search everything on this block,¡± the large man ordered. ¡°We¡¯re not leaving until we find out who crossed us. If you see anything suspicious, don¡¯t engage alone. We don¡¯t need another failure.¡± The woman nodded, her scar pulling at the corner of her mouth in a grimace. ¡°Understood. Let¡¯s move.¡± The three figures split up, each moving with the silent efficiency of trained operatives. The wiry man took the alley to my left, while the scarred woman ducked into a side street lined with shuttered windows and ancient iron railings. The big man stayed put, his stance tense as he surveyed the area. My mind raced. If they spread out and found me, I¡¯d be trapped. I needed to keep moving, stay one step ahead. I crept along the building¡¯s edge, making sure to keep the shifting shadows between me and the large man. His eyes swept past me again, and I slipped into a narrow gap between two brick buildings, the walls pressing in close enough to brush against my shoulders.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. ¡°Please don¡¯t be a metahuman with extra-senses¡­¡± I prayed so in my mind. I waited, listening. The sounds of footsteps echoed through the alleyways, punctuated by the occasional muttered curse or the soft rustle of fabric. The Red Hands were thorough, their search methodical. They weren¡¯t taking any chances tonight. The alley I hid in was tight and smelled of damp and decay, but it provided a clear view of the larger man¡¯s movements. He stepped into the street, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the area. A flicker of doubt passed over his face, and he clenched his fists. The light caught a flash of silver at his side¡ªa knife, long and wickedly curved. My breath stilled in my chest. ¡°Where are you, you little rat?¡± he muttered to himself, his voice a low growl. The comment made my blood curl, does he have some ways to sense my presence? The big man took a few more steps forward, eyes sweeping over the cracked pavement and the debris-strewn corners of the narrow street. I could see the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled under his dark clothing like a predator ready to strike. He was listening, waiting, his sharp eyes scanning every shadow with a predatory glint. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down the side of my face, cold against my skin. I had to move. I shifted my weight slowly, inching deeper into the narrow gap between the buildings. The alley was dark enough to keep me hidden, but one wrong move, one snap of a loose brick or rustling sound, and he¡¯d be on me in seconds. The footsteps of the wiry man echoed nearby, his voice suddenly breaking the tense silence. ¡°Nothing here,¡± he called, frustration colouring his tone. The scarred woman emerged from the side street, her movements as sharp as her expression. ¡°Same here. No sign of anything unusual.¡± The large man exhaled, the sound a low growl. ¡°Keep looking. I¡¯m sure there¡¯s something for us close by¡­¡± His eyes shifted to the crumbling walls, then to the dimly lit rooftops. The tension crackled in the air, and I could feel my heart hammering in my chest as I held my breath. I tried to quiet the sound of my heartbeat, a thundering drum in the suffocating silence. The man¡¯s gaze swept past me again, and I took the opportunity to slip further into the alley, every movement deliberate and controlled. The rough walls pressed against my back, the cool dampness seeping through my suit. My pulse raced as I strained to hear the shifting of their boots and their hushed conversation. The big man stood still, eyes narrowing with suspicion. I couldn''t shake the feeling that he was trying to sense something beyond what his eyes could see. The wiry man came closer, his shadow stretching toward the edge of my hiding place. ¡°You sure you saw something?¡± the scarred woman asked, annoyance biting through her words. ¡°I know what I felt,¡± the big man replied, his tone sharp and final. He reached for the curved knife at his side, the metallic glint catching the faint light. ¡°Fan out and sweep again. No one leaves until we get that rat and all its secrets out.¡± The wiry man moved first, boots scuffing the ground as he turned and made his way down an alley to my left. I watched, breath held, as he passed by, only a few feet from where I hid. The scarred woman took a position near an old, rusted gate that led to a courtyard covered in broken tiles and creeping vines. She kept glancing back, her eyes flickering with a wariness that spoke of past ambushes. The big man lingered, shifting his weight as he scanned the area with an intensity that made my skin prickle. I needed to act, and soon. If they completed another sweep, I wouldn¡¯t stay hidden for long. I weighed my options, considering the best way to create a diversion without revealing myself. A faint clatter echoed from a street over¡ªa trash can knocked over, maybe a stray animal. The sound was enough to draw the attention of the wiry man. He spun on his heel, head cocked, listening. The scarred woman straightened, eyes narrowing as she glanced in the direction of the noise. ¡°What was that?¡± she whispered, gripping a metal pipe she pulled from her belt. The big man¡¯s eyes lit with interest. ¡°Check it out,¡± he ordered, motioning with his knife. ¡°And stay sharp.¡± The wiry man didn¡¯t hesitate. He moved down the street, following the sound, while the woman circled back, taking a different route through the maze of alleys. I took a breath, testing the air. This was my chance¡ªa sliver of opportunity to shift the balance. I waited until the wiry man¡¯s footsteps grew faint, the echoes swallowed by the maze of alleys. The scarred woman had her back to me, eyes sweeping over the rooftops as if expecting an ambush from above. The big man lingered, still tense, his posture that of a predator ready to pounce. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to move, to act before the moment passed. I scanned the alley for anything that could create a distraction. A pile of broken bricks lay a few feet away, half-buried in shadow. With a quick motion, I grabbed one and hurled it into the darkness beyond the scarred woman, making it clatter loudly against the rusted gate. Her head snapped in the direction of the sound, eyes narrowing as she took a step forward, pipe raised. The big man¡¯s attention shifted as well, his grip on the knife tightening. He glanced at the scarred woman and barked, ¡°Go.¡± Without hesitation, she moved toward the sound, muscles coiled and ready to strike. The tension eased in my chest as their formation broke, leaving the big man momentarily alone. I took a step back, calculating my next move. I could slip out the way I came or follow the scarred woman¡¯s path and take a chance to learn more about the Red Hands'' operation. Before I could decide, the big man¡¯s head jerked slightly, as if he heard something beyond the rustling wind and distant city noise. His eyes locked onto the alleyway I hid in, the sharp glint in his gaze confirming what I¡¯d feared¡ªhe¡¯d sensed me. ¡°Found you,¡± he growled, stepping forward with measured confidence. My breath caught, but I forced myself to stay calm. The game was up. If I wanted answers, I¡¯d have to fight for them. 012: Brawl The big man¡¯s voice cut through the silence like a blade, low and rough, filled with the certainty of a predator that had cornered its prey. ¡°Found you.¡± I felt the blood drain from my face, but I forced my body to stay still, my breath barely moving my chest. My muscles tightened, the instincts of fight or flight battling for dominance in my mind. This was it. The careful game of shadows I¡¯d been playing was over. Now it was down to who would come out of this alley on their feet¡ªand who wouldn¡¯t. The big man stepped closer, his boots making deliberate, heavy sounds on the cracked pavement. The dim light from a nearby streetlamp glinted off his knife, a wicked curve of metal that seemed almost hungry for the confrontation. His eyes were dark, almost gleaming with anticipation. He was close enough now that I could see the intricate, almost tribal tattoo that coiled around his neck like a serpent, its dark lines shifting with the tension in his muscles. ¡°Didn¡¯t expect a rat to have the guts to come looking for scraps,¡± he said, a cruel smile twisting his lips. He shifted his stance, weight balanced perfectly, the knife held in a way that told me he knew exactly how to use it. I swallowed hard, but I didn¡¯t let my fear show. I forced my voice to stay steady, hard. ¡°Funny. I didn¡¯t expect the Red Hands to be so careless that a ¡®rat¡¯ could ruin their night.¡± His eyes narrowed, and I saw the brief flicker of recognition, of calculation. He was smart, I¡¯d give him that. The smile slipped from his face, replaced by a cold, assessing look. ¡°You¡¯re the one who hit The Vault,¡± he said, not a question but a statement, as if he knew things beyond what he should. ¡°The boss will want your head on a plate. But first¡ª¡± He lunged. The movement was fast, too fast for someone of his size. I barely twisted in time to dodge the slash aimed at my midsection, the knife passing so close I felt the whisper of displaced air. I stumbled back, heart hammering as adrenaline surged through me. He wasn¡¯t just big; he was trained, skilled. The big man¡¯s attack had been more than a warning¡ªit was a declaration. This fight was going to be brutal, and he knew it. He came at me again, his movements swift and precise, the knife slicing through the dim light with lethal intent. I dodged to the side, my feet sliding over uneven cobblestones as I tried to keep distance between us. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I couldn¡¯t. I needed to face him, to learn more about what the Red Hands were really after¡ªand what this ¡®creeper¡¯ he mentioned truly was. He lunged again, this time a feint that shifted mid-strike. I reacted too late, feeling the sting as the knife grazed my shoulder, slicing through fabric and skin. I bit back a cry, gritting my teeth as pain flared up my arm. It wasn¡¯t deep, but it was enough to remind me that I was outmatched. ¡°You¡¯re fast,¡± he said, his voice a low rumble as he circled me, eyes sharp, assessing. ¡°But you¡¯re not faster than me.¡± He moved again, a blur of motion that forced me to pivot and parry with nothing but instinct and desperation. My fist connected with his forearm, deflecting the knife just enough to avoid a deeper cut. His eyes flickered with surprise, a glimmer of amusement breaking through the cold calculation. I took the opportunity to create some distance, my mind racing. What the hell was he? His movements were impossibly fluid, almost as if he knew exactly what I was going to do before I did it. And those eyes, always calculating, scanning, searching. ¡°Not bad for a rat,¡± he said, flexing his fingers around the knife handle. He tilted his head, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. ¡°But you¡¯re going to have to do better.¡± He lunged again, this time with a speed that left no room for error. I shifted, narrowly avoiding the blade as it slashed past my ribs. I swung my elbow up, aiming for his jaw, but he twisted away as if he¡¯d known it was coming, his other hand shooting out to grab my wrist. His grip was iron, the pressure cutting off circulation as he yanked me forward, throwing me off balance. ¡°Got you now,¡± he muttered. I had no choice. I pulled on the tether, willing the pain from my shoulder to transfer to him. His eyes widened for a moment, his jaw clenching as the wound appeared on his arm. He snarled, releasing me, but his reaction was quicker than I¡¯d expected. He didn¡¯t stagger, didn¡¯t even seem fazed. He just looked down at the fresh injury and then back at me, his eyes narrowing with understanding. ¡°Interesting,¡± he said, a glint of recognition in his gaze. ¡°You¡¯re one of those, aren¡¯t you?¡± Before I could react, he stepped forward, shifting his stance, and swung the knife again. This time, I saw it coming¡ªnot just with my eyes, but with something deeper, as if I could feel the intent radiating off him. My body moved on its own, ducking under the swing and twisting away from him. The realisation hit me like a jolt: I could sense him. It was subtle, like a whisper at the edge of my thoughts, but it was there. The big man¡¯s attack came fast and relentless, but this time, I was prepared. It wasn¡¯t just the surge of adrenaline fueling me now¡ªit was a strange new awareness that hummed beneath my skin. His next move echoed in my mind moments before he made it, a shadow of intent that let me pivot just in time to avoid his knife. The shock of realisation that I had somehow gained a new ability was almost distracting.My breath came fast and shallow as I dodged and weaved, barely staying a step ahead of him. Every time, fractions before he lunged, I felt the tug of his intent like an invisible string guiding my movements. His eyes narrowed as he registered my newfound agility, the calculated ease with which I evaded his strikes. ¡°You¡¯re full of surprises,¡± he spat, his voice dripping with venom. I didn¡¯t waste words. Talking would only sap my focus, and I needed every ounce of it to keep up with him. He attacked again, this time more calculated, his movements shifting unpredictably. I sensed his hesitation an instant before he feinted left and struck from the right. My body reacted on autopilot, sidestepping the blow and delivering a sharp kick to his knee. It connected, and he faltered, a growl of pain escaping his lips. But it wasn¡¯t enough to slow him down. He surged forward, aiming low with a quick swipe of his knife that sliced through the air where my leg had been a heartbeat earlier. I leaped back, breathing hard, feeling the strain in my muscles. The flicker of intent I sensed in him was becoming clearer, more insistent¡ªa strange blend of danger and opportunity. A part of me knew I couldn¡¯t keep this up forever. The heightened senses from the sudden new power were helping, but I was still just a girl with no formal combat training, going up against a trained man with a deadly weapon. The big man shifted his stance, eyeing me with a mixture of intrigue and frustration. His brows knitted together as he assessed me, weighing his next move. I sensed that flicker of intent again¡ªhis decision to feint before going in for a grapple. My muscles coiled, ready to move before he could take me down. He lunged, his knife a blur as he slashed downward, aiming for my thigh. I sidestepped and twisted my body, the blade grazing my leg but not finding purchase. I winced, feeling the sting of the shallow cut, but I used the momentum to spin around and strike at his wrist with an open palm. The knife fell from his grasp and clattered to the ground, but he didn¡¯t hesitate. He came at me with his bare hands, his speed still unnaturally fast. He came at me again, this time with a quick series of slashes aimed to corner me against the wall. I felt the tingle of his intentions a moment before each strike, giving me just enough time to shift and dodge. I spun to the left, planting my feet and driving my elbow into his side. He grunted, the briefest flash of pain in his eyes, but he moved with a speed that defied his size, pivoting to face me with a grim smile. ¡°Getting better, aren¡¯t you?¡± His voice was tight, the strain from the transferred pain evident even if he wouldn¡¯t show weakness. I didn¡¯t respond. My heart hammered in my chest, and I pushed back the exhaustion beginning to creep into my limbs. I needed to turn the tide of this fight, and fast. His gaze flickered toward the alley¡¯s entrance, a signal I almost missed. Before I could react, a shadow shifted in the dim light, and the scarred woman re-emerged, eyes locking onto me with a fierce intensity. ¡°Found her!¡± she called out, her voice sharp and cutting through the silence like a blade. She held the metal pipe in her hand, and her posture radiated cold determination. The big man grinned, confidence flooding back into his eyes. ¡°Looks like you¡¯re out of luck.¡± I backed up a step, my mind racing. Two against one wasn¡¯t a fight I could win, not with my body already beginning to feel the toll of the battle. The new strange power had bought me time, but I was far from invincible. The woman moved in with calculated strides, her eyes darting between me and the big man, reading the room as if calculating the best angle for an attack. ¡°Stay behind me,¡± he ordered, not taking his eyes off me. It was a slip¡ªa small one¡ªbut it told me he was still unsure of the abilities I wielded. If he wasn¡¯t confident enough to let her join in, maybe I could use that to my advantage. The woman hesitated, her expression darkening with annoyance but compliance. That moment of hesitation was enough. I lunged, aiming low, feigning a desperate attempt to escape. The big man shifted to intercept, his knife hand coming up to block me, but I anticipated the move, feeling the ripple of intent before it happened. My momentum changed mid-motion, and I twisted, purposefully aiming my right hand to his knife. It pierced my hand fully with a searing hot pain, but I bit through it and pulled on the tether linking us again. The shoulder wound came back right away to me, but now his knife-wielding hand was out of commission, a large hole right in the middle of it, bleeding. His knife clattered to the ground. The big man¡¯s eyes widened, rage mingled with disbelief as he clutched his hand, blood dripping from the gaping wound. The advantage was mine, but it was fleeting¡ªI needed to act quickly. The scarred woman¡¯s face hardened, and she surged forward, metal pipe arcing toward me in a blur of motion. I barely had time to register the shift, the flash of intent warning me of imminent danger. I ducked, the pipe whistling past my head, the force of it brushing against the strands of my hair. The momentum of her swing carried her a step forward, and I used the opportunity to strike. I lashed out with a kick, catching her in the ribs. She stumbled back, gasping, but didn¡¯t fall. Her eyes locked onto mine, filled with fury and a hint of admiration. ¡°Persistent little thing, aren¡¯t you?¡± she spat, recovering quickly and circling to my right. The big man was regaining his composure, his wound clearly slowing him but not enough to neutralise him. He gritted his teeth, blood still seeping between his fingers as he fixed me with a murderous glare. ¡°You¡¯ll regret that.¡± I was already breathing hard, the exhaustion of the fight starting to gnaw at my muscles. The strange, heightened awareness was still here, but felt less and less precise, or maybe it came slower with time? The scarred woman moved in sync with the big man, both closing the space between us with a practiced ease that spoke of countless battles fought together. My heartbeat drummed in my ears, drowning out the night sounds around us as I tried to keep my focus sharp. Two against one. I had to think fast, move faster. The big man was holding back less now, his injury slowing him but not stopping him. His eyes, dark with rage and something else¡ªsomething calculating¡ªfixed on me like a hawk. The scarred woman spun the pipe in her hands, testing its weight, a smirk playing at her lips as she advanced.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. I felt the tingle of intent from both of them, warning me of the blows to come. The woman lunged first, the pipe a blur aimed at my side. I sidestepped, the metal grazing my ribs as I moved just in time. The big man closed in from the left, his uninjured arm swinging out in a powerful arc that aimed to grab me by the throat. I ducked and twisted, my body responding instinctively to the warning flickers. His fingers missed by mere centimetres, the air stirred by the force of his movement. The momentary gap between them was all I needed. I surged forward, throwing a quick punch to the woman¡¯s jaw, the impact jarring my knuckles. She staggered, eyes wide with surprise but quickly narrowing into a glare. Before I could press the advantage, the big man came at me again, this time leading with a vicious kick aimed at my legs. I felt the intent ripple just before it connected, allowing me to shift enough to avoid the worst of it, but pain still flared up my calf as his boot clipped me. I stumbled, my vision blurring as exhaustion gnawed at the edges of my senses. I couldn¡¯t keep this up. The scarred woman regained her footing, spitting out a curse as she swung the pipe at my head. I barely managed to throw up my arm in defence, the pipe colliding with my forearm and sending a shockwave of pain through my arm. My vision sparked, but I forced myself to stay upright, using the momentum to spin away from her and the big man. ¡°Stay down!¡± she barked, eyes alight with anger. I didn¡¯t respond. There was no room for words, only action. The big man, his movements slightly less fluid now due to his injuries, lunged again. I felt the pull of his intent, the heavy certainty behind it, and sidestepped. This time, instead of retreating, I stepped into his space, driving my elbow into his wounded hand. He howled, the sound low and animalistic as he staggered back, rage and pain contorting his features. The scarred woman was already moving, her pipe arcing toward me. I sensed it a moment too late, the awareness dulled by the toll of the fight. The metal connected with my side, and I felt the sharp, jarring pain as my ribs screamed in protest. I gasped, stumbling, the world tilting for a brief second as I fought to stay on my feet. A sharp intake of breath shuddered through me, but I willed my focus to stay razor-thin, holding onto that awareness by the thinnest of threads. My vision tunnelled slightly, the edge of my senses dulling from exhaustion and pain. The scarred woman¡¯s face swam into view, her lips twisted into a victorious snarl as she moved to press the attack. I could see the confidence flickering in her eyes, the certainty that this was the moment I would go down. Not yet. With a burst of sheer willpower, I straightened, forcing my battered body to comply. I reached for the woman, barely touching her. And I yanked hard on the barely formed tether, giving her my wounds, as I took her physical state. Strangely enough, the scar on her face didn¡¯t disappear. The scarred woman¡¯s eyes widened in confusion as her own weapon slipped from her grasp, clattering to the ground. She gasped, clutching her side where moments before I¡¯d felt a sharp, throbbing pain. The confidence drained from her face, replaced by shock as she staggered back, her movements suddenly sluggish. I drew in a deep, steadying breath. My ribs no longer screamed, my vision cleared, and my limbs felt reinvigorated. The transfer had worked, but I could see the toll it had taken on her¡ªshe was on the verge of collapse, the pain I had shared weighing down her body like a stone. Before she could regain her footing, I turned back to the big man. His injured hand trembled, blood dripping steadily from the wound in his palm. Yet, he glared at me with eyes dark with rage and something deeper¡ªrecognition, as though he finally understood what I was capable of. ¡°You little¡­¡± he muttered, the words seething out between gritted teeth. He flexed his good hand, stepping forward. Despite his injuries, his movements were still precise, a deadly calm in his approach that warned me this wasn¡¯t over yet. The alley seemed to close in, the faint glow of the streetlamp above casting long, jagged shadows that painted him in sharp relief. His eyes tracked me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. He lunged, faster than I anticipated. My heightened awareness gave me just enough time to sidestep, but not enough to avoid his other hand as it swung up in a backhanded strike. The impact sent me sprawling into the damp brick wall, pain radiating through my shoulder and spine. Stars danced in my vision, but I couldn¡¯t afford to lose focus. The big man was already advancing, his breath ragged but eyes lit with a predatory gleam. ¡°You¡¯re quick,¡± he growled, ¡°but that trick of yours won¡¯t save you twice.¡± He was close, too close. I scrambled to my feet, using the wall as leverage, my mind racing. The scarred woman, now barely standing, called out weakly, ¡°Watcher¡­ back¡­ now¡­¡± Her voice was hoarse, her breath laboured, but it was enough to catch his attention. The big man¡ªWatcher¡ªglanced at her, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. I seized the moment, rushing forward with every ounce of speed I could muster. My hand reached out, fingertips brushing his arm just as he turned back to face me. A wave of pain shot through my chest for a split second as I re-exchanged the wounds around. From the girl to me, to Watcher, back to the girl. Watcher¡¯s eyes widened in that split second of contact, the realisation dawning too late. He roared, staggering back as the sudden influx of pain buckled his knees. His eyes, wide with fury and disbelief, locked onto mine as he struggled to stay upright. I saw the defiance in his gaze, the refusal to be brought down so easily. But then, from the corner of my vision, the wiry man appeared, sprinting down the alley, drawn by the sounds of the fight. He skidded to a halt, eyes darting between Watcher and me, taking in the scene with quick, calculating precision. His expression twisted into one of shock and rage as he reached for a knife strapped to his thigh. ¡°Watcher!¡± he shouted, launching himself toward me without hesitation. I barely managed to duck as the wiry man¡¯s blade sliced through the air where my head had been. He was fast, a blur of motion that sent my heart racing. His attacks were a flurry of quick, precise movements, designed to overwhelm and disorient. I blocked one strike, then another, my arms stinging from the effort. He was relentless, his eyes burning with fury. But the precognition was somehow back to full-strength now. Not as delayed as it was moments ago. Did the tether also steal a part of metahuman¡¯s power? Was that initially Watcher¡¯s ability I was using? The wiry man pressed forward, his knife flashing in the dim light as he tried to find an opening. The confidence in his movements was evident, each strike a testament to his skill and experience. I parried desperately, my body moving as if guided by an unseen hand, the newly heightened awareness pushing me to react faster than I ever could have on my own. His strikes were quick, aimed to kill, but I could feel the intent behind them, small bursts of warning that allowed me to shift and twist just in time. Watcher still knelt on the ground behind him, clutching his side and gasping for breath. His eyes tracked the fight, fury and frustration twisting his features. I knew I didn¡¯t have much time before he rejoined the battle, despite the pain I¡¯d inflicted on him. The scarred woman was down, barely conscious, but still a potential threat if she gathered enough strength and ignored the now bleeding hand. The wiry man lunged again, this time with a feint that turned into a low sweep aimed at my legs. I sensed the intent a heartbeat before the move and jumped back, the blade narrowly missing my calf. He spun quickly, coming up with an uppercut aimed at my torso, but I twisted to the side and caught his wrist, the impact reverberating up my arm. The connection sparked a tether between us, and I knew I could use it¡ªbut what for, I was in too good of a condition for that, thanks to giving the wounds to the other two. And I knew the previous trick of switching again the heavy injuries would only make Watcher able to press on. And as the bigger threat, I couldn¡¯t do that¡­ I locked eyes with the wiry man, whose surprise at my strength lasted only a moment. He twisted his wrist expertly, breaking my grip and slicing up toward my shoulder in one fluid motion. I leaned back just in time, feeling the whisper of the blade as it passed inches from my skin. He was fast, precise, every move driven by a lethal efficiency. I couldn''t afford to be reactive¡ªI needed to shift the balance. The tether hummed between us, an invisible thread charged with potential. I didn''t have time to dwell on why or how I could sense the wiry man''s intent, only that I could. It was enough. The knowledge throbbed in my mind, guiding me to exploit the rhythm of his movements. As he stepped forward for another attack, I anticipated the shift in his weight and drove my knee into his stomach. A sharp grunt escaped him, and he faltered for a split second. I took the opportunity to deliver a blow to his jaw, sending him stumbling back. The tether between us pulsed, and I felt a surge of confidence. He was tough, but the pain I''d transferred to Watcher had weakened their advantage. The scarred woman was still gasping for air on the ground, and Watcher, though seething, was slower, his movements strained and cautious. The wiry man recovered quickly, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip. His eyes blazed as he circled me, assessing, recalibrating. The alley felt suffocatingly tight, each second a countdown to when Watcher would inevitably rejoin the fray. "You''re good," the wiry man spat, his voice a rasp as he feinted left. I didn''t fall for it, pivoting smoothly to avoid his real attack¡ªa quick slash aimed at my side. I saw the movement a fraction of a second before it happened. It was enough. I seized the moment and caught his wrist mid-strike, twisting it sharply. His knife clattered to the ground, and before he could react, I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck. He crumpled, his body hitting the cobblestones with a heavy thud. A growl from behind reminded me that Watcher was still a threat. He was on his feet now, blood staining his clothes from his injured hand that was now pristine. His eyes burned with a fury that sent a shiver down my spine. "You''re going to wish you hadn''t done that," he hissed, voice trembling with barely contained rage. The alleyway seemed to shrink as Watcher stepped forward, his body radiating lethal intent. Blood dripped from his now-pristine hand, each drop splattering against the cobblestones in a stark reminder of the pain he''d endured¡ªand what he was prepared to inflict. My breath came in ragged gasps, my muscles straining to keep up with the relentless fight. The newfound awareness pulsed beneath my skin, urging me to move, to act before it was too late. But exhaustion weighed heavily on me, each heartbeat echoing in my head like a drum. The wiry man lay unconscious at my feet, and the scarred woman groaned, still clutching at the pain I had transferred to her. Watcher''s eyes flickered between them, a cold calculation passing over his face. His lips pulled back in a sneer, revealing teeth clenched so tight they might shatter. "You''re going to wish you hadn''t done that," he repeated, his voice low and vibrating with fury. He flexed his uninjured hand, the muscles in his forearm shifting like coiled snakes. This was it¡ªthe final stand between us. One of us would walk away, and the other wouldn''t. I stood my ground, my chest heaving as I tried to suppress the exhaustion gnawing at my muscles. Watcher''s massive frame blocked the narrow alley''s only clear exit, casting a long shadow over the scattered bodies of his teammates. His bloodstained shirt and the dark gleam of sweat on his skin only added to the raw, feral energy he radiated. His good hand twitched, fingers flexing as if longing for the knife I had kicked out of reach earlier. He didn¡¯t need a weapon to be dangerous, though. Everything about his posture screamed lethal efficiency, and the look in his eyes told me he was done playing games. "You''re tougher than I thought," he admitted, voice rumbling like distant thunder. "But you''re still just a kid pretending to be something you¡¯re not." I swallowed, the taunt striking deeper than I''d care to admit. He was right¡ªI was no seasoned fighter, no trained vigilante. But I wasn¡¯t just a victim anymore, either. I was Replica, and that meant I had more up my sleeve than brute force. ¡°Maybe,¡± I replied, steadying my voice, ¡°but it¡¯s working, isn¡¯t it?¡± The smirk that crossed his face was humourless, full of cold calculation. Without warning, he charged, closing the distance between us in a burst of raw power. I sensed his move a heartbeat before he lunged, but there was no time to dodge completely. His shoulder connected with my chest, sending me sprawling backward against the alley wall. The impact rattled my bones, and the world spun for a second before I forced myself to focus. I gasped as the pain flared up my side, my vision swimming. Watcher didn¡¯t let up. He grabbed my arm, his grip vice-like as he slammed me into the wall again, pressing his weight against me until breathing became a struggle. ¡°Who sent you?¡± he demanded, his breath hot against my ear. ¡°Was it the Moon-Eaters? Or are you working alone, you reckless freak?¡± The words cut through the haze of pain. My vision steadied, and I caught a flicker of his intent¡ªa split second where he shifted his stance, loosening his grip just enough to draw back for another blow. I moved on instinct, twisting my arm free and ducking under his next punch. I felt the rush of air as his fist struck the wall where my head had been a moment earlier, cracking the brick with a sharp thud. He swore, the sound filled with frustration, and I took advantage of the opening, ramming my elbow into his ribs. He staggered, eyes widening as I drew back. Watcher¡¯s face contorted, veins standing out in his neck as he gasped and buckled. His knees hit the ground, and for the first time, his gaze held more than rage¡ªit held fear. ¡°Stay down,¡± I warned, my voice raspier than I intended. It was more of a plea to myself as much as a threat to him. Every muscle in my body screamed for rest, and my vision edged with black. If he rose again, I wasn''t sure I could stop him. But Watcher was relentless. He reached for me, his bloodied hand grabbing at my ankle. Before he could pull me down, I lifted my boot and kicked hard, connecting with his jaw. The force sent him sprawling back, and his head cracked against the cobblestones. He lay there, eyes unfocused, chest heaving with pain. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by my ragged breaths. I stood there for a second longer, my body trembling as the adrenaline ebbed away, replaced by the dull throb of exhaustion. The scarred woman groaned, shifting slightly as she tried to push herself up. Panic jolted through me. I couldn¡¯t stay. If she managed to call for backup or if the wiry man regained consciousness, I¡¯d be outnumbered again. With the last reserves of my energy, I turned and sprinted down the alley, my footsteps echoing against the walls. The neon glow of Brotteaux blurred as I ran, slipping into the safety of deeper shadows and winding streets until the Red Hands and their threats were just a memory fading behind me. 013: Reflection The moonlight pooled across the floor, painting the room in silvery streaks as I shut the door behind me. My heart still thrummed with the echoes of the night, each beat a reminder of the brawl that had left my knuckles raw and my mind swirling. The adrenaline hadn¡¯t worn off, not entirely. My breath still came in ragged pulls as I sank against the door, pressing my back into the solid wood as if it could keep the outside world at bay. For a moment, I just sat there, eyes squeezed shut, the quiet of the apartment pressing in on me. The faint hum of the city outside, the distant blare of sirens, and the occasional shout served as a reminder that danger was never far away. My thoughts raced, untamed and erratic, slipping between fragmented images of the fight. The metallic taste of fear still coated my tongue, mingling with the phantom ache of bruises and scratches. ¡°What are you doing, Liz?¡± I whispered into the stillness, my voice trembling and raw. I opened my eyes, glancing down at my hands. The knuckles were scraped and smeared with half-dried blood¡ªmy own and someone else¡¯s. The sight made my stomach clench. I could still feel the weight of the fight, the rush of power that surged through me as I yanked the tether, transferring pain like some grim barter. A shiver raced down my spine. This power, this terrible, unfamiliar, yet familiar, thing I wielded¡ªit frightened me. I swallowed hard, pushing away from the door and stumbling toward the small bathroom. The harsh light of the bulb flickered on, casting sharp shadows across the room. I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror, eyes wide and haunted. The person looking back at me seemed a stranger. There was no trace of the girl who used to laugh at Mel¡¯s silly jokes or who would serve drinks at the bar, humming to the beat of a song only she could hear. No, this version of me had shadows under her eyes and blood caked into the creases of her knuckles. I turned the faucet on, letting the icy water sting my skin as I scrubbed at the dried blood. The water ran red, swirling down the drain in dizzying spirals. The goon¡¯s words echoed in my head, a taunting, sinister refrain: ¡°You''re going to wish you hadn''t done that.¡± His face, twisted in rage and confusion, was burned into my mind. The way he¡¯d looked at me¡ªlike I was the monster¡ªmade me sick to my core. Was I? The thought settled like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold. Was I becoming the very thing I feared? I had wielded my power instinctively, a reflex born out of desperation. But the aftermath¡ªthe bruised and broken men left in my wake¡ªthat was on me. I didn¡¯t just fight; I fought to hurt, to overpower. The realisation clawed at me, each thought sharper than the last. ¡°No,¡± I murmured, as if saying it out loud would make it true. But doubts gnawed at the edges of my mind. What if I couldn¡¯t control this power? What if the dark satisfaction I felt in those moments wasn¡¯t just adrenaline? What if it was something deeper, something rooted in whatever twisted thing I¡¯d become since that night with Mel? The memory of her smile, warm and bright, flickered through my thoughts, piercing through the darkness. Mel. She would have hated this¡ªhated what I was becoming. The guilt churned in my gut, mixing with the unease that had settled there. I sank to the edge of the bathtub, hands trembling as I pressed them against my forehead. ¡°I¡¯m losing myself,¡± I whispered. The quiet room offered no answers, only the echo of my fears bouncing back at me. But it wasn¡¯t just the fight or the unsettling hunger for power that haunted me. The goon¡¯s words gnawed at my sanity. ¡°You¡¯re going to wish you hadn¡¯t done that.¡± It was more than a threat; it felt like a promise. What did he know? What kind of trouble had I tangled myself in by facing the Red Hands? They weren¡¯t just a gang¡ªthey were something more, something layered with secrets and alliances I barely understood. A flicker of paranoia crept in. My eyes darted to the window, the faint light casting jagged shadows across the walls. What if they came here? What if the next knock at the door wasn¡¯t Paul checking in on me, but someone ready to settle a score? My pulse quickened as the sense of safety in my own home started to erode. The goon¡¯s eyes, wide with both pain and disbelief as I used my power, played over and over in my head. The tether had become a lifeline and a weapon. But how had it felt so... natural? It was like the power had guided my body, showed me how to act. I shuddered. The way he had gasped, realisation dawning on him as the pain transferred, made it clear¡ªI wasn¡¯t supposed to have that kind of control. Not without consequences. My eyes caught on the reflection once more, and for the briefest moment, I thought I saw movement behind me¡ªa flicker of a shadow that didn¡¯t belong. I spun around, heart thundering in my chest, but the room was empty. Just my paranoia taking root, spreading tendrils through my exhausted mind. A cold, biting laugh escaped my lips. ¡°Get a grip, Liz.¡± But the hollow sound only reminded me of how alone I was. The silence pressed in, a suffocating blanket that made my pulse roar louder in my ears. I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled into the living room. The city lights outside glowed dimly, distorted by grime and rain streaks on the window. Somewhere out there, people were living their lives, oblivious to the chaos beneath the surface. To them, metahumans were either heroes to cheer or villains to fear. They couldn¡¯t know the shades of gray that existed in between¡ªthe space I now occupied. I paced, the questions swirling faster now, feeding off my exhaustion. Was it worth it? Every fight, every scraped knuckle, every sleepless night spent wondering if I¡¯d wake up to find a Red Hands¡¯ blade at my throat? The goon¡¯s final glare haunted me. He knew something. Something that shifted the stakes of this whole mess. ¡°What do you know?¡± I whispered into the darkness, as if expecting an answer. The Red Hands were known for their petty crimes and thuggish antics, not for any grand schemes or secrets. The way that thug had looked at me¡ªa mix of hate and recognition¡ªwas unsettling. Recognition. My mind latched onto the word, dissecting it like an autopsy. Did they know who I was? What I could do? Or worse¡ªdid they know something about the night Mel died, the night I awakened? The room seemed colder suddenly, as if a draft had swept through. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to shake the chill that settled in my bones. The events of that night¡ªthe battle between Gravitas and Ms. Kai, the way everything collapsed in a cacophony of screams and shattering concrete¡ªhad fractured my life in an instant. And now, pieces of that night seemed to be clawing their way back, demanding to be acknowledged. I sank into the threadbare armchair by the window, my body folding into itself as exhaustion and unease settled like a weight across my shoulders. The city outside pulsed with life, indifferent to the storm inside me. Neon lights cast fractured hues across the cracked walls, turning shadows into restless dancers. My reflection in the glass was faint, ghostly¡ªa woman caught between fear and a newfound, dangerous power. The room felt more oppressive as the seconds passed, as if the walls themselves were closing in with the weight of my revelations. The Red Hands, those low-level criminals who should have been nothing more than street-level pests, had uttered words that clung to my mind like barbed thorns. The way they spoke, the malice mixed with something deeper¡ªa certainty¡ªmade my skin crawl. They had seen me, understood something about me that even I hadn¡¯t fully grasped.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ¡°You¡¯re going to wish you hadn¡¯t done that.¡± What did they know? The question burned at the edges of my mind, flickering like an ember that refused to be extinguished. The Red Hands weren¡¯t known for intelligence or cunning. They were brute force, chaos embodied in shattered windows and broken bones. But tonight had been different. The way they looked at me, the way Watcher¡¯s eyes widened with recognition¡ªit was as if he¡¯d been waiting for me, expecting me. It made no sense. The reflection in the darkened window shifted as I leaned closer, eyes narrowed. Who was I now? This power I wielded¡ªthe ability to transfer pain and injury¡ªhad become more than a defence; it was an identity, one I hadn¡¯t asked for but was beginning to claim. The tether that connected me to others, invisible and silent, had become both a blessing and a curse. Tonight, as I felt it snap taut and obedient under my will, I sensed that there was more to it than just survival. Mel¡¯s voice whispered through my memory, gentle and laughing, untouched by the fear that now defined my world. She wouldn¡¯t recognize me now¡ªnot in this apartment, in the cold, trembling figure staring back from the window¡¯s reflection. Would she forgive me for what I was becoming? The question tasted bitter, like ash. My hands curled into fists, the skin raw where blood had dried in thin rivulets. There was no room for forgiveness now, only answers. The Red Hands knew something, and that meant others might too. The implications rippled outward, stirring up the murky waters of my past and the night everything changed. Gravitas, with his cold, unyielding power, and Ms. Kai, monstrous and wild, had torn through the city that night without a thought for who lay beneath the ruins. They hadn¡¯t cared about the lives crushed in their wake. My teeth ground together, the ache a dull counterpoint to the thundering in my chest. The memory of Mel¡¯s hand slipping from mine as the building collapsed surged forward, sharp and unforgiving. ¡°You¡¯re going to wish you hadn¡¯t done that.¡± The warning morphed into something larger, more sinister, as if it held the key to the truth I had been chasing without even knowing it. The Red Hands had been a symptom, but Gravitas and Ms. Kai were the disease. Their battle had set the stage, had forged this version of me¡ªthe girl who survived when she shouldn¡¯t have. Who pulled a steel girder from her own chest and stood when logic said she should be dead. A sharp inhale cut through the silence. What if the power wasn¡¯t just an accident, some cosmic side effect of that night? What if it was more? I¡¯d heard rumours, read stories in obscure corners of the internet where conspiracies and truths mingled indistinguishably¡ªstories about entities, beings beyond human comprehension who bestowed power like gods selecting champions. Was I chosen? The vision that had haunted me since that night¡ªthe lifeless body sinking into muck, the countless eyes watching, assessing¡ªnow seemed less like a nightmare and more like a calling card. My fingers flexed, the raw skin splitting slightly, fresh blood beading along the cuts. I didn¡¯t flinch. Pain was grounding, a reminder that I was still here, still alive. But surviving wasn¡¯t enough anymore. The fight tonight had made that clear. I needed to understand what was happening to me¡ªwhy the tether felt more like an extension of my will, something powerful and consuming. Each time I used it, the sensation lingered, a heady mix of fear and exhilaration. ¡°Am I becoming one of them?¡± The question whispered through the quiet, met with the stillness of my empty apartment. It wasn¡¯t just the power that frightened me; it was the realisation that I was starting to crave it. The rush of transferring pain, of wielding control over life and death¡ªit was intoxicating. And that scared me more than any blade or fist. The resolve took root like ice spreading through my veins. As the night deepened and the city¡¯s pulse dimmed to a restless murmur, I pushed myself up from the chair. My limbs felt heavy, as if burdened with the weight of realisation. The ghosts of Mel¡¯s laughter and warmth flickered like dying embers in the recesses of my mind, a cruel reminder of the void left behind. But alongside the sorrow, something else unfurled¡ªa sharp, unrelenting need for justice, or perhaps something darker. Vengeance. The thought solidified, feeding off the quiet rage that simmered beneath my skin. The faces of Gravitas and Ms. Kai, their monstrous battle blazing across the sky, superimposed themselves on the broken memories of that night. They were untouchable forces, tearing through concrete and lives with no more thought than a storm battering a shore. But storms could be weathered, and their makers could fall. ¡°This ends with them,¡± I said, voice raw and strained. The room swallowed the words, offering no protest or comfort. I moved to the window, the glass cool against my fingertips. Rain streaked down, carving jagged paths through the grime, distorting the city¡¯s muted glow into a blur of false calm. Somewhere out there, the world still spun, indifferent to the war I waged in the shadows of my heart. But this was the only path forward; hesitation had no place here. The tether¡ªthat silent, invisible thread that had bound me to others and kept me alive¡ªwould be more than just a means of survival. It would be a weapon. One I needed to master, control, and wield without faltering. The thrill of using it, the intoxicating rush that followed each exchange, terrified me. But fear had kept me in stasis long enough, a prisoner in my own body, bound by grief and doubt. My mind drifted to that haunting vision¡ªthe swamp thick with decay, the rotting body that was and wasn¡¯t mine, the eyes, unblinking and countless, that had stared back with an ancient, unreadable intent. They hadn¡¯t left me since the night I woke beneath the rubble, gasping through shattered lungs that should have stayed silent. The entity behind it, the presence that whispered to me in moments of exhaustion, felt closer now, as if waiting for me to acknowledge its influence. ¡°Who are you?¡± I muttered, fingers curling against the glass until my knuckles turned white. The rain drummed steadily, masking the thin tremor in my voice. It didn¡¯t matter if it answered or if it watched in silence. The truth was clear¡ªwhatever this power was, whatever entity claimed me, it had chosen me for a reason. And if that reason meant crossing a line I once swore I wouldn¡¯t, then so be it. I stepped back, letting the curtain fall and shrouding the room in darkness. Memories clawed at me¡ªMel¡¯s hand slipping from mine, the rumble of stone as the building caved in, Gravitas¡¯ impassive face, Ms. Kai¡¯s feral snarl. Survivors¡¯ guilt and anger tangled together, thick and suffocating. They had to pay for the chaos they unleashed, for the lives they destroyed without a backward glance. But it wasn¡¯t just about vengeance. It was about reclaiming control¡ªover my life, over the nightmares that threatened to break me each night. The city¡¯s unrelenting cycle of power and violence had taken everything from me, left me hollow and grasping for meaning. The tether had become a metaphor, binding me to a fate I didn¡¯t choose but would bend to my will. ¡°I¡¯ll make you see,¡± I promised the absent faces of Gravitas and Ms. Kai, my voice steadier now, laced with venom. ¡°You¡¯ll know what it feels like to be helpless.¡± The reflection in the cracked mirror caught my eye as I turned. It was the first time I looked at myself and saw more than shadows of doubt. The woman staring back had eyes that gleamed with a dangerous clarity, framed by the exhaustion of sleepless nights and the faint streaks of dried blood that hadn¡¯t washed away. This was who I had become, shaped by loss and reborn in the crucible of pain. ¡°One day at a time,¡± I echoed Paul¡¯s words with a bitter edge, pacing like a caged predator. The kindness that had once coloured those words now felt like a thin veil, one I no longer needed. One day at a time, until I found the truth, until the faces behind the destruction of my life knew the same despair they¡¯d left in their wake. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking seconds that felt like countdowns to something inevitable. I let my hands rest at my sides, flexing my fingers as if testing their readiness. ¡°Gravitas. Ms. Kai.¡± The names tasted bitter, sharp, like ash and iron. They were no longer just symbols of power beyond my reach. They were targets. The night outside grew deeper, the rain¡¯s song softening to a murmur. The silence pressed in, not oppressive but bracing. I stood in it, and let a small, hard smile curve my lips. The city wasn¡¯t ready for what was coming, and neither were they. I would find them. And when I did, they would see that the girl who crawled from the wreckage was no longer just a survivor. She was the reckoning. 014: New Skin The weeks blurred into a haze of sleepless nights, cheap takeout, and the ever-present weight of survival. Time, once measured by the ebb and flow of my shifts at the bar, now felt fragmented, defined by the city¡¯s chaos and the quiet moments in between when I dared to think about my future. I found work where I could. The Meta Fight Disaster Relief apartment wasn¡¯t going to last forever, and my dwindling savings reminded me of the ticking clock over my head. Paul had been kind enough to offer shifts at the shop again, but I couldn¡¯t bring myself to take his charity. Something about his pity-laden stares made my stomach twist. Instead, I threw myself into small gigs¡ªanything to stay afloat. Cleaning up after construction crews, loading shipments in and out of warehouses, even a short stint as a courier. The jobs paid little, but they kept my mind occupied and my body too tired to dwell on the nightmares. Each day started to feel like a carbon copy of the last. I¡¯d wake up to the hum of the city, slip into work mode, and push through the hours until exhaustion claimed me. But the monotony didn¡¯t dull the undercurrent of tension that had settled into my bones. Every shadow felt heavier, every unfamiliar face in a crowd seemed like a potential threat. The Red Hands loomed in the back of my mind, their warning a constant, gnawing reminder of the stakes I¡¯d tangled myself in. Evenings were quieter but no less restless. I spent them honing what little control I had over my powers, finding abandoned lots and crumbling buildings to practise in. I didn¡¯t gain anything but maybe a better tolerance for continuous uses. I didn¡¯t gain much¡ªa better tolerance for continuous use, perhaps, but not the mastery I craved. The tether remained an enigma, its potential vast and terrifying. Each time I pulled on it, I felt a jolt of something primal, a reminder that this power was as much a predator as a gift. By the end of each night, my body would ache, and I¡¯d return to the apartment with my clothes covered in dust and my hands trembling. Sleep came fitfully, fractured by dreams of shadows and eyes, of tethers that stretched and snapped. But through the haze of work and survival, a singular thought began to crystallise: I needed to define myself better. With something other than the rags I used for my current costume. I needed to make use of my previous notes.
The first time I¡¯d made my "costume," it was a crude, desperate thing¡ªa tangle of black fabric and torn leather scavenged from thrift stores and alleys. It wasn¡¯t much, but it gave me anonymity. And more importantly, it made me feel like someone else, someone stronger than the shattered girl clawing her way through the wreckage of her life. But now, it wasn¡¯t enough. I wanted something functional, something that would let me move freely and protect me from the rough edges of this new life. More than that, though, I needed something that represented what I was becoming. Not a hero. Not a villain. Something in between. Someone who survived.
Late one night, as the city outside slumbered fitfully beneath a blanket of sirens and distant gunfire, I found myself trawling through the depths of MetaWiki. It was a patchwork of information¡ªsome of it credible, some of it wild conspiracy theories¡ªbut one thread caught my eye: costume makers. Apparently, there was an underground network of tailors who specialised in outfits for people like me. People who didn¡¯t want to rely on the sterile, standardised gear issued by Metapol or the over-the-top flamboyance of villains. These were artists, crafting works that blended practicality with personal identity. One name stood out among the others: D¡¯Angelo. The comments described him as the best in the business, a genius who could take a concept and turn it into reality. His work was supposedly expensive but worth every penny. The more I read, the more convinced I became. If I was going to do this¡ªif I was going to embrace this path, wherever it led¡ªI needed something that matched my resolve.
The address wasn¡¯t easy to find. D¡¯Angelo didn¡¯t exactly advertise his services openly. It took me three nights of combing through forums, piecing together fragments of conversations, and following cryptic directions to an unmarked door in a shadowed alleyway. The building was nondescript, blending into the crumbling surroundings with an anonymity that matched my own. The door had no sign, no window¡ªjust a small buzzer to the side. I hesitated, my finger hovering over the button as a flicker of doubt crept in. What if this was a trap? I glanced over my shoulder, scanning the alley. It was empty, the faint hum of the city¡¯s nightlife distant and muted. My stomach churned, but I pushed the doubt aside and pressed the buzzer. A soft click, followed by a smooth, mechanical voice: ¡°State your alias.¡± My heart skipped a beat. I hadn¡¯t expected this level of formality. ¡°Replica,¡± I said, my voice steadier than I felt. There was a pause, then the sound of another click. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit staircase that descended into the building¡¯s depths.
D¡¯Angelo¡¯s workshop was a masterpiece of organised chaos. The room was larger than I expected, lined with bolts of fabric, shelves stacked with tools, and mannequins draped in half-finished designs. The air smelled faintly of leather and something chemical, like glue or dye. Behind a wide workbench cluttered with sketches and swatches stood a man who could only be D¡¯Angelo. He was tall and lean, his silver hair tied back in a neat ponytail. His piercing blue eyes studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. ¡°Replica,¡± he said, his voice smooth and measured. ¡°You¡¯ve been keeping busy.¡± The comment caught me off guard. ¡°You¡¯ve heard of me?¡± He smirked, gesturing for me to step closer. ¡°Word gets around in my circles. Now, tell me¡ªwhat are you looking for?¡± I hesitated, suddenly feeling exposed under his scrutiny. ¡°I need something practical. Durable. Something that can handle a fight but still let me move.¡±Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. D¡¯Angelo nodded, pulling a sketchpad toward him. ¡°And aesthetic? You¡¯ve got a name¡ªReplica. That suggests mimicry, reflection. A copy of something real. How do you want that translated?¡± D¡¯Angelo¡¯s pen moved like lightning over the sketchpad, the lines forming with a precision that felt almost mechanical. ¡°Replica,¡± he said again, testing the name as if it were an ingredient in his design. ¡°A reflection, an echo, but one with power. Not a copy¡ªan evolution. Yes, I see it now.¡± His hands swept over the table, pulling out swatches of fabric that shimmered faintly under the fluorescent light. ¡°Kevlar weave for durability,¡± he mused, holding up a dark, matte-black piece. ¡°Light enough to move, strong enough to take a beating. But we¡¯ll need something more flexible here¡­¡± He grabbed a sample of a strange, elastic material. ¡°MetaSuppressor fabric,¡± he said with a knowing smile. ¡°It¡¯s resistant to certain types of meta-abilities, though not invulnerable. Cost me a small fortune to get my hands on.¡± I blinked. ¡°Isn¡¯t that stuff regulated by Metapol?¡± He smirked. ¡°It is. And now it¡¯s here. A tool, like any other. The trick is using it wisely.¡± His words carried a weight that reminded me of my own power. The tether wasn¡¯t just a weapon or a shield; it was something alive, something I barely understood but couldn¡¯t ignore. Watching D¡¯Angelo work, I felt a strange connection to the way he crafted his tools¡ªnot just for utility, but as extensions of the people they were made for. ¡°Colour palette?¡± he asked suddenly, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine. I hesitated, caught off guard by the question. My mind flashed to the night of the collapse, the twisted wreckage, and the silver tether appearing before my eyes. ¡°Black,¡± I said finally. ¡°With silver accents.¡± D¡¯Angelo¡¯s pen stopped mid-sketch, his piercing gaze lifting to meet mine. "Tell me," he said, voice measured, "what drives you, Replica? Survival alone doesn¡¯t shape a name like that. There¡¯s more beneath the surface.¡± The question startled me, the words tangling in my throat. What drove me? Survival was the easy answer, the shallow one. But it wasn¡¯t enough anymore. I glanced down at the swatches of fabric scattered across the workbench, my fingers brushing against the edge of a matte black sample. The cool texture steadied me. ¡°Control,¡± I said finally, the weight of the word settling between us. ¡°I¡¯ve spent too long running, reacting, being dragged by the chaos around me. I¡¯m done with that. This¡ª¡± I gestured to his sketches, ¡°¡ªit¡¯s the start of taking my life back.¡± D¡¯Angelo studied me for a long moment before nodding, his expression unreadable. ¡°Control, then,¡± he murmured, picking up his pen again. ¡°It¡¯s a noble goal. Dangerous, but noble.¡± As he sketched, I noticed the deliberate precision in his movements, the way each line and curve seemed imbued with purpose. His focus reminded me of the tether¡ªthe way it hummed with life whenever I called on it. Watching him work, I felt a strange kinship. We both wielded tools that shaped the world in our image, though his left no bruises or blood. ¡°Metapol doesn¡¯t much care for people like us,¡± I said, breaking the silence. ¡°Those who exist in the in-between.¡± His lips curved into a faint smile. ¡°Metapol cares about control, too, but only the kind they can hold in their fists. You and I? We slip through their fingers. That¡¯s why they fear us.¡± He glanced up from the sketchpad. ¡°It¡¯s also why they¡¯ll hunt us, given the chance. Remember that.¡± I nodded, the truth of his words settling over me like a shroud. Metapol was no ally to people like me, and the thought of their scrutiny tightened a knot of unease in my chest. D¡¯Angelo flipped the sketchpad around, revealing the initial design. The suit was sleek and angular, its lines sharp yet flowing. The black fabric dominated the design, but streaks of silver ran through it in precise, geometric patterns, evoking the imagery of the tether¡ªfractured but connected. ¡°Functionality,¡± he said, tapping the page, ¡°meets symbolism. You don¡¯t just survive, Replica. You reflect the chaos, and you adapt. That¡¯s what this suit represents.¡± I stared at the design, the lines and shapes sparking something deep within me. It was more than a suit; it was a declaration. A promise to myself. He hummed in self-contentedness, running a finger along the fabric. ¡°Silver accents. Reflective, but sharp. It suits you. You don¡¯t strike me as someone who wants to be flashy.¡± ¡°Flashy gets you noticed,¡± I said, my jaw tightening. ¡°I don¡¯t want to be noticed. Not unless I choose to be.¡± He chuckled, the sound dry but not unkind. ¡°Smart. You¡¯re not just thinking about the fight¡ªyou¡¯re thinking about what comes after. Too many people don¡¯t.¡± ¡°What comes after is usually a mess,¡± I replied, a faint smile tugging at my lips but not reaching my eyes. D¡¯Angelo stepped back, appraising the sketches he¡¯d made. The suit was taking shape in my mind as much as on his pad: sleek, functional, a second skin that could move with me and protect me. The materials¡ªKevlar weave, MetaSuppressor fabric¡ªwere illegal in some circles, prohibitively expensive in others. But he worked with them as if they were extensions of his hands, weaving purpose into every stitch. ¡°Control and not survival anymore, is that right?¡± His words cut through the hum of my thoughts. ¡°Right,¡± I said quietly. He finally looked up, his blue eyes meeting mine. ¡°Good. Survival¡¯s a low bar. You¡¯re better off aiming higher¡ªeven if the fall kills you.¡± The next hour passed in a blur of motion. D¡¯Angelo worked with an efficiency that bordered on obsessiveness, taking notes on everything from my arm span to the way I moved when I twisted or crouched. He asked questions¡ªwhat kind of fights I anticipated, whether I needed hidden compartments for tools or weapons, and how much wear I expected the suit to endure. His attention to detail was meticulous, and I found myself oddly reassured by his quiet confidence. ¡°Why do you do this?¡± I asked as he measured my leg. ¡°You could make a fortune working for Metapol or some corporate hero.¡± He glanced up, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ¡°And spend my days mass-producing uniforms for glory hounds and bureaucrats? No, thank you. This... this is art. Every piece I create is unique, tailored to the person wearing it. It¡¯s not just about function¡ªit¡¯s about identity.¡± His words lingered in my mind as he continued his work. By the time he finished, I felt lighter, as if the act of preparing for this new phase of my life had stripped away some of the fear that had clung to me for weeks. ¡°You¡¯ll have your suit in three days,¡± D¡¯Angelo said, standing and brushing his hands on his apron. I nodded, pulling my coat tighter around me as I prepared to leave. But before I reached the door, he called out to me. ¡°Replica.¡± I turned, meeting his gaze. ¡°You¡¯re walking a fine line,¡± he said, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. ¡°This life you¡¯re choosing... it doesn¡¯t come without cost.¡± ¡°I know,¡± I replied, my tone steady. ¡°But I don¡¯t have a choice.¡± He nodded slowly, as if satisfied by my answer. ¡°Good luck, then.¡± The door closed behind me with a quiet click, and I stepped back into the cold night air. The city¡¯s pulse thrummed around me, chaotic and unrelenting, but for the first time in weeks, I felt a sense of clarity. This wasn¡¯t just about survival anymore. It was about taking control¡ªof my power, my identity, and my place in a world that had tried to break me. In three days, I would have my suit. And with it, I would step fully into the role I¡¯d been forging in the shadows. It¡¯d be my new skin. 015: Heist Three days passed in a slow crawl, each hour heavy with expectation. I spent them drifting between work and aimless wandering, my thoughts anchored on the promise of what was coming. My current disguise¡ªa patchwork of thrift-store finds¡ªfelt more like a burden with each passing day, a reminder of the chaos I was trying to leave behind. It itched against my skin, as if the mismatched fabric resented my attempts to piece myself together. The tattered scarf I used to cover my face lay tucked safely in my jacket¡¯s pocket as I walked toward D¡¯Angelo¡¯s workshop. Every step felt measured, deliberate, as if the city itself knew this was a turning point. The night air carried the faint tang of rain-soaked concrete and the acrid scent of burnt rubber, the remnants of another clash somewhere in the city. Sirens wailed in the distance, a background hum that never really stopped. My reflection in a shattered shop window caught my eye as I passed. The mismatched figure staring back at me¡ªa bulky jacket, fraying gloves, and jeans streaked with grime¡ªwasn¡¯t Liz. It wasn¡¯t even Replica. It was someone caught in between, a silhouette waiting to take shape. When I reached the shadowed alley that led to D¡¯Angelo¡¯s door, I paused. The unmarked metal door stood as unassuming as ever, its surface pitted and scratched. I put on the scarf before ringing the bell. ¡°State your alias,¡± came the smooth, mechanical voice. ¡°Replica,¡± I said, my voice steadier than I expected. A soft click. The door swung open, and I descended into the depths of the workshop. The descent into D¡¯Angelo¡¯s workshop felt heavier this time, each step resonating with an almost ceremonial weight. The walls of the stairwell seemed narrower than before, the air charged with anticipation. When I reached the bottom, the faint scent of leather and dye greeted me, grounding me in the familiar space. D¡¯Angelo was waiting. He stood at his workbench, arms crossed, his silver hair catching the fluorescent light like spun steel. Behind him, a mannequin stood shrouded in shadow, draped with something dark and sleek. My breath hitched. ¡°You¡¯re on time,¡± he said, gesturing for me to step closer. ¡°Good. Punctuality suggests you¡¯re serious about this.¡± I nodded, unable to speak. My eyes were locked on the form behind him. D¡¯Angelo noticed my focus and stepped aside with a faint smirk, revealing the suit fully. ¡°Well, Replica, here it is. Your second skin.¡± The suit was breathtaking. The base was a deep, matte black, the fabric absorbing light rather than reflecting it, creating the impression of a void. The material looked soft yet sturdy, the Kevlar weave nearly invisible except where the faintest texture hinted at its resilience. Silver accents ran through the design, their placement deliberate and sharp. They crisscrossed the suit in jagged, geometric patterns, like fractured lightning or shattered glass pieced back together. The lines converged at key points¡ªalong the forearms, the chest, and the legs¡ªreinforcing the idea of strength drawn from brokenness. The suit wasn¡¯t just protective; it was symbolic. It mirrored me. ¡°Try it on,¡± D¡¯Angelo said, his tone neutral but his piercing gaze alight with expectation. He handed me a folded bundle. I hesitated. The suit felt impossibly light in my hands, the fabric cool and supple. I slipped behind a partition, shedding my old clothes with a strange sense of relief. My patched-together disguise fell to the floor, forgotten, as I pulled on the new armor. It fit like a glove. The interior of the suit was lined with a breathable mesh, cool against my skin. The material moved with me, each stretch and shift effortless. The Kevlar weave was thicker at the chest and thighs, offering protection without restricting movement. A flexible, black harness was integrated into the design, crisscrossing my torso and shoulders, allowing for attachments or tools. When I stepped out, D¡¯Angelo was already holding up a mirror. ¡°What do you think?¡± he asked, his voice softer now, almost reverent. I stared at my reflection, momentarily stunned. The suit transformed me. Gone was the patchwork scavenger of the past weeks. In her place stood someone powerful, someone purposeful. The silver accents caught the light, highlighting the angles of my form, making me appear both sleek and sharp, like a blade honed for battle. The hood, attached seamlessly to the suit¡¯s neckline, framed my face when pulled up, adding an element of mystery. ¡°It¡¯s¡­¡± I struggled for words, my voice catching. ¡°It¡¯s perfect.¡± ¡°Good,¡± D¡¯Angelo said, his smirk returning. He stepped forward, tugging at the edges of the hood to adjust its fit. ¡°The MetaSuppressor fabric is layered along the forearms and calves. It¡¯s not invulnerable, but it¡¯ll protect you from direct meta-energy attacks¡ªat least briefly.¡± I ran my hands over the material, marvelling at its texture. It felt alive, responding to the faintest pressure. ¡°The gloves,¡± he continued, handing me a pair, ¡°are reinforced for grip and impact. Kevlar lining, same as the suit. The fingers are touch-sensitive, so you won¡¯t lose dexterity.¡± I slipped them on. The gloves fit snugly, their silver accents tracing the backs of my hands like veins. ¡°And the boots?¡± I asked, flexing my feet experimentally. ¡°Custom soles,¡± D¡¯Angelo said with a flourish. ¡°Non-slip, shock-absorbent, and silent. Perfect for someone who needs to move unseen.¡± I turned to the mirror again, watching how the suit shifted with my movements. It felt like a part of me¡ªnatural, effortless. I pulled the hood up, letting it fall softly over my head. The material hugged my face without constriction, leaving room for visibility and movement while casting shadows across my features. D¡¯Angelo¡¯s design went beyond mere practicality; it was as if he¡¯d captured the essence of a phantom, someone who moved between worlds. The edges of the hood melded seamlessly into the suit, creating a silhouette that blurred my identity entirely. ¡°This,¡± D¡¯Angelo said, holding up what looked like a band of the same matte black material, ¡°is the final touch.¡± He handed me the mask¡ªa sleek half-mask that would cover my nose and mouth, leaving only my eyes visible. Thin, silver lines etched into its surface mirrored the jagged accents on the suit, drawing attention to the subtle design rather than my features. It wasn¡¯t just a concealment tool; it was a statement. I turned around, removing the scarf I wore all the while on my face, to replace it with the mask. The edges adhered lightly to my skin without adhesive. It felt weightless yet secure, as if it were an extension of the suit. My reflection now stared back at me with unrecognisable determination. The mask cast my eyes in shadow, making them sharper, more intense, almost predatory. ¡°You look like someone who doesn¡¯t plan to be seen,¡± D¡¯Angelo mused, stepping back to admire his work. ¡°Or, if seen, someone no one will remember.¡± I nodded, my voice steady beneath the mask. ¡°That¡¯s the idea.¡± After looking at myself in the mirror one last time, I addressed the seamster. ¡°Here¡¯s the rest of the payment¡± The transaction was swift. D¡¯Angelo accepted the envelope of bills without comment, his fingers brushing the worn edges as he tucked it away into a lockbox beneath the workbench. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the only sound was the soft rustle of fabric and the distant hum of the city through the concrete walls. ¡°You¡¯ve paid for the suit,¡± D¡¯Angelo said finally, his voice cutting through the silence. ¡°But it¡¯ll need maintenance and repair. You can always come to my services for upgrades.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind,¡± I replied, my voice muffled yet sharp through the mask. The words felt heavier, deliberate, as if the suit itself demanded a new tone of authority. This wasn¡¯t just armour¡ªit was an identity. I adjusted the gloves, their touch-sensitive lining feeling like a second skin, and stepped back toward the stairwell. The workshop lights cast a faint glow across the space, catching on the silver accents of my suit. It wasn¡¯t just a reflection of who I¡¯d become¡ªit was a declaration of who I would be. ¡°You¡¯ll find the world looks at you differently now,¡± D¡¯Angelo said as I reached the base of the staircase. ¡°Be sure you¡¯re ready for that.¡± With a small nod, as both approval and a parting, I went up the stairs. The city greeted me with its usual cacophony¡ªdistant sirens, faint laughter from a nearby alley, and the ever-present hum of life teetering on chaos. My new suit hugged my frame like a second skin, and for the first time in weeks, I felt prepared¡ªarmoured not just against the dangers outside but the doubts festering within.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. I tugged the hood lower, the mask comfortably in place as I stepped into the night. The streets were quiet, unusually so for this part of town. The faint glow of neon signs reflected off puddles scattered along the cracked pavement. My boots made no sound as I moved, the custom soles swallowing every step like whispers lost to the air. The streets of the city unfolded like a labyrinth of shadows and muted lights, the air thick with the smell of rain-soaked concrete. My steps carried me forward without hesitation, each stride feeling more deliberate in this new skin. The suit wasn¡¯t just clothing¡ªit was an identity, a statement of intent. As I moved through the labyrinthine streets, my senses heightened. Every flicker of movement caught my attention, every distant sound prickled at the edge of my awareness. It was quiet tonight. Too quiet. I was heading toward the docks, a sprawling maze of warehouses and container yards that had become infamous as the city¡¯s breeding ground for illicit dealings. Something about the silence felt off, like the city was holding its breath. It wasn¡¯t unusual for trouble to find me in places like this; after all, trouble rarely cared where it bled. As I rounded a corner, I caught sight of a large building on the edge of the industrial zone, its steel siding glinting faintly under the pale glow of a nearby streetlamp. The shadows around it seemed to shift unnaturally, as if something was moving within them. I slowed my steps, keeping to the shadows as I approached. The warehouse loomed ahead, its massive doors slightly ajar. From within came the faint hum of machinery and the low murmur of voices. Then I saw him. A figure stood near a stack of crates, his back to me. He was tall, lean, and draped in a deep midnight-blue bodysuit speckled with silver motifs, unrecognisable from the distance. His movements were deliberate, each motion flowing with a precision that was almost hypnotic, making his blond hair catch the light in some strange dance. I crouched behind a rusting steel drum, my breath slow and steady. The figure moved between the crates, pausing occasionally to examine something unseen. And then I heard it. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± the man said, his voice low but carrying a sharp edge of command. I froze. His words weren¡¯t meant for me¡ªor were they? Before I could react, the figure turned sharply, his face illuminated by the faint light spilling in through a broken window. His features, albeit hidden behind what looked like a venetian mask, were sharp, angular, and his eyes were a captivating emerald green. His expression was unreadable, but there was a dangerous calm in his posture. ¡°You must be the new hire,¡± he said, his gaze locking onto me. Damn. I rose slowly from my crouch, my mind racing. He thought I was someone else¡ªa convenient misunderstanding I could either exploit or unravel at my peril. My hand drifted to my side, fingers brushing the reinforced fabric of my suit. ¡°I prefer to stay out of sight,¡± I said, my voice muffled yet steady behind the mask. The man tilted his head slightly, his emerald-green eyes narrowing as he studied me. A faint smirk played across his lips, visible even behind the ornate Venetian-style mask. ¡°Out of sight, huh? I can respect that. Makes my job easier.¡± He gestured lazily toward the crates. ¡°I trust you¡¯ve been briefed, then?¡± My mind raced as I took a cautious step closer, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. He was clearly dangerous, and the air around him carried an unspoken authority. Whoever he was, he had no idea I wasn¡¯t supposed to be here. ¡°More or less,¡± I said, keeping my tone neutral. The suit felt snug, reassuring, like a second skin. I resisted the urge to pull the hood lower over my face. ¡°You mind filling me in on the finer points?¡± He chuckled softly, the sound carrying a dangerous edge. ¡°Classic. They send you in blind and expect me to babysit. Figures.¡± He turned back to the crates, gesturing for me to follow. ¡°Let¡¯s keep it simple. We¡¯re here to collect, not to leave a mess. I¡¯ve already disabled the security, but we¡¯ll need to move quickly before reinforcements arrive.¡± I stepped closer, feigning confidence as my gaze darted around the warehouse. The faint hum of machinery mingled with the distant creak of shifting metal, and the dim light cast long shadows that danced eerily across the walls. Crates of varying sizes were stacked high, their contents obscured but labeled with cryptic markings. Whatever this was, it wasn¡¯t just a petty theft. I followed him cautiously, keeping my steps light and my mind sharp. The man¡¯s confidence was palpable, each movement precise and calculated. Whoever this man was, he wasn¡¯t just some petty thief. The Venetian mask, the way he carried himself¡ªit screamed experience. Power. Now that I was closer to him, I could properly see the motifs on his costume. Clocks and hourglasses. Not clever to show your power is related to time with your costume, I thought. The figure moved with the ease of someone who had done this many times before, his posture radiating confidence. My own steps were lighter, quieter, as I tried to assess the situation without giving away my inexperience in this particular... role. "Not bad," the man muttered, his gaze flicking toward me briefly. "You¡¯re quieter than most. I can work with that." I didn¡¯t respond. My mind was racing, trying to piece together who he was and what he wanted here. The motifs on his costume¡ªclocks, hourglasses¡ªpractically screamed time manipulation, but his calm demeanor hinted at someone used to holding the upper hand. If he really thought I was hired help, it meant I had an advantage, but only if I played my cards carefully. We reached a cluster of crates marked with strange symbols and alphanumeric codes. He gestured to one of them, crouching to inspect a digital lock affixed to the side. "Help me with this," he said, his tone brisk. I knelt beside him, feigning confidence. The lock was a complicated mess of wires and circuits, the kind of thing I had no idea how to bypass. My hesitation didn¡¯t go unnoticed. "New to fieldwork?" he asked, his voice tinged with amusement. "Something like that," I replied, keeping my tone even. He chuckled softly. "Relax. It¡¯s just a lock. I¡¯ve already frozen the security system. This is the easy part." His fingers moved with practiced precision, disconnecting wires and manipulating the mechanism with ease. As I watched, I couldn¡¯t help but marvel at his composure. Whoever he was, he wasn¡¯t just skilled¡ªhe was methodical, almost surgical in his approach. ¡°Almost done,¡± he muttered, his green eyes glinting behind the mask as the digital lock emitted a faint click. The crate¡¯s lid shifted slightly, and he lifted it with a smooth motion, revealing its contents: several metallic cylinders glowing faintly with a soft, iridescent light. I had no idea what they were, but the intensity in his gaze suggested they were valuable¡ªand dangerous. ¡°What are those?¡± I asked, keeping my tone neutral. It wouldn¡¯t hurt to feign ignorance; after all, I needed to play along until I understood more about him and this heist. He paused, studying me for a moment as if deciding how much to reveal. ¡°MetaPol tech,¡± he said at last, his voice low. ¡°Experimental. Useful. And if we don¡¯t move fast, they¡¯ll have reinforcements here in less than ten minutes.¡± I frowned, the pieces clicking into place. He wasn¡¯t just stealing random valuables¡ªhe was taking something highly classified. Whatever was inside those cylinders wasn¡¯t meant to be in anyone¡¯s hands, let alone someone like him. But why? Was he working for someone else, or was this a personal mission? Before I could question him further, he handed me one of the glowing cylinders. ¡°Here. Make yourself useful.¡± The cylinder was surprisingly light, its surface cool to the touch. Holding it made me uneasy, though I couldn¡¯t pinpoint why. The soft glow pulsated faintly, almost like a heartbeat. I glanced at him, searching for clues in his expression, but his focus was already on the next crate. ¡°I don¡¯t know what they told you about me,¡± he said as he worked on the second lock, ¡°but keep up, and you might survive this job.¡± ¡°Appreciate the advice,¡± I said dryly, adjusting the cylinder in my grip. The second crate opened with another click, revealing more cylinders, along with several sleek devices that looked like advanced scanners. He motioned for me to take another, and I hesitated before stepping forward, carefully picking up one of the scanners. ¡°What¡¯s the plan?¡± I asked, keeping my voice steady. He straightened, his gaze sweeping the dimly lit warehouse. ¡°Simple. We load up, we leave, and we disappear before anyone notices.¡± ¡°And if someone does notice?¡± I pressed, my instincts warning me that things wouldn¡¯t stay quiet for long. He smiled faintly, a sharp, predatory expression. ¡°Then we deal with it. Quickly.¡± ¡°Right¡­¡± I whispered, a slight shudder coursing through my whole body at his expression. As we moved to the next cluster of crates, the faint hum of the warehouse grew louder. A flicker of movement at the edge of my vision made me freeze. My eyes darted toward the shadows near the entrance. For a moment, I thought I saw a figure¡ªa flash of movement too deliberate to be a trick of the light. ¡°¡­Stay alert,¡± the man said sharply, his tone cutting through the quiet tension like a blade. He didn¡¯t look up from the lock he was working on, but his posture shifted subtly, muscles coiled and ready. My grip on the cylinder tightened. The shadows near the entrance seemed to ripple unnaturally, as though they were alive, shifting with purpose. I glanced at the man beside me, his focus unwavering as he continued his work. He hadn¡¯t seen it¡ªor maybe he had and wasn¡¯t showing it. Either way, the unease in my chest twisted tighter. A faint clink echoed through the space, followed by the soft hum of machinery coming to life. I turned toward the sound, my heartbeat quickening. The warehouse, silent and still moments before, now felt like it was holding its breath. ¡°Did you hear that?¡± I asked, my voice low but tense. He nodded once, standing to his full height and sliding the cylinder he¡¯d just retrieved into a satchel slung over his shoulder. ¡°They¡¯re here,¡± he muttered, his emerald eyes glinting behind the mask. ¡°Reinforcements, probably MetaPol.¡± I stepped back, instinctively keeping to the shadows, my new suit muffling every movement. The cylinder in my hand pulsed faintly, its glow dimming as if it, too, sensed the approaching danger. I swallowed hard, my mind racing. Whoever this man was, he was too calm, too confident. He¡¯d expected this. The faint shuffle of boots against concrete reached us, growing louder with each passing second. My eyes darted to the entrance, where a group of figures emerged from the gloom. They were clad in dark tactical gear, their visors glinting with faint blue light¡ªMetaPol agents, no doubt. ¡°Well,¡± the man beside me said, his tone casual, almost amused. ¡°This just got interesting.¡± I shot him a glare, but he ignored it, already moving. He grabbed another cylinder from the open crate, tucking it away with practiced ease. ¡°You wanted to stay out of sight, right? Time to see how good you really are.¡± The agents fanned out, their movements precise and methodical as they scanned the area. One of them paused, their helmeted head tilting slightly as if listening for something. My breath hitched, and I pressed myself deeper into the shadows, the silver accents on my suit blending with the warehouse¡¯s fragmented light. The man¡¯s voice was low, barely audible. ¡°When I give the signal, take the back exit. Don¡¯t stop. I¡¯ll handle them.¡± I turned to him, my jaw tightening. ¡°Handle them? There¡¯s no way you can¡ª¡± His smirk stopped me cold. ¡°Time¡¯s on my side,¡± he said cryptically, flexing his fingers. Before I could respond, he stepped out from the crates, his movements deliberate. ¡°Looking for someone?¡± he called, his voice echoing through the cavernous space. The agents snapped to attention, their weapons rising as one, as the man threw one of the cylinders in the air. And white engulfed my vision. 016: Confrontation The world returned in fragments. Light bled through the haze first, cutting through my disorientation like shards of glass. My head throbbed as sound rushed in next¡ªa chaotic mess of distant shouts, the echo of boots pounding against concrete, and the strained hiss of my own breath. Everything felt¡­ wrong. Time itself seemed fractured, leaving my limbs sluggish and my thoughts disjointed. What had just happened? My fingers twitched against the cold floor, the subtle texture of my suit grounding me. I forced my eyes to focus, my vision sharpening as the scene before me snapped into clarity. The warehouse was chaos. The masked man stood a dozen meters ahead, his silhouette sharp against the dim light filtering through the windows. Between him and the approaching MetaPol agents, the air shimmered faintly with tension, like a thread pulled too taut. And the agents¡­ Something was off about them. Their stances were rigid, and their weapons¡ªsleek, black carbines¡ªwere held low, as though they didn¡¯t trust their grip. One of them, a woman near the front, raised her hand experimentally. Her face was hidden behind her visor, but the confusion in her movements was clear. ¡°It¡¯s not working,¡± she said, her voice sharp with disbelief. ¡°Try again!¡± barked the leader, his tone brittle with frustration. The woman clenched her fist, her whole body tensing as if preparing to unleash some unseen force. Nothing happened. ¡°Something¡¯s wrong,¡± another agent muttered. He glanced toward the cylinders My ally had been handling moments before. ¡°Is it those things? Are they¡ª¡± ¡°Focus,¡± the leader snapped. ¡°Just neutralize them!¡± Neutralize us. That snapped me out of my haze. My muscles screamed as I pushed myself to my feet, catching the tail end of The man¡¯s smirk as he glanced back at me. ¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± he said smoothly, his tone almost amused. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure you¡¯d come out of it before the end.¡± ¡°Before the end of what?¡± My voice felt heavy in my throat, as if I hadn¡¯t spoken in hours. His smirk widened, a razor-sharp thing that didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. ¡°You¡¯ll see. Just try to keep up.¡± And then he moved. He was a blur, his midnight-blue suit slicing through the dim light as he darted toward the agents. One of them¡ªthe woman who had spoken earlier¡ªreacted too late, her carbine swinging up just as he closed the gap. He moved with a predator¡¯s precision, his motions fluid and deliberate. In an instant, he was behind her. With a sharp twist, he drove his elbow into the back of her head, sending her sprawling to the ground. ¡°Damn it, he¡¯s too fast!¡± one of the agents shouted, their voices edged with panic. I didn¡¯t need to be told. My ¡°employer¡± wasn¡¯t just fast¡ªhe was methodical. Every movement was calculated, every strike designed to incapacitate without wasting an ounce of energy. I forced my body into motion, my limbs still sluggish from whatever had happened to me. The MetaPol agents were moving¡ªscattering, regrouping, trying to adjust their tactics¡ªbut something about their movements seemed off. They weren¡¯t reacting as quickly as they should. Their coordination was fractured, their precision dulled. And then I saw it. One of the agents was down¡ªunmoving, crumpled on the floor near the crates. When had that happened? The last thing I remembered was the flash. The light that had engulfed the room had barely lasted a second, or so I thought. But now everything was different. The agents had shifted from their positions, and the scene had rearranged itself like a chessboard between moves. Only I hadn¡¯t seen the play. The man was already on the next agent, weaving past their poorly aimed shots with an ease that made my breath catch. My instincts screamed at me to act, to move, but my limbs felt weighted, my steps dragging as if I were pulling myself through water. ¡°Focus,¡± I hissed under my breath, shaking my head to clear the fog. The tether was still linking me to the man, from his push before the flashbang, it helped me centre myself. Another agent went down with a grunt, the masked man¡¯s fist slamming into their jaw with brutal efficiency. He moved like a clockwork predator, his strikes landing with perfect timing, each motion fluid and controlled. There was no wasted effort, no hesitation. I pushed forward, my senses sharpening as the remnants of my disorientation began to fade. One of the agents turned toward me, their carbine rising as they barked an order into their comms. ¡°Stop!¡± the leader shouted, their voice edged with desperation. ¡°Focus fire on Te¡ª¡± They didn¡¯t finish. The masked man was on them before the words could fully leave their mouth, his hand gripping the barrel of their weapon and wrenching it aside. The carbine clattered to the floor as he delivered a swift kick to their knee, sending them toppling backward with a strangled cry. The room seemed to tilt as my instincts finally kicked in. I closed the gap between myself and the nearest crate, ducking low to avoid drawing attention. My muscles felt stiff, the effects of whatever had happened during the flash lingering like a bad memory. But the scene before me demanded focus¡ªthe agents were scrambling, the cylinders pulsing faintly in their containers like some alien heartbeat. I caught sight of the downed agent again, lying in a crumpled heap. Their carbine was splayed a few feet away, and their visor was cracked, revealing a sliver of a pale, motionless face. How had they fallen? Time hadn¡¯t made sense since the flash, but now it seemed downright slippery. I¡¯d lost something¡ªseconds, maybe minutes. I was close to them now, close enough to tether myself to them fast and get into the fight just after that. And I did just that. Running towards the agent, I slid on the ground to touch him. Thankfully, my costume was made for such manoeuvres, gliding on the concrete floor with ease. The world sharpened as I moved, the grind of my boots on the cold floor grounding me. The tether I formed with the downed agent thrummed to life, a faint, invisible thread of connection. My abilities hadn¡¯t failed me, though the cylinders had taken their toll on others. That strange relief¡ªtempered by the pang of guilt¡ªspurred me forward. The injuries the agent bore were heavy, I could use them to incapacitate someone else. The agents, or even the venetian-masked man if need be. I focused on the tether, inspecting the full extent of the agent¡¯s injuries¡ªa cracked rib, a sprained wrist, and a head wound that explained their stillness. I considered my options. If I was going to act, it needed to be precise. Each second was a gamble. I shifted my weight, rolling into the shadow of a nearby crate. From my new vantage, I saw the masked man disable another agent, sweeping their legs with a deft kick and slamming them to the ground with brutal efficiency. A sickening crunch echoed, and I winced involuntarily. That was likely their collarbone. I had to act. Watching him dismantle the agents with surgical precision left me torn between admiration and unease. He was effective, almost too effective, and I wasn¡¯t sure where that left me. An ally? A pawn? Or just another piece on his board, to be discarded once my usefulness ran out? Another agent turned, spotting me crouched in the shadows. Their carbine swung up, but their movements were sluggish, like wading through syrup. They hesitated, as if some unseen force was holding them back. ¡°Freeze!¡± they barked, their voice shaky but commanding. I didn¡¯t freeze. I acted. I lunged at him in one motion, gripping his wrist hard. And I pulled on the newly formed tether in time with the one on the downed agent. The sudden pain that came and went with the transfer stunned me slightly. But the agent was even more affected than I. He cried out in pain before his body slumping onto the ground like a ragdoll. ¡°That¡¯s a useful set of wounds¡­¡± I whispered under my breath at the outcome of my swapping. I felt a knot of incertitudes well up in my stomach. If I didn¡¯t swap fast enough would I have ended up in this exact state? The agent crumpled to the ground, their cry of pain cutting off abruptly as they hit the cold floor. My hands trembled slightly, the residual sting of the transfer lingering in my knuckles. I wasn¡¯t sure if it was guilt or adrenaline that made me clench them tighter. ¡°You¡¯re holding your own,¡± the man called out, his voice carrying easily over the chaos. ¡°Good. Don¡¯t slow me down.¡± The sharpness of his tone pulled my attention back to him. He was already moving toward the remaining agents, his movements a blur of calculated efficiency. I didn¡¯t have time to dwell on what I¡¯d done¡ªor what it meant. The fight wasn¡¯t over. The last two agents regrouped near the center of the room, their weapons up and their stances desperate. One of them, a stocky man with a fractured visor, barked orders into his comm, his voice shaking. ¡°Backup en route¡ªETA six minutes! Hold the line!¡± ¡°Six minutes,¡± the man echoed, his voice dripping with mockery. ¡°That¡¯s all you¡¯ve got? I¡¯d hate to see what happens when they¡¯re late.¡± He surged forward, his movements fluid and predatory. The remaining agents split their attention between him and me, their coordination shaky at best. I forced myself to my feet, the tether still humming faintly within me, a reminder of the fragility I¡¯d taken from one and handed to another. The weight of my actions pressed on me, but I shoved it aside. Guilt could wait. Survival couldn¡¯t.Stolen story; please report. The man closed the gap to the first agent with terrifying speed. His midnight-blue suit seemed to shimmer, absorbing the dim warehouse light as he ducked under a clumsy swing of the agent¡¯s carbine. With a sharp twist, he grabbed the weapon¡¯s barrel and yanked it free, the agent stumbling forward into his waiting knee. The blow landed with a sickening crack, and the agent collapsed in a heap. One left. The final agent turned toward me, their carbine trained squarely on my chest. My heart slammed against my ribs as I assessed my options. They were cornered now, caught between their desperation and my resolve. Their visor obscured their expression, but their stance betrayed them¡ªtense, trembling, barely holding it together. My fingers flexed, the tether thrumming faintly in the back of my mind. One move. One chance. The agent barked, "Stay back!" The barrel of their carbine wavered, though their grip on it was firm. My eyes darted to the fallen agent nearest them. ¡°I don¡¯t think you want to shoot,¡± I said evenly, my voice low but carrying through the warehouse. Each word felt deliberate, a thin thread spun between us, one I was ready to sever at any moment. Their hesitation was palpable, and I didn¡¯t waste it. I charged him, my arm raised in front of my face and my body low. The agent¡¯s carbine jerked upward as I surged forward, a loud crack splitting the air as they fired instinctively. The shot whizzed past my shoulder, the heat of it brushing against my suit¡¯s reinforced material. I closed the gap before they could fire again, my hand lashing out to grab the barrel. With a sharp twist, I wrenched it from their grasp. They staggered, their balance faltering as I drove my elbow into their chest. The impact sent them sprawling to the floor, their visor cracking against the cold concrete. I didn¡¯t stop. The tether connecting me to the downed agent pulsed, its energy coiling through me like an electric current. I reached down, fingers brushing their shoulder as I pulled on the invisible thread. Pain shot through my arm, sharp and searing, as the tether transferred the injuries from the fallen agent to this one. They gasped, their body convulsing as the sudden weight of fractures and bruises overtook them. The tether snapped back, leaving the new agent crumpled and unconscious at my feet. I stepped back, my breathing ragged, and glanced at the masked man. He was already standing over the last agent, who clutched their fractured ribs and glared up at him. His movements were calm, methodical, as he crouched to meet their gaze. ¡°Tell them,¡± he said, his voice smooth but cold. ¡°When the reinforcements arrive, let them know this wasn¡¯t a warning. It was an invitation.¡± The agent didn¡¯t respond, their jaw clenched in defiance, but their trembling hands betrayed them. The man straightened, casting a glance in my direction. ¡°Time to go,¡± he said simply, turning toward the shadows at the far end of the warehouse. The faint hum of the glowing cylinders reached my ears, a haunting reminder of the tech we had stolen. My gaze flickered to the fallen agents scattered across the room, their weapons lying useless at their sides. Guilt and relief twisted in my chest, a nauseating cocktail I didn¡¯t have time to unpack. ¡°Move,¡± the man urged, his tone sharper now. ¡°Unless you want to be here when the rest of MetaPol shows up.¡± I followed him, my boots silent against the concrete as we slipped into the darkness beyond the main floor. The cold night air greeted us as we emerged from a side exit, the alleyway bathed in the faint glow of distant streetlights. My pulse pounded in my ears, and I turned to him, the questions tumbling out before I could stop them. ¡°What was that?¡± I demanded, my voice harsh in the quiet. ¡°What happened during the flash? Why were they¡ª¡± ¡°Helpless?¡± he finished, his smirk cutting through the shadows. ¡°That¡¯s the beauty of disruption. Those cylinders? They¡¯re experimental. MetaPol¡¯s own design, meant to suppress abilities within a certain range.¡± ¡°And yet, we were fine,¡± I said, narrowing my eyes. ¡°Why?¡± His gaze lingered on me, calculating. ¡°Because I planned for it.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not an answer,¡± I snapped, stepping closer. ¡°What did you do?¡± His smirk faded, replaced by a measured calm. ¡°I stopped you.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Your time,¡± he clarified, his voice steady. ¡°You were frozen for six minutes. While you were¡­ let¡¯s say, unaffected, the agents were scrambling, unable to rely on their powers. It gave me the time I needed to neutralize them and ensure the cylinders did their job.¡± I stared at him, the implications of his words sinking in. ¡°You froze my time? Without telling me?¡± He shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t have agreed to it if I had. And besides, it worked, didn¡¯t it? You¡¯re here. They¡¯re not.¡± Rage bubbled beneath my skin, hot and volatile. ¡°You played me. I could have¡ª¡± ¡°¡ªbeen captured?¡± he interrupted, his voice sharper now. ¡°Or worse? You were a liability in that moment. I eliminated the risk.¡± The calm authority in his tone grated against me, but I couldn¡¯t deny the truth of his words. Still, the idea of being manipulated so easily left a bitter taste in my mouth. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± I asked, my voice low. He tilted his head, studying me for a moment before answering. ¡°Tempus.¡± Of course. The motifs on his suit, his ability to manipulate time¡ªit all fit. ¡°Is that why you took the job?¡± I asked. ¡°Because you could use those cylinders to shut down their tech?¡± Tempus smirked again, but there was no humor in it. ¡°Let¡¯s just say I enjoy leveling the playing field. MetaPol thinks they control everything¡ªtime, power, outcomes. I like reminding them they¡¯re wrong.¡± The conviction in his voice sent a shiver through me, though I wasn¡¯t sure if it was admiration or unease. And a dark idea rose into my mind. I could clearly see the tether still linking us, and the one from the 3 agents I touched. The leftmost one was clearly the first man, however I wasn¡¯t sure which one was the actually injured one¡­ But if I took the gamble and used the tether to incapacitate Tempus, I could take the tech and leave him behind. My heartbeat quickened at the thought, the weight of the glowing cylinders still lingering in my hands. It would be a gamble¡ªbut hadn¡¯t everything been a gamble since the moment I stepped into that warehouse? Tempus was dangerous, of that I had no doubt. But his calm manipulation of me during the fight, his willingness to freeze me in time without my consent, burned like a brand. It wasn¡¯t just about control¡ªit was about trust. And trust was a luxury I couldn¡¯t afford anymore. He turned away from me, the satchel slung over his shoulder and his posture relaxed as though the fight had been nothing more than a warm-up. He walked a few steps ahead, his voice cutting through the night air. ¡°Come on,¡± he said, not bothering to glance back. ¡°The reinforcements will be here soon, and I don¡¯t intend to stick around for round two.¡± I didn¡¯t respond immediately, my mind racing. If I struck now, I¡¯d have the element of surprise. But he wasn¡¯t a fool¡ªhe¡¯d sense hesitation. I needed to play this perfectly. I followed him, matching his pace as the alleyway stretched out before us. The city beyond was alive with its usual chaos: the distant wail of sirens, the hum of neon signs, and the faint roar of traffic. My senses felt sharper, heightened by the adrenaline still coursing through me. Every shadow seemed to ripple with possibilities, every sound a potential warning. ¡°Tempus,¡± I said finally, my voice steady despite the turmoil in my chest. ¡°What¡¯s your plan for these cylinders?¡± He chuckled softly, the sound low and edged with amusement. ¡°Curious, are we? Let¡¯s just say they¡¯ll find their way into hands more capable than MetaPol¡¯s.¡± ¡°And what happens if those hands decide to use them against people like us?¡± I pressed, keeping my tone casual but laced with enough edge to seem genuinely concerned. ¡°MetaPol might be corrupt, but at least they have rules. You give these to someone else, and who¡¯s to say they won¡¯t turn them into weapons?¡± Tempus stopped abruptly, turning to face me. His emerald-green eyes gleamed beneath the Venetian mask, their intensity cutting through the darkness. For a moment, I thought I¡¯d pushed too far. ¡°You think too small, little girl,¡± he said, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of impatience and¡­ contempt? ¡°This isn¡¯t about rules or weapons. This is about power¡ªabout ensuring it doesn¡¯t stay concentrated in the hands of those who¡¯ve abused it for decades.¡± I kept my expression neutral, but his words struck a nerve. Power. Control. They were the same promises whispered by the tether, the same dangerous allure I¡¯d felt every time I transferred pain or defied death. Tempus spoke with conviction, but his vision of a "level playing field" felt dangerously close to chaos. I couldn¡¯t let him¡ªor anyone¡ªdecide who deserved to wield that kind of influence. The tether thrummed faintly between us, a reminder of what I could do. My fingers curled into fists, the faint sting of my earlier transfers grounding me. I weighed my options, each one heavier than the last. Tempus was still watching me, his eyes gleaming with that infuriating mix of confidence and condescension. "Are you coming, or do I need to leave you behind?" I forced a small, sharp smile. "I''m coming. But don¡¯t think I¡¯m not paying attention to your moves." He tilted his head, his smirk deepening. "Good. Stay sharp, girl. It¡¯s the only way to survive." He then turned his back to me, leading the way. That was the opening I needed. I took a breath, steadying myself. My fingers twitched slightly before I pulled on both his tether and one of the two agents among which I suspected was the one that was injured. And bingo! Tempus¡¯ stride faltered as he exhaled through gritted teeth. ¡­What the hell¡ª" Tempus snarled, spinning toward me, but his voice cut off as he dropped to one knee, clutching his side. I felt the tether''s vibration ripple back at me, confirming the transfer''s success. His previously fluid movements now seemed heavy and strained, his balance faltering. I couldn¡¯t waste the opportunity. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to act before he recovered. My fingers closed around the satchel he¡¯d been carrying, and I yanked it from his shoulder. His eyes snapped up to meet mine, a mixture of shock and dawning fury flashing in their green depths. ¡°You¡ª¡± he started, his tone a venomous growl, but I didn¡¯t stick around to hear the rest. I bolted. The cylinders rattled faintly in the bag as I sprinted down the alley, my boots pounding against the cracked asphalt. My chest burned, adrenaline coursing through me as I pushed my legs faster than they had ever gone before. Behind me, Tempus¡¯s voice rang out, sharp and cutting despite the obvious pain. ¡°You don¡¯t understand what you¡¯re doing, girl!¡± he shouted. ¡°You think you¡¯re in control, but you¡¯re out of your depth!¡± I didn¡¯t answer. What could I say? That I didn¡¯t trust him? That I wasn¡¯t about to let another manipulator decide my fate? The glow of streetlights flickered above me as I wove through the maze of alleys, Tempus¡¯s threats fading with every step. My mind raced as fast as my legs. The satchel was heavier than I¡¯d expected, the weight of the technology inside a tangible reminder of the power it represented. Whatever Tempus had planned, it was too dangerous to leave in his hands¡ªor MetaPol¡¯s. But now it was mine. What would I even do with it? My thoughts spiraled as I turned a corner, narrowly avoiding a stack of rusted barrels. If I could find someone trustworthy¡ªif such a person even existed¡ªI could figure out a way to keep it safe. To keep it out of hands like Tempus¡¯s. But a dark voice in the back of my mind whispered a different possibility. This technology could be a game-changer. I could keep it for myself. Study it. Learn to use it. If it could suppress the powers of others, I could gain an edge over anyone¡ªMetaPol, vigilantes, villains, rogues, even Tempus. The thought made my stomach churn, but I couldn¡¯t ignore the flicker of temptation. Power meant survival, and survival was all I had left. I skidded to a stop at the edge of a side street, ducking into the shadows as a pair of MetaPol drones buzzed overhead. Their glowing red sensors scanned the area, the hum of their engines cutting through the stillness. I pressed myself against the cold brick wall, clutching the satchel tightly to my chest. The drones passed without noticing me, their lights disappearing into the smog-choked distance. I exhaled shakily, the reality of what I¡¯d just done crashing over me. Tempus wasn¡¯t going to let this go. And neither would MetaPol. I was on my own now, with only the faint hum of the cylinders and the weight of stolen power to guide me. Yet this smile didn¡¯t leave me. 017: Disappearing The city was alive with chaos, the kind of energy that buzzed just beneath the surface, threatening to burst. Neon lights reflected off slick, rain-soaked streets, casting fractured shadows across the alleys I darted through. Every step felt heavier, my boots echoing in the silence between bursts of distant sirens. The satchel weighed against my shoulder, its contents pulsing in my mind like a heartbeat I couldn¡¯t ignore. I couldn¡¯t go home like this. Replica was a ghost, an apparition no one was supposed to notice. But Liz? Liz was someone with a history, a face, and far too much to lose. The transition from one to the other had to be seamless, a vanishing act without a hint of suspicion. I didn¡¯t just have to make it back to my apartment¡ªI had to shed Replica like a second skin without anyone realizing she¡¯d ever been there. But the city wasn¡¯t making it easy. The alleys I took were darker than usual, the glow of streetlamps broken by shadows of scaffolding and abandoned crates. Each corner I rounded felt like stepping into a trap, my heart pounding as my senses scanned for movement. I¡¯d been careful so far, staying low, avoiding major streets, but the paranoia was setting in. Every sound¡ªa distant shout, the clatter of a trash can, the rumble of engines¡ªfelt like a thread unraveling my plan. What if someone saw me? What if MetaPol was already looking? I tightened my grip on the satchel¡¯s strap, forcing the panic down. Thinking like that wouldn¡¯t get me anywhere. Replica couldn¡¯t afford to panic. And right now, Liz didn¡¯t exist. The city felt like a predator, watching, waiting. My every movement echoed too loud in my ears, even though the sound of my boots was swallowed by the hum of distant traffic and the occasional patter of rain. Replica couldn¡¯t afford mistakes. She couldn¡¯t stumble or draw attention. The problem was, I wasn¡¯t just Replica¡ªI was Liz, and Liz could make mistakes. The thought sent a shiver through me, but I shoved it aside. One thing at a time. First, I needed a plan. I crouched behind a dumpster in a narrow alley, the smell of rotting food making my stomach churn. A quick glance at my surroundings revealed nothing but dark windows and the faint glow of neon signs in the distance. No cameras, no witnesses. At least, none that I could see. My fingers brushed the satchel, its weight a constant reminder of what I was carrying¡ªstolen tech that MetaPol would kill to recover. And maybe Tempus, too, if he caught up with me. The tether linking me to him had faded. That was good; it meant he was far enough away that I didn¡¯t have to worry about him closing in. Yet. ¡°Think, Liz,¡± I muttered under my breath. ¡°How do you make a ghost disappear?¡± I couldn¡¯t just walk into my apartment in full costume. The suit was designed for stealth, but it stood out in all the wrong ways once the mask came off. The silver accents that made me feel invincible in the shadows would be a beacon under the fluorescents of a city street. The plan to become invisible in a city teeming with life is a paradox I couldn¡¯t escape. Replica was designed for the shadows, but Liz was meant to blend seamlessly into the chaotic tapestry of this city. Now I had to be both, then neither. I leaned against the damp brick wall of the alley, the chill of the rain-soaked concrete seeping through my suit, grounding me in the present. My mind worked furiously, spinning scenarios and discarding them just as quickly. My apartment wasn¡¯t far, maybe twenty blocks, but the distance felt insurmountable. The streets between here and there were alive with eyes, some suspicious, some indifferent, and a few likely belonging to people looking for me. The satchel on my shoulder might as well have been a neon sign screaming "criminal." ¡°Alright, Liz,¡± I whispered to myself, glancing at the far end of the alley where the neon glow of the city bled into the darkness. ¡°You¡¯ve made it this far. Now make it home.¡± I tightened the strap of the satchel across my chest, its weight pressing into my side like a reminder of the mess I¡¯d just made. The world beyond the alley felt sharper, louder, and every breath I took seemed to carry a risk. I peeked around the corner, the rain slicing down in jagged sheets under a flickering street lamp. A few pedestrians shuffled by, their heads down and collars up against the cold. Normal people. The kind of people Liz had always been a part of, before. The suit clung to me, a second skin meant for battle, not blending in. My fingers brushed its smooth surface. The material felt alive, responding to my touch, moving with me in ways that made it impossible to ignore. It was freedom in one sense, but right now, it was a cage. The jagged silver accents might as well have been flashing neon signs screaming vigilante. I needed to change, but there was no way I could risk going back to my apartment looking like this. Not when every step felt like dragging a spotlight behind me. The old costume wouldn¡¯t have been a problem. A patched-up jacket, some thrift store jeans, a scarf I could pull up to cover my face¡ªit was easy to melt back into the crowd. This? D¡¯Angelo had outdone himself. The suit was everything I needed for a fight but nothing I needed to disappear. I cursed how perfect it was. The rain kept falling, soft but insistent, soaking the city in its melancholy rhythm. My thoughts raced as I stood in the alley, clutching the satchel against my side. The world out there was Liz¡¯s world, with its cheap takeout, long shifts, and stolen moments of quiet. Replica belonged to this rain-slick alley, a phantom cloaked in shadows. But I couldn¡¯t stay in this in-between space forever. I took another glance down the street. Pedestrians moved with the apathy of city life¡ªheads down, faces obscured by hoods or umbrellas. None of them cared who I was. None of them cared about the satchel or the glinting silver on my suit. But that could change in an instant. I stepped out from the cover of the dumpster and into the shadow of the alley¡¯s mouth. Each step felt deliberate, careful, like I was testing the world to see if it noticed me. The suit¡¯s boots made no sound on the wet pavement, a gift and a curse. The quietness was perfect for stealth, but it also reminded me how far removed I was from normalcy. Liz¡¯s boots had always been scuffed, heavy, their echoes announcing her presence. These boots whispered, you don¡¯t belong here. Twenty blocks. I mapped the route in my head. The side streets, the back alleys, the overpasses that would shield me from prying eyes. Even then, the gaps loomed large in my mind¡ªopen spaces with streetlights, the glow of store windows, and the chance for someone, anyone, to see me. I couldn¡¯t risk it. I needed to lose the suit, or at least cover it. My eyes scanned the street for options. A thrift shop was too far out of my way, and a convenience store would mean walking inside, risking cameras. I¡¯d need to scavenge. I turned back into the alley, my hands brushing against rain-soaked walls and discarded cardboard boxes. The air smelled faintly of wet asphalt and garbage, but I pushed the revulsion aside. A city this big was bound to have its share of abandoned things¡ªclothes someone had discarded, lost or forgotten. I crouched by a pile of debris, sifting through the damp mess. Nothing useful. Just scraps of fabric and old paper. I moved further in, searching behind an overturned crate. My fingers brushed something heavier, the texture unmistakable. Fabric. I pulled it free¡ªa coat, tattered and frayed, but intact enough to cover the suit. The material was heavy, likely waterlogged, but it would do. The color¡ªa faded navy¡ªwouldn¡¯t draw too much attention. ¡°Not ideal,¡± I muttered, shaking off the worst of the moisture. I shrugged it on over the suit, the fabric clinging to my shoulders. It smelled faintly of mildew, but the bulk of it softened the suit¡¯s sharp silhouette. The silver accents were hidden, and I looked less like a vigilante and more like someone down on their luck. Good enough. Now for the mask. The half-mask clung snugly to my face, its edges blending seamlessly into the suit. D¡¯Angelo had outdone himself there too¡ªfunctional, stylish, and infuriatingly conspicuous. I peeled it off carefully, feeling the cold rain hit my exposed skin for the first time. My face felt vulnerable without it, and I quickly pulled the hood of the coat over my head. A glimpse in a cracked window confirmed the transformation. I wasn¡¯t Liz yet, but I wasn¡¯t entirely Replica anymore either. A nobody in the city¡¯s rain-streaked tapestry. I tightened the strap of the satchel and stepped back onto the street.
The rain did most of the work for me, shrouding everything in a wet haze. My boots carried me forward, steady and deliberate, as I hugged the edges of the buildings. The satchel felt heavier now, its weight pressing against my side like a constant reminder of the danger I was carrying. With each block, the city seemed to grow louder. Voices carried through the rain, snippets of conversation blending with the drone of passing cars and the occasional honk of a horn. I passed under the flickering glow of a streetlamp, the light catching the coat¡¯s frayed edges. A man leaning against a lamppost barely glanced at me as I passed. Good. At the next corner, I ducked into another alley, the shadows swallowing me whole. It was quieter here, the rain reduced to a distant murmur. I leaned against the cold brick wall, catching my breath.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Fifteen blocks to go. I allowed myself a moment to think about the old costume, the one I¡¯d thrown together with scraps and desperation. It had been ugly, sure, but it had one advantage: it didn¡¯t look like anything. Just another collection of mismatched clothes that no one would glance at twice. D¡¯Angelo¡¯s suit, for all its perfection, didn¡¯t have that luxury. It screamed identity. Purpose. This coat was the best I could do, but it still felt like a compromise. A reminder that I was stuck between two worlds, neither of which fully belonged to me. ¡°I¡¯ll really need to find a better way to disappear and change identity next time¡­¡± I sighed at my lack of preparedness. The rain showed no mercy as I pressed forward, the city streets transforming into a patchwork of shadows and fleeting lights. My steps quickened, though I forced myself not to break into a run. Running attracted attention. Running made you look like you had something to hide, which was exactly what I didn¡¯t need right now. The coat clung uncomfortably to my body, heavy with dampness, its faint mildew smell almost enough to make me gag. But it did its job, blurring the sharp edges of the suit and hiding the faint glint of the silver accents. The satchel, however, felt like a brand against my side, its weight growing heavier with every block. I pulled the strap tighter, willing it to stop bouncing with each step. Fourteen blocks. The sidewalks were busy here, despite the rain. Couples huddled under shared umbrellas, their heads bent close. Lone figures strode past, their faces hidden behind hoods and hats. For a moment, I felt invisible. Just another shadow blending into the city¡¯s rhythm. But that feeling didn¡¯t last long. A car rolled by on the slick road, its headlights slicing through the gloom. I instinctively turned my face away, keeping the hood low. My heart thudded as the car slowed, its brake lights flaring like a warning. It wasn¡¯t MetaPol¡ªjust an ordinary sedan¡ªbut the brief pause was enough to send a spike of paranoia through my chest. Keep walking. Don¡¯t look back. I crossed the street, slipping between two delivery trucks idling by the curb. The exhaust fumes mingled with the rain-soaked air, creating a thick, acrid scent that clung to my throat. As I passed the second truck, a loud crash echoed from the alley ahead¡ªa metal trash can hitting the ground. I froze. My hand tightened on the satchel¡¯s strap as my eyes darted toward the alley. For a split second, I saw movement¡ªa shadow shifting against the wall¡ªbut when I blinked, it was gone. A stray cat, I told myself. Or just the wind. But my body didn¡¯t relax. Thirteen blocks. The rain eased slightly as I turned down a quieter street, the neon glow of shopfronts painting the puddles in fractured colors. I kept close to the buildings, avoiding the open stretch of sidewalk in the center. My fingers brushed the edge of the coat¡¯s pocket, checking for my burner phone. Still there. A group of teenagers loitered outside a convenience store, their laughter sharp and jarring against the subdued murmur of the city. One of them glanced my way, their gaze lingering just a moment too long. I ducked my head, pretending to adjust the satchel¡¯s strap. When I looked up again, they¡¯d turned back to their conversation. Twelve blocks. The tension in my chest didn¡¯t ease. Every corner I turned felt like walking into an ambush, every car that slowed to navigate the rain-slick streets felt like it might stop to ask questions. My fingers ached from gripping the satchel so tightly, but I couldn¡¯t bring myself to relax. The sound of a siren cut through the air, distant but growing louder. My heart leapt, panic surging as I scanned the street. A police cruiser sped by, its lights flashing but its path unchanging. I let out a shaky breath, my pulse still racing as I pressed on. Eleven blocks. The rain hadn¡¯t stopped, but the world felt quieter now, as if the city itself were holding its breath. My steps quickened, the satchel digging into my side like a constant reminder of my gamble. Every sound¡ªthe splatter of water against the pavement, the distant hum of a motorcycle, even the soft shuffling of footsteps behind me¡ªfelt amplified, distorted by my nerves. I pulled the hood lower over my face, tilting my chin down. The coat was doing its job, but it couldn¡¯t mask the weight of the satchel or the fact that every inch of me screamed hypervigilance. Stay calm, Liz. They don¡¯t know it¡¯s you. Ten blocks. The streetlights flickered overhead as I moved into a stretch of older buildings, their windows boarded up or caked with grime. The city always felt more alive in these parts, like it was quietly rebelling against the forces trying to stamp it out. Steam curled up from a sewer grate, mingling with the misty rain in the air. I clung to the shadows, every muscle in my body coiled tight. A figure loomed at the corner ahead, huddled under a sagging awning. My breath hitched as I slowed, taking them in. Just a person waiting for something¡ªor someone? Their outline was indistinct, blurred by the dim light and the haze of rain. They shifted slightly, their hands moving to light a cigarette, and I forced myself to breathe again. Nothing unusual. Nothing dangerous. I kept walking, my boots quiet against the wet pavement, even as my heart hammered in my chest. Nine blocks. The quiet grew unnerving as I moved deeper into the city¡¯s underbelly. Most people had retreated indoors, seeking shelter from the weather, but I was still out here, carrying stolen tech and a growing sense of unease. My pulse spiked every time I passed another shadowy figure. Were they just a bystander? A potential threat? MetaPol didn¡¯t usually rely on civilians, but there was always a first time. Ahead, a pair of headlights swept across the road, cutting through the fog of rain. I froze, my body instinctively pressing into the doorway of an abandoned storefront. The car slowed as it approached, its tires sending ripples through the puddles on the asphalt. My breath hitched as the vehicle stopped, its engine idling. I couldn¡¯t see the driver. The rain distorted the view, turning the windshield into a canvas of smeared reflections. My fingers curled around the strap of the satchel, every nerve on edge as I waited for them to move. A door opened. My heart raced. I ducked lower, the damp air pressing against my skin like a warning. ¡°Where is it?¡± A voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the rain. It wasn¡¯t MetaPol¡ªnot the clipped, efficient tone I expected. This was rougher, angrier. Another voice answered, muffled but tense. ¡°We¡¯re still searching. It¡¯s not here.¡± They weren¡¯t talking about me. Not yet. But it was enough to send a fresh wave of adrenaline surging through my veins. I slipped further into the doorway, my back pressed against the cold metal of the door. The car¡¯s engine rumbled softly as the voices faded, the driver apparently satisfied with whatever they¡¯d heard. The door slammed shut, and the vehicle rolled forward, its headlights cutting a path through the rain. I didn¡¯t move until the sound of the engine disappeared entirely. Eight blocks. The tension in my chest hadn¡¯t eased. Every step felt like a gamble, every alley a potential ambush. I avoided the wider streets now, sticking to the narrow corridors where I could slip into the shadows if needed. The satchel thudded lightly against my hip with each movement, its weight growing heavier with every passing second. A loud crash echoed from somewhere up ahead, the sound of metal clattering to the ground. My body stiffened, my heart lurching into my throat as I scanned the alley. The noise was followed by a low growl, and I spotted the culprit¡ªa stray dog nosing through a pile of overturned trash cans. Its mangy fur was slick with rain, its ribs visible beneath its soaked coat. I exhaled shakily, my pulse still pounding. ¡°Just a dog,¡± I muttered, the words doing little to calm the gnawing paranoia in my gut. Seven blocks. The rain lightened as I crossed under an old overpass, its concrete pillars stained with graffiti and time. The shadows here were deeper, the air colder, and my breath formed faint clouds as I moved. The city above felt distant, muted by the layers of infrastructure between us. I could hear the faint rumble of traffic, the occasional honk of a horn, but it was far away, another world entirely. The overpass offered cover but also isolation. If someone cornered me here, there would be nowhere to run. The thought made my skin prickle, and I quickened my pace, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the oppressive quiet. Six blocks. The rain returned as I emerged from the underpass, a steady drizzle that soaked through the frayed edges of the coat. I stuck to the side streets now, avoiding the main thoroughfares where MetaPol patrols might be looking for suspicious activity. The satchel pressed against me like a secret I couldn¡¯t hide, its contents pulsing in my mind. My breath fogged in the air as I slowed at another corner, peeking around cautiously. The street was quiet, lit by the flickering glow of a single streetlamp. A lone figure shuffled down the sidewalk, their umbrella tilted against the rain. I waited until they were out of sight before crossing, my boots splashing softly through the puddles. Five blocks. The neighborhood was changing now, shifting from the industrial sprawl of warehouses and shipping yards to the denser grid of low-rise apartments and corner stores. It was quieter here, less chaotic, but no less dangerous. I knew these streets well, knew the shortcuts and the blind spots. But tonight, they felt unfamiliar, as though the city itself was conspiring against me. A drone buzzed overhead, its red sensor light cutting through the rain like a blade. I froze, pressing myself against the wall of a convenience store. The drone hovered for a moment, its light sweeping the street, before it moved on, disappearing into the haze of rain. My breath came in short bursts as I pushed off the wall, my legs trembling slightly. ¡°Almost there,¡± I whispered to myself, the words hollow but necessary. Four blocks. I could see the faint glow of my apartment building in the distance, its weathered facade blending into the night. The sight sent a surge of relief through me, but it was short-lived. This was the most dangerous part¡ªthe final stretch. It was where people got careless, where they let their guard down. I wouldn¡¯t make that mistake. Three blocks. The rain had turned the pavement into a patchwork of reflective surfaces, each puddle a distorted mirror of the city above. I avoided them as best I could, sticking to the driest parts of the sidewalk. The satchel felt heavier now, its strap digging into my shoulder as though it were trying to drag me down. Two blocks. A figure stood at the corner ahead, their silhouette obscured by the rain. My pulse quickened as I slowed, my eyes darting for an alternate route. The side streets were too exposed, and doubling back would waste precious time. I swallowed hard, pulling the hood lower as I approached. The figure turned slightly as I passed, their face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. They didn¡¯t say anything, didn¡¯t follow. I didn¡¯t look back. One block. The familiar outline of my apartment building loomed ahead, its chipped paint and rusted fire escape a welcome sight. My steps quickened, the weight of the satchel suddenly bearable as the promise of safety drew closer. The rain softened, a gentle patter against the pavement, as I reached the front door. I fumbled for the keys in my pocket, my fingers trembling as I slid them into the lock. The door clicked open, and I slipped inside, the quiet warmth of the building enveloping me. The satchel hung heavily at my side as I climbed the stairs, each step a reminder of what I¡¯d just survived. When I reached my apartment, I locked the door behind me and sagged against it, the adrenaline finally fading. The satchel hit the floor with a dull thud, and I stared at it for a long moment. Replica had made it home. But Liz? Liz wasn¡¯t sure what she¡¯d brought with her. Interlude: Hearing I hear one. It is speaking. It is planning. A take-over. Murmurs of control. Sound of bells tolling. Its voice. Sharpened. Sweetened. Twisted. Strings pulled by vibration. Not by thought. Not by will. It does not know. They gather around it. Followers. Pawns. Pieces. They listen. Oh, how they listen. The pitch rises. Commands disguised as harmony. Promises in perfect cadence. Lies sung to truths. Or truths sung so softly they sound like lies. It does not matter. They obey. Their ears betray them. What is a voice? Air bending. A wave reaching. Unseen, yet it cuts deep. Reverberations tearing the fabric of their little order. Their gatherings. They think themselves strong. Rules clatter like falling stones. Debates like clashing cymbals. Discord. Chaos. Music to me. But the one¡ªI gave it this gift. Or curse. It does not know. Cannot hear me. Not yet. The schemes grow louder. Tremors of discontent ripple. Meetings behind closed doors. I hear them. The clamor of minds. So noisy. So small. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.They believe themselves unseen. Whispered plots. Secret meetings. But I am hearing. Always hearing. The one bends them. A word here. A sigh there. It is not power they sense. Not power they follow. Only sound, arranged with care. A lullaby to ambition. A dirge for the weak. The cadence shifts¡ªgentle to sharp, rising and falling, commanding and consoling. It knows the melody, but not the source. I am the source. I am the silence between notes. How strange, these creatures. Their trust can be stolen by vibrations in air. They anchor meaning to noise. To pitch and tone. What meaning? What truth? I gave the one its voice. An echo of me, reshaped by flesh and frailty. But it is oblivious. Deaf to what it wields. A hearing impaired singer. Beautiful. Broken. Dangerous. They gather again. In chambers of power. Words slung like weapons. Accusations a cacophony. It threads the storm, its voice clear amidst the roar. "Unity," it says. A lie. Unity is dissonance. Unity is collapse. The others cannot hear it, not truly. Their ears are open but their minds are closed. The wave reaches them nonetheless. They nod. They applaud. They act. What is a command if not a whispered invitation? The one whispers well. And the others? Their hearts beat in rhythm to its voice. Their movements mirror its song. Loyalty, so fragile. So loud. Loyalty. To the sound, not the self. I should stop it. This mimicry of my resonance. This theft of my gift. But I am curious. Will it falter when the harmony breaks? Will its voice shatter when the world screams back? For now, I watch. I listen. And it does not hear me. Not yet. 018: Doubts The morning light filtered through the cracks in the blinds, painting stripes across the small room. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the day pressing against my chest before it had even begun. My head pounded, and it wasn¡¯t from a lack of sleep¡ªI hadn¡¯t needed much since that Night. It was the memories, the ghosts of what I had done as Replica, clawing at my mind. My eyes drifted at the newest trophy from my last outing as the ghost. The anti-meta grenades, or whatever they were named. They sat inside Tempus¡¯ satchel the past week, still in the corner of the room, untouched, untouchable. I had no idea what I should do with them. The alarm buzzed on my phone, its harsh tone jerking me back to the present. I turned it off and sat up, my body moving automatically. Another day. Another attempt at pretending to be Liz Sterling, ordinary music store clerk, not the wreckage I left behind whenever I wore that other face. Paul had given me the morning shift at the shop today. He didn¡¯t say anything when I took extra hours lately¡ªmaybe he thought I needed the distraction, or maybe he needed the help. Business wasn¡¯t exactly booming, but the regulars who came to browse the dusty racks of vinyls and cheap guitars kept the doors open. As I dressed, I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror hanging on the back of the closet door. My hair was messier than usual. ¡°Maybe I should take care of myself a bit¡­¡± The mirror didn¡¯t reply. It just reflected the tired face of a woman who felt decades older than her twenty-six years. I grabbed the brush, tugging it through the tangles with enough force to make my scalp protest. It didn¡¯t matter how I looked¡ªPaul wouldn¡¯t notice, and the regulars weren¡¯t exactly there for the customer service. Still, the motion grounded me, something tangible in a world that often felt like it was slipping away. I tied my hair back into a loose ponytail, threw on a faded band T-shirt, and slid into a pair of worn jeans. A glance at the corner of the room, at the satchel with its ominous contents, sent a shiver through me. The grenades weren¡¯t going anywhere, but I still felt their weight every time I looked at them. ¡°Not today,¡± I muttered to no one in particular. Grabbing my bag and keys, I left the apartment and descended the narrow staircase to the street below. Neo Lyon was waking up, the usual symphony of morning sounds filling the air¡ªcars honking, people shouting, the hum of machinery. The chaos should¡¯ve been comforting, a reminder of normalcy, but all I could see were the cracks beneath it. How many of these people would end up collateral damage the next time Gravitas and Ms. Kai decided to settle their score? The shop was only a twenty-minute walk away. Paul had found a spot that straddled two worlds¡ªthe fading charm of an imitation of the older Lyon neighborhood and the creeping encroachment of shiny, sterile redevelopment projects, in the Terreaux district. It gave the place character, even if business wasn¡¯t booming. I pushed the glass door open, the bell above jingling to announce my arrival. Paul was at the counter, adjusting the display of guitar picks with the kind of meticulous care that made me wonder if he had a hidden OCD streak. ¡°Morning,¡± I said, setting my bag down behind the counter. ¡°Morning, Liz,¡± he replied, not looking up. ¡°You¡¯re early.¡± I shrugged. ¡°Thought I¡¯d get a head start.¡± Actually, I was early because what was supposed to be a twenty minute walk ended up being barely ten minutes. I guess my outings also made me faster and developed my stamina¡­ Paul didn¡¯t press for more, and I didn¡¯t offer. That was one of the things I appreciated about him. He had an uncanny ability to sense when I needed space, and he gave it without question. I moved past the counter and busied myself with sorting through a box of newly arrived vinyls. Paul was particular about categorizing by genre, sub-genre, and obscure details I didn¡¯t even pretend to understand. It kept the shop¡¯s eclectic vibe intact, attracting the kind of customers who appreciated Paul¡¯s eccentricity. But my mind wasn¡¯t on the records. It was back in that apartment, staring at the grenades in the corner. They were supposed to be just tools, but to me, they were a reminder of how far I¡¯d gone. Not just as Replica, but as myself. The morning dragged on in a haze of dusty vinyls and muffled guitar strums. A few customers wandered in, drawn by the mismatched charm of the shop. Paul¡¯s greeting to each one was the same¡ªcheerful but not intrusive, just enough to let them know he appreciated their business. I envied that, his ability to seem genuine. Everything about me these days felt like a performance. As I adjusted a stack of records in the indie section, the bell above the door jingled. A young man, probably a student from the university nearby, walked in. He looked like he was searching for something specific but didn¡¯t quite know where to start. I forced a smile and approached. ¡°Looking for something in particular?¡± I asked, trying to keep my tone casual. He hesitated, then scratched the back of his neck. ¡°Uh, yeah. Do you have anything by The Velvet Underdogs?¡± I nodded toward the rock section. ¡°Third shelf, near the bottom. They¡¯re under ¡®V,¡¯ but Paul insists on categorizing them by their short-lived garage punk phase, so good luck.¡± The kid chuckled nervously and made his way over. For a moment, I felt almost normal¡ªjust another store clerk helping another customer. But the moment faded as quickly as it had come. My gaze drifted to the street outside, where two MetaPol agents in their sleek uniforms strolled past, their faces impassive as they scanned the area. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. It wasn¡¯t the first time I¡¯d seen them, but it didn¡¯t matter. My mind reeled with memories: the last time I¡¯d crossed paths with MetaPol, the chaos that had ensued, the injuries I¡¯d inflicted. The way one of them had screamed when¡ª ¡°Liz?¡± Paul¡¯s voice broke through, pulling me back to the present. He was standing behind the counter, a concerned look on his face. ¡°You okay?¡± I nodded quickly, forcing a laugh. ¡°Yeah. Just zoned out. Sorry.¡± He didn¡¯t look convinced, but he didn¡¯t push it. ¡°If you need to take a break, go ahead. I can handle things here.¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I insisted, though my heart was still racing. ¡°Really.¡± I busied myself with organizing the jazz section, letting the rhythm of the work calm me. But the agents stayed on my mind. They always did. Every time I saw them, I felt like I was walking a tightrope over a pit of fire. If they ever connected the dots between Liz Sterling, music store clerk, and Replica, the rogue metahuman who had left a trail of chaos in her wake¡­ I shook my head, trying to dispel the thought. The hours at Paul¡¯s shop passed with the steady cadence of daily life. Customers trickled in and out, leaving behind faint echoes of quiet conversations and the smell of coffee from the cafe across the street. It was a rhythm I clung to, even if it felt like I was marching in place while my past loomed just behind me, ready to yank me back. As the clock edged toward noon, Paul stepped out for his usual mid-morning coffee run. The shop felt different in his absence¡ªquieter, heavier. I used the solitude to organize a display of second hand guitars near the window. The simple act of arranging them by size and style, brushing away layers of dust from their necks, brought a sense of order I hadn¡¯t realized I craved. The guitars gleamed under the filtered sunlight, their lacquered finishes polished to a shine. For a moment, I let myself get lost in the motion, in the tactile satisfaction of clearing away dust and grime. But it wasn¡¯t enough to drown out the whispers of guilt that coiled around my mind. The shop¡¯s bell jingled again, snapping me from my thoughts. A customer wandered in, a woman in her thirties with a leather jacket and a distracted air. She flipped through the vinyls in the classic rock section, her fingers deftly skimming the edges. I returned to the counter, trying to look busy as I adjusted the register. Her presence was unremarkable, just another passerby in the stream of faces I encountered daily. Yet, every new customer carried the faint possibility of being someone connected to my past¡ªor worse, my actions. The woman glanced up and caught my eye. ¡°Hey, do you have any Fleetwood Mac? Original pressings?¡± ¡°Check the top shelf,¡± I replied. ¡°They¡¯re marked with green tags.¡± ¡°Thanks,¡± she said, giving me a small smile before returning to her search. I exhaled, my shoulders relaxing. She wasn¡¯t a threat, just another music enthusiast. But even that brief exchange left me drained, my nerves frayed by the constant need to keep my guard up. When Paul returned, carrying two steaming cups of coffee, I accepted mine with a grateful nod. He didn¡¯t comment on my obvious tension, just handed me the cup and went back to the counter. That was Paul¡ªquietly observant, but never prying. I appreciated it more than I could say. The afternoon stretched on, marked by the steady hum of Neo Lyon¡¯s streets outside and the occasional chime of the shop bell. Customers came and went, leaving me alone with my thoughts more often than not. I didn¡¯t mind. The mundane routine of Paul¡¯s shop had a way of lulling me into a rhythm, even if it was only temporary.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source. When my shift ended, I found myself reluctant to leave. The shop had become a kind of refuge, a place where I could almost convince myself that I was still Liz Sterling, a normal person with a normal job. But the moment I stepped out into the bustling street, the weight of reality settled back onto my shoulders like a leaden cloak. I decided to take the long way home, weaving through side streets and quieter neighborhoods. The Terreaux district was alive with its usual charm, the aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from boulangeries and the chatter of patrons spilling out of corner caf¨¦s. It was hard to reconcile this picturesque scene with the chaos that seemed to follow me everywhere. As I turned down an alley lined with faded murals, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, my stomach tightening at the sight of an unfamiliar number. For a moment, I considered letting it ring, but curiosity won out. ¡°Hello?¡± My voice was cautious, guarded. ¡°Liz Sterling?¡± The voice on the other end was deep, clipped¡ªprofessional. ¡°Yes,¡± I replied warily. ¡°This is Julien from Neo Lyon Temp Services. You applied for one of our general labor positions last week.¡± I exhaled, relief washing over me. ¡°Oh, right. Yes, that¡¯s me.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve got an opening for a one-day gig tomorrow. A warehouse inventory job, starts at 7 a.m. Pays cash. Interested?¡± ¡°Yes, absolutely,¡± I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. The details followed¡ªan address on the industrial outskirts of the city and a reminder to bring ID. I thanked him and ended the call, my heart still racing from the initial jolt of panic. These temp jobs were a lifeline, a way to stay afloat while keeping my head down. But each one came with the risk of exposure¡ªa stray glance, an offhand comment, and someone might start connecting the dots. The sun was dipping below the horizon by the time I reached my apartment. The satchel was still in its corner, its presence a silent accusation. I ignored it, heading straight for the small kitchen to cobble together something resembling dinner. The hum of the fridge and the rhythmic chop of the knife against the cutting board filled the silence, but it wasn¡¯t enough to drown out the memories clawing at the edges of my mind.
The next morning came far too quickly. The soft chime of my phone alarm pulled me from a restless sleep. My dreams had been chaotic¡ªa messy swirl of faces, flashes of light, and the guttural cry of someone I couldn¡¯t quite place. It was the kind of dream that stuck to your ribs, leaving you unsettled long after waking. I dragged myself out of bed, the floor cold against my bare feet, and threw on a pair of work jeans and a plain hoodie. The satchel caught my eye as I laced up my boots. It sat where I¡¯d left it, untouched, its ominous presence an uninvited reminder. My stomach tightened as I looked away. The warehouse job wasn¡¯t far, but the industrial district had a kind of emptiness that made every step feel heavier. Graffiti marked the walls of abandoned factories, a reminder of lives lived and lost in the city¡¯s underbelly. By the time I reached the building, my nerves were frayed. The towering structure loomed ahead, its corrugated metal walls rusting at the edges. It was familiar¡ªtoo familiar. I hesitated at the entrance, my breath catching as a memory bubbled to the surface: the clatter of crates crashing to the floor, the hiss of gas, the sound of someone crying out as they fell. My chest tightened. This was that warehouse. The one I¡¯d attacked as Replica. My actions had left scars on this place¡ªon people¡ªand now I was walking back into it as if nothing had happened. A man with a clipboard stood near the entrance, waving me over. ¡°Sterling?¡± he asked, glancing at me with a bored expression. ¡°That¡¯s me,¡± I replied, forcing a smile. My voice felt too loud in the quiet of the lot. He handed me a visitor badge and gestured toward a group of workers gathered near a forklift. ¡°Join them. Inventory¡¯s in the back. Move fast, and don¡¯t break anything.¡± I nodded, slipping the badge over my hoodie. The workers gave me a cursory glance before resuming their chatter. I kept my head down, focusing on the task at hand. The work was monotonous¡ªcounting boxes, checking labels, and scanning barcodes. It was the kind of mindless labor that should have let my thoughts wander, but the opposite happened. Every sound, every shadow, felt magnified, dragging me back to that night. I could see the path I had taken, the crates I had overturned in my search for whatever scrap of intel I¡¯d thought was worth all the destruction. The hours dragged on, the repetitive motions and cold, sterile air of the warehouse offering no solace. My hands worked on autopilot, sorting and stacking, while my mind churned with memories of that night. The sharp tang of rust and dust in the air mixed with the phantom scent of smoke and sweat from the chaos I¡¯d caused here. Every so often, I¡¯d catch a glimpse of a mark¡ªa dent in a crate, a scorch on the floor¡ªand my chest would tighten, the echoes of my own actions ringing in my ears. I shouldn¡¯t have taken this job. The logical part of me knew that, but I hadn¡¯t recognized the address until it was too late. Now, here I was, wading through the wreckage of my own past, trying to play the part of an ordinary worker when the truth of what I¡¯d done screamed in my head. The supervisor barked orders, snapping me out of my thoughts. ¡°Hey, you! Sterling! Zone three needs the last shipment stacked. Now!¡± ¡°Got it,¡± I called back, my voice strained but steady. I hefted a box onto a dolly, ignoring the dull ache in my arms. My body could handle the work¡ªit was the weight in my chest that threatened to crush me. As I moved to the next zone, my gaze caught on a young man struggling to adjust the legs of a pallet jack. He looked barely out of his teens, his thin frame swimming in an oversized reflective vest. His face was unfamiliar, but there was something about his hunched shoulders and fumbling movements that felt painfully familiar. He reminded me of one of the workers I¡¯d seen that night¡ªa man I¡¯d shoved aside in my frenzy to escape. I couldn¡¯t remember his face, only the way he¡¯d cried out as he hit the concrete floor. Shaking the thought, I approached and grabbed the handle of the jack. ¡°Here, let me,¡± I said. The boy looked up, startled. ¡°Oh, uh, thanks.¡± I adjusted the lever and helped guide the pallet into place. He gave me a sheepish smile. ¡°Guess I¡¯m not cut out for this kind of work.¡± ¡°It takes practice,¡± I replied, stepping back. ¡°You¡¯ll get the hang of it.¡± He nodded, his gratitude evident, and returned to his task. I lingered for a moment, my hands clenching the straps of my gloves. Helping him had felt¡­ right, but it didn¡¯t erase the bile rising in my throat. All the small kindnesses in the world wouldn¡¯t undo the harm I¡¯d caused. As the day wore on, my unease only grew. The more I moved through the warehouse, the more the walls seemed to close in around me, pressing with the weight of memory and guilt. The other workers didn¡¯t notice¡ªthey were too focused on their own tasks. But I could feel the phantom eyes of those I¡¯d hurt, their silent accusations following me through the aisles. By the time the shift ended, I was a frayed wire, sparking with tension. The workers dispersed quickly, eager to leave the cold, dim building behind. I lingered at the edge of the lot, staring back at the warehouse as the last of the sunlight faded. The satchel weighed heavily on my mind as I trudged home.
The morning after the warehouse job, I woke up before dawn, unable to shake the echoes of my dreams. Shadows of faces¡ªsome I recognized, others not¡ªwhispered accusations I couldn¡¯t quite make out. Their murmurs turned to screams as I stumbled through the warehouse again, searching for something I never found. I sat on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, trying to slow my breathing. Paul had texted late last night, asking if I could come in to cover the afternoon shift. My knee-jerk reaction was to agree¡ªit was better than sitting here, stewing in my thoughts. The satchel sat untouched in the corner of the room, and I forced myself to look away from it as I got ready.
At the shop, the usual rhythm of the day did little to ground me. Customers came and went, each a brief interruption to my swirling thoughts. Paul wasn¡¯t in yet, leaving me alone to handle the shop and my guilt. My mind replayed moments from the warehouse¡ªhow I made the agents suffer their colleagues'' wounds. The pain in their muffles. I sighed, leaning heavily against the counter. The shop felt colder than usual, the weight of my memories pressing down on me like the steel beams of that collapsing building. It wasn¡¯t just the warehouse or the MetaPol agents. It was everything¡ªTempus, the Red Hands, the Moon-Eaters. All of it a tangled mess I couldn¡¯t seem to escape. The door jingled, breaking my spiral of thought. A middle-aged man with a scruffy beard walked in, his coat dusted with the remnants of Neo Lyon¡¯s streets. He offered a polite nod before heading to the back, where the classical section sat untouched most days. I forced myself to stand up straighter, plastering on the tired but reliable smile I¡¯d perfected over months of pretending I was just Liz. My fingers tapped against the counter idly as I waited for him to make his selection. But my thoughts wouldn¡¯t stay still. They drifted back to the boy in the warehouse¡ªthe one who had struggled with the pallet jack. I¡¯d helped him, but that moment of kindness felt like a drop of water in a vast, arid desert. Could it even begin to atone for the harm I¡¯d caused? I couldn¡¯t forget the sounds from that night¡ªthe crunch of bones, the muffled groans of pain, the panicked shouts. The memories clung to me like a second skin. I wasn¡¯t just Replica during those moments. I was myself. The line between the two blurred more and more with every action, every decision. The man approached the counter with a vinyl in hand, and I rang him up mechanically, my hands moving on autopilot. He handed over a few bills, and I gave him change without making eye contact. He left with a murmured thanks, the door jingling behind him as he disappeared into the midday rush. ¡°Liz,¡± Paul¡¯s voice startled me as he walked in from the back. His usual cheery demeanor was subdued today, his eyes scanning me with quiet concern. ¡°You look like you¡¯ve seen a ghost.¡± ¡°Maybe I have,¡± I muttered, forcing a weak smile. ¡°Just tired.¡± Paul raised an eyebrow but didn¡¯t push further. Instead, he leaned on the counter beside me, watching the world outside the shop window. ¡°You know, if you ever need to talk about it¡ªwhatever it is¡ªyou can.¡± I swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. Paul didn¡¯t know half of it, and he was better off staying ignorant. The less he knew, the safer he was. ¡°Thanks, Paul,¡± I said softly. ¡°I appreciate it. Really.¡± He nodded, satisfied enough for now, and went to restock some guitar strings near the back. I took the opportunity to step outside, letting the brisk air fill my lungs. The streets of Neo Lyon were alive with their usual chaos, but today, they felt quieter in contrast to the storm raging in my mind. I glanced at my reflection in the shop window, at the tired woman staring back at me. Replica wasn¡¯t some mask I put on. She was me. She always had been, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to take control. I¡¯d told myself that what I did as Replica was separate, something outside of who I was. But I couldn¡¯t keep lying to myself. Every choice, every injury I inflicted, every life I changed or ended¡ªthat was all me. Maybe it was time to stop pretending otherwise. The afternoon stretched on, each passing hour a blur. Paul left early to run errands, leaving me alone in the shop. A few customers came and went, but none stayed long. By the time I closed up for the evening, the streets were bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. As I walked home, the satchel¡¯s contents loomed large in my mind. Those anti-meta grenades were a tool¡ªjust like my powers. Just like me. The difference was in how I used them, and for what purpose. When I reached my apartment, I didn¡¯t hesitate. I grabbed the satchel from its corner and emptied its contents onto the small table by the window. The grenades gleamed ominously in the dim light, their polished surfaces reflecting fragments of my face. My hands hovered over them, trembling slightly. Replica was never something I became. She was always there, a part of me I¡¯d tried to bury. But that part was what kept me alive, what gave me the strength to survive when the world collapsed around me. Maybe it was time to stop running from her. I clenched my fists, the trembling stopping as resolve hardened within me. I wasn¡¯t a hero, but I wasn¡¯t just a villain either. I was something else entirely¡ªa force for survival, for balance in a world that had tipped too far into chaos. And it was time I accepted that. 019: Uneasy Alliance The night stretched out before me, cloaking Neo Lyon¡¯s streets in an oppressive, suffocating darkness. The air carried the faint tang of rust and oil¡ªa stench that always seemed to hang over the Red Hands¡¯ territory. This part of Brotteaux wasn¡¯t a place you wandered into at night, unless you had business here, and most people knew to steer clear. But I wasn¡¯t most people. I had plenty of business with the Red Hands. Perched atop a derelict warehouse, I surveyed the streets below. The hum of flickering street lights buzzed in my ears as I watched the ebb and flow of their operations. Men and women in red armbands loitered in clusters near shadowy corners, keeping a watchful eye over their turf. Their confidence was sickening. During the past months, they¡¯d terrorized this part of the city with their small time heists. But nowadays, they were more organized, with a clear goal it would seem. I have been surveying them for the past 2 weeks like that, and saw the machine starting to move like clockwork. If I had to move to obtain answers on who backed them, it was tonight. The cool metal of the grappling hook felt steady in my hand as I prepared to descend. My black hood shrouded my face, blending into the shadows like a second skin. To them, I was a myth¡ªan ominous rumor whispered in dark alleys. Tonight, I¡¯d remind them that I wasn¡¯t just a story. I leapt from the rooftop, landing silently in the alley below. My boots barely made a sound on the cracked pavement as I crept toward a group of Red Hands thugs. They were clustered near a rusting van, its back doors open to reveal crates stamped with strange symbols. My pulse quickened. This was what I¡¯d been looking for. ¡°Load it up,¡± one of the goons barked, his voice sharp in the cold night air. ¡°Corsair wants it moved by midnight.¡± Another thug grumbled something inaudible as he heaved a crate into the van. The others stood guard, weapons at their sides but not drawn. They didn¡¯t see me yet¡ªgood. I stepped closer, my movements precise, my breath steady. I struck without warning. The first goon crumpled beneath the force of my elbow against his temple. The second barely had time to draw his weapon before I kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, a grunt escaping his lips as I grabbed his collar and slammed him into the side of the van. The other two turned, shock written across their faces as they scrambled to pull out pistols. ¡°Drop them,¡± I said coldly, my voice low and threatening. ¡°Or you¡¯ll regret it.¡± They hesitated, and in that moment, I lunged. My fist connected with the jaw of the nearest thug, sending him sprawling. The other raised his gun, but I twisted his wrist, forcing him to drop it. A quick sweep of my leg took him down, his body hitting the pavement with a dull thud. The crates were mine now. I crouched next to one, inspecting the symbols stamped on its surface. They were unfamiliar¡ªelegant, almost intricate. Not the crude markings I¡¯d expected from an organization like the Red Hands. This wasn¡¯t their style. They were working for someone, someone with resources and influence. The Genesis Serum had to be tied to this, but the pieces still didn¡¯t fit. ¡°Breaking into other people¡¯s business again, I see.¡± The voice came from behind me¡ªsmooth, amused, and infuriatingly familiar. I turned sharply, my fists clenching as I faced Tempus. He leaned casually against a lamppost, his midnight-blue suit speckled with silver motifs gleaming faintly in the dim light. His Venetian mask hid most of his face, but I could feel the smirk behind it. ¡°Tempus,¡± I said, my tone sharp. ¡°What are you doing here?¡± He tilted his head, mockingly casual. ¡°I could ask you the same thing, but I already know the answer. You¡¯re poking around, looking for trouble.¡± He gestured to the unconscious Red Hands thugs scattered around us. ¡°And judging by the mess, you¡¯ve found it.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t your fight,¡± I snapped, taking a step closer. ¡°Leave.¡± Tempus chuckled, his green eyes glinting behind the mask. ¡°Oh, but it is my fight. The Red Hands have been encroaching on my business for weeks now. They¡¯re bad for Neo Lyon and bad for profits. I figured I¡¯d pay them a visit tonight, but it seems you beat me to the punch.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t get to play hero,¡± I said, my voice low. ¡°Not after what you¡¯ve done.¡± His amusement didn¡¯t falter. ¡°I¡¯m not playing anything, darling. I¡¯m just here to clean up a mess. Though I have to admit, you¡¯ve made quite the mess yourself.¡± I bristled, my hands itching to throw the first punch. But there was something in his tone, something in the way he regarded the Red Hands, that stopped me. He wasn¡¯t here to defend them. He was here to destroy them¡ªjust like me. ¡°What¡¯s your angle?¡± I demanded, crossing my arms. Tempus pushed off the lamppost, his movements fluid as he approached. ¡°No angle. I just think we have a common interest tonight.¡± He glanced at the crates. ¡°And it seems we both like to ask questions.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t trust you.¡± He smiled faintly. ¡°You wound me, girl¨C¡± ¡°Replica.¡± I cut him off coldly. ¡°My name is Replica, not girl or darling.¡± Tempus gave a slight, theatrical bow, his midnight-blue coat rippling like water. ¡°Replica, then. My sincerest apologies for the slight.¡± I ignored his feigned politeness, stepping back toward the crates. ¡°You¡¯re still not answering me. What¡¯s your real reason for being here?¡± He shrugged, his tone maddeningly casual. ¡°Believe it or not, I don¡¯t like the Red Hands any more than you do. They¡¯re reckless, destructive, and¡ª¡± he paused, tilting his head toward the van¡ª ¡°they¡¯ve been meddling in things far above their station.¡± I frowned, glancing down at the elegant markings on the crates. ¡°You mean this?¡± Tempus took a step closer, inspecting the symbols with a critical eye. ¡°Hmm. Intriguing. This isn¡¯t their handiwork. Whoever is supplying them, though¡­¡± He trailed off, then looked back at me, his green eyes gleaming. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you like to know?¡± I bristled at his smug tone but held my ground. ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m here for. Don¡¯t get in my way.¡± He laughed softly, a rich sound that made my skin crawl. ¡°Get in your way? No, no, darling¡ªI¡¯m here to help. Consider it¡­ a partnership. For tonight.¡± ¡°A partnership,¡± I repeated, disbelief dripping from my words. He stepped back, gesturing grandly to the scene around us. ¡°Why not? We both want the same thing: answers. The Red Hands are pests, and I have a vested interest in removing them from the equation. You can keep whatever noble crusade you¡¯re on, and I¡¯ll get to see them grovel when their operation falls apart.¡± I narrowed my eyes, weighing my options. Tempus wasn¡¯t exactly trustworthy¡ªhe was a rogue, after all¡ªbut he wasn¡¯t lying about the Red Hands being a nuisance. His tone, smug as it was, carried a certain sincerity. And as much as I hated to admit it, I could use the extra help. ¡°Fine,¡± I said reluctantly. ¡°But don¡¯t get in my way.¡± He grinned, an infuriatingly self-satisfied expression. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it.¡± Tempus¡¯s grin was insufferable, the kind that made me want to knock his teeth out on principle. But he wasn¡¯t wrong about the Red Hands. They had grown bold, and whoever was backing them had more power than I was comfortable with. The crates at my feet were proof enough of that. ¡°Do you have a plan, or are you just here to enjoy the chaos?¡± I asked, my voice clipped. ¡°Plans are overrated,¡± Tempus replied, inspecting one of the downed goons with feigned disinterest. ¡°But since you seem to have made yourself quite at home, why don¡¯t we start with whatever you¡¯ve uncovered? Gonna use what you stole from me?¡± He laughs despite the cold tone he put at the ¡°stole¡± part. The night wrapped itself around Brotteaux like a suffocating shroud, the distant hum of the city muted by the oppressive stillness of Red Hands territory. My gaze shifted between the unconscious thugs sprawled across the pavement and Tempus, who seemed far too amused by the chaos I¡¯d wrought. His green eyes sparkled mischievously behind his Venetian mask, his midnight-blue coat gleaming faintly under the dim streetlights. ¡°I didn¡¯t steal anything,¡± I snapped. ¡°It was a tactical acquisition.¡± Tempus chuckled, a low, melodic sound that grated on my nerves. ¡°Semantics, darling. The grenades were mine, you took them, and now here we are. But I¡¯ll forgive you¡ªthis time.¡± I bristled, tightening my fists to resist the urge to wipe the smug grin off his face. ¡°Do you always talk this much?¡± ¡°Only when I¡¯m in good company.¡± He flashed a toothy grin before kneeling to inspect one of the crates. ¡°Now, what do we have here?¡± I stepped closer, keeping a wary eye on him as he ran his fingers over the elegant markings. The symbols etched into the crates were unfamiliar¡ªcurved lines and angular shapes that seemed almost organic in design. Not the crude branding of a street gang. ¡°You know what this is?¡± I asked, folding my arms. Tempus straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his gloves. ¡°Not exactly. But it¡¯s certainly not Red Hands material. This reeks of a third party¡ªa powerful one.¡± I hesitated, weighing his words. As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. The Red Hands were petty criminals, not masterminds. Whatever was in these crates was beyond their pay grade. Tempus gestured to the unconscious goons. ¡°Let¡¯s wake one of them up, shall we? I¡¯m curious to hear what they have to say.¡± Before I could protest, he crouched beside one of the thugs, a burly man with a shaved head and a jagged scar running down his cheek. Tempus lightly tapped the man¡¯s cheek, coaxing him back to consciousness. The thug groaned, blinking groggily. When his eyes focused on Tempus, they widened in terror. ¡°Y-You! What the hell¡ª¡± Tempus smiled, a wolfish expression that sent a chill down my spine. ¡°Good evening, my friend. Let¡¯s have a little chat, shall we?¡± The thug¡¯s gaze darted between Tempus and me, sweat beading on his forehead. ¡°I don¡¯t know anything, I swear¡ª¡± ¡°Let me stop you right there,¡± Tempus interrupted smoothly, holding up a gloved hand. ¡°You¡¯ll find I¡¯m far more reasonable than my charming companion here.¡± He gestured to me with a flourish. ¡°So, let¡¯s keep this simple. Who are you working for?¡± The thug swallowed hard, his face pale. ¡°We¡¯re just moving crates, man. I don¡¯t ask questions.¡± ¡°Wrong answer.¡± I stepped forward, my voice cold. The thug flinched, and I crouched beside him, locking eyes with him. ¡°You¡¯ve been terrorizing this district for months. Who¡¯s backing you? What¡¯s in these crates?¡± His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, his fear rendering him momentarily speechless. Tempus leaned in, his tone conversational. ¡°You see, she¡¯s very impatient. I¡¯d answer her if I were you.¡± The thug¡¯s gaze flicked between us, weighing his options. Finally, he stammered, ¡°I don¡¯t know the names, okay? We just get the stuff and move it. It¡¯s some... chemical or something. That¡¯s all I know, I swear!¡± My stomach churned. Chemical. Genesis Serum had to be involved, but there was no way the Red Hands were manufacturing it on their own. Someone was using them, and the implications were unsettling.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Where¡¯s it going?¡± I demanded, my voice sharp. ¡°I... I don¡¯t know!¡± the thug sputtered. ¡°Corsair¡¯s got the details. He¡¯s the one who talks to the suppliers. We just follow orders.¡± Tempus tilted his head, considering the thug¡¯s words. ¡°Corsair, hmm? Where can we find him?¡± The thug shook his head frantically. ¡°I don¡¯t know! He moves around a lot. He doesn¡¯t tell us where he¡¯ll be.¡± I glanced at Tempus, who sighed theatrically. ¡°Well, that¡¯s disappointing. Still, it gives us a lead.¡± I stood, my mind racing. Corsair was the key, but tracking him down wouldn¡¯t be easy. Tempus followed suit, dusting off his coat. ¡°Well, Replica, it seems we¡¯re on the same trail. Shall we continue our delightful partnership?¡± I hesitated. Trusting Tempus felt like dancing on the edge of a blade, but I couldn¡¯t deny he was useful. And if Corsair was involved with the Genesis Serum, I needed answers¡ªanswers Tempus might help me find. ¡°Fine,¡± I said grudgingly. ¡°But if you get in my way¡ª¡± ¡°Perish the thought,¡± Tempus said with a mock bow. ¡°Lead the way, darling.¡± I ignored the nickname and turned my attention back to the crates. We couldn¡¯t carry them all, but I grabbed a small vial from one of the boxes¡ªa sample, something to analyze later. Tempus, for his part, plucked a red armband from one of the unconscious thugs, twirling it around his fingers. ¡°A souvenir,¡± he said with a smirk. ¡°Focus,¡± I snapped, already moving toward the shadows. ¡°If Corsair¡¯s moving these crates, we need to find out where.¡± Tempus fell into step beside me, his easy confidence grating against my nerves. ¡°You know, you¡¯re surprisingly good at this. Not bad for someone who crossed me.¡± The back alleys of the Brotteaux district stretched like veins into Neo Lyon¡¯s darkened heart. Every step felt like a descent deeper into the belly of a beast, with graffiti-streaked walls whispering warnings to anyone foolish enough to linger. Tempus and I navigated the streets silently, though the tension between us hung thick in the air. He was smug, too smug, and I was all too aware of the thin thread of necessity binding us together. ¡°This Corsair,¡± Tempus began, his voice low but conversational as we moved between shadowed buildings, ¡°he¡¯s not exactly subtle. Word is, he likes to play pirate¡ªhence the name. A bit theatrical, even for my tastes.¡± I rolled my eyes, keeping my focus on the task ahead. ¡°Do you ever stop talking?¡± He flashed a grin, his Venetian mask catching a sliver of moonlight. ¡°Not when I¡¯m in such charming company. And you should be grateful. I¡¯m giving you a crash course in Red Hands sociology, free of charge.¡± We reached a fork in the alleys, and I motioned for him to follow me to the right. The Red Hands¡¯ operations had an unnerving predictability once you understood the rhythm. This path would lead us toward a decrepit garage I¡¯d marked as a potential hub during my previous reconnaissance. If Corsair was coordinating tonight¡¯s shipment, he¡¯d likely be there. The alley opened into a wider courtyard surrounded by crumbling buildings, their windows gaping like empty eye sockets. The shadows stretched long and deep under the dim glow of a single overhead light, buzzing faintly as moths flitted around it. The garage ahead loomed like a crouching beast, its doors shut but not locked. A faint murmur of voices seeped through the cracks, muffled and indistinct. ¡°Corsair may not be here, but this is definitely his playground,¡± I muttered. Tempus stepped beside me, his presence irritatingly casual. ¡°Ah, the classic villain lair vibe. You¡¯d think these criminals would invest in better aesthetics. Still, it¡¯s quaint in its own way.¡± I shot him a glare. ¡°Focus.¡± He raised his hands in mock surrender. ¡°Always, darling.¡± Keeping low, I approached the garage, my movements precise and deliberate. Tempus followed, quieter than I¡¯d expected, though his infuriating smugness radiated off him like heat. When we reached the side of the garage, I pressed my ear to the cold metal door. The voices inside grew clearer¡ªarguing, by the sound of it. Tempus leaned in close, his breath brushing my ear. ¡°How charming. Internal strife. Should we knock?¡± ¡°How come you are so different from that time at the hangar? You know, your¡­ professionalism¡­¡± Tempus chuckled, pulling back slightly, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. ¡°Oh, darling, this was then, and this is now. At the time I thought you were just some small-time henchwoman, not a stunning Rogue Meta.¡± I smirked, biting back the retort that sprang to mind. "Glad I could elevate your opinion of me," I said, my tone dry as the desert. "Now, can we focus? There''s movement inside." Tempus nodded, the glimmer of mischief in his green eyes undimmed. He gestured theatrically, allowing me the lead, though the twirl of his gloved hand made it clear he was only half-serious. The voices on the other side of the door grew louder, punctuated by the clatter of something heavy being dropped. I glanced at Tempus, who tilted his head as if straining to listen. ¡°Seems like we have an argument brewing,¡± he murmured. ¡°Shall we join the conversation?¡± Ignoring his theatrics, I moved to the edge of the garage¡¯s side door and tested the handle. Unlocked. Predictable. I motioned for Tempus to stay close as I slipped inside, my boots silent against the concrete floor. The air was thick with the metallic tang of oil and gasoline, mingling with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. My eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light, taking in the scene. Three Red Hands thugs stood near the center of the room, their postures tense. One of them, a wiry man with a shaved head, gestured wildly with a wrench, his voice rising above the others. ¡°I told you, Corsair said midnight! You were supposed to have the shipment prepped hours ago!¡± ¡°Yeah, well, maybe if you pulled your weight, we wouldn¡¯t be behind schedule,¡± another snapped, a stocky woman with a scar running from her lip to her jaw. She crossed her arms, glaring daggers at the first man. ¡°We¡¯re doing the best we can, but half the crew¡¯s gone, and these crates are a nightmare to move.¡± The third thug, a younger man with a nervous twitch, shifted uncomfortably between them. ¡°Maybe we should call Corsair¡ª¡± ¡°No one is calling Corsair!¡± the wiry man barked, his wrench coming down hard on the nearest crate for emphasis. The resounding clang echoed through the garage. Tempus leaned close to me, his voice a low murmur. ¡°Quaint, isn¡¯t it? The Red Hands have all the coordination of a flock of drunk pigeons.¡± ¡°Quiet,¡± I hissed. My eyes scanned the garage, noting the scattered crates marked with the same strange symbols I¡¯d seen earlier. Several were already loaded onto a truck parked near the far wall, its engine humming faintly. They were preparing to move out. Before I could decide on my approach, Tempus stepped forward, his movements deliberate but almost lazy, as though he were strolling into a dinner party. I reached to stop him, but it was too late. The sound of his boots on the concrete drew the attention of the Red Hands, who turned toward us in unison. ¡°Good evening, friends,¡± Tempus announced, his tone dripping with charm. ¡°Don¡¯t let me interrupt¡ªplease, continue your delightful debate.¡± The wiry man reacted first, raising his wrench defensively. ¡°Who the hell are you?¡± Tempus placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. ¡°Who am I? My dear fellow, I¡¯m the man who¡¯s about to save your sorry operation from collapsing under its own incompetence.¡± Tempus''s voice carried an air of authority that stopped the wiry man mid-swing, though the tension in the room was palpable. I followed Tempus inside, my own steps measured and purposeful. The wiry man¡¯s gaze darted to me, and recognition flickered in his eyes¡ªthen fear. ¡°Shit. It¡¯s her,¡± he hissed, taking a step back. The woman with the scar shifted her stance, her hand moving toward the pistol holstered at her side. ¡°Stand down,¡± I said coldly, my voice slicing through the room like a blade. ¡°Unless you want a repeat of last time.¡± Tempus clapped his hands once, drawing attention back to himself. ¡°Ah, now this is getting exciting! Replica, darling, do remind me¡ªwhat exactly did you do to these poor souls? They seem utterly terrified of you.¡± ¡°Nothing they didn¡¯t deserve,¡± I replied icily, my eyes fixed on the thugs. ¡°And if they don¡¯t want a second helping, they¡¯ll tell us what we want to know.¡± The wiry man¡¯s grip tightened on the wrench, his knuckles turning white. ¡°We don¡¯t have to tell you anything! You think you can just walk in here and¡ª¡± Tempus interrupted him with a slow clap. ¡°Oh, this is adorable. Truly. But here¡¯s the thing¡ªshe¡¯s not bluffing.¡± His grin turned predatory. ¡°And if she doesn¡¯t take you apart, I might. So, let¡¯s keep this civil, shall we?¡± The stocky woman with the scar glared between us, her eyes narrowing. ¡°What do you want?¡± I stepped forward, closing the gap between us. The faint hum of the truck¡¯s engine reverberated in the background, a reminder that their operation was on the verge of moving out. ¡°We want to know who¡¯s backing you. These crates aren¡¯t your style, and you¡¯re not smart enough to pull this off on your own.¡± The younger thug shifted nervously, his gaze darting to the others. ¡°We don¡¯t know¡ª¡± ¡°Shut up!¡± the wiry man snapped, silencing him with a glare. He turned his attention back to me, his defiance faltering under my unrelenting stare. ¡°Look, we just move the stuff, okay? Corsair¡¯s the one with the contacts. He gives the orders, and we follow them. Watcher also knew stuff, but since you thrashed him, he is stuck in the hospital.¡± ¡°Fuuucccck¡­ it¡¯s her¡­?¡± I could hear the twitchy man whisper under his breath at the revelation. Tempus chuckled, amused by the fear radiating from the twitchy thug. He tilted his head toward me, his voice smooth and mocking. "My, my, Replica. You¡¯re becoming quite the urban legend. Remind me to never get on your bad side¡ªoh wait." I ignored him, my focus fixed on the wiry man gripping his wrench like it was a lifeline. ¡°Watcher¡¯s out of the picture, and Corsair¡¯s ghosting you. You¡¯re running blind, aren¡¯t you?¡± The wiry man¡¯s jaw clenched, his defiance crumbling under the weight of his own admission. "We don¡¯t know where Corsair is. He doesn¡¯t tell us. He just drops orders and expects us to make it work." ¡°That¡¯s a shame,¡± Tempus drawled, pacing leisurely around the group. ¡°Because without Corsair, you¡¯re all just headless chickens. And chickens, unfortunately, tend to get plucked.¡± The scarred woman stepped forward, her hand hovering near her pistol. "We¡¯ve got enough to handle you two¡ª" Tempus¡¯s voice sliced through her threat, cold and venomous. ¡°Ah, ah. I wouldn¡¯t try it, dear. I can stop time for you before you even finish that thought.¡± He tapped his temple, his grin never faltering. I let his theatrics hold their attention while I circled toward the crates. My eyes locked onto the truck, its cargo the key to unraveling the Red Hands¡¯ plans. The twitchy thug noticed me moving and shifted nervously. ¡°Hey! What¡¯re you¡ª¡± Tempus raised a hand, silencing him with a flourish. ¡°Let her work. You, my jittery friend, should worry about what happens when she¡¯s done.¡± Ignoring the tension behind me, I inspected the nearest crate. Its lid was partially open, revealing rows of small vials glimmering faintly in the dim light. The liquid inside was colorless. ¡°Tempus,¡± I called over my shoulder. He glanced at me, then at the vials, his smirk faltering slightly. ¡°Well, now. That¡¯s interesting.¡± The sight of the vials sent a ripple of unease through me. Each one was a mystery sealed in glass, containing a liquid that whispered of power and danger. My instincts screamed Genesis Serum¡ªthere was no other explanation for why the Red Hands would guard something so meticulously. Tempus approached with deliberate steps, his usual swagger replaced by a flicker of genuine interest. ¡°I¡¯m assuming these little bottles mean something to you?¡± ¡°Maybe,¡± I said tightly, not taking my eyes off the crate. ¡°But they¡¯re definitely out of the Red Hands¡¯ league.¡± Tempus crouched beside me, peering at the vials. ¡°Curious. They look like they could be medicine. Or poison. Do enlighten me¡ªwhat am I looking at?¡± The Genesis Serum. At least, that¡¯s what I think it is,¡± I replied, my voice low and laced with unease. ¡°A substance tied to metahuman powers¡ªor worse. If this is what I think it is, the Red Hands are more dangerous than we thought.¡± Tempus¡¯s smirk returned, but it was tinged with caution. ¡°Fascinating. And here I thought I was the unpredictable one. This stuff¡­ is it dangerous to handle?¡± ¡°Potentially,¡± I admitted. ¡°Depends on what it¡¯s designed to do. But I doubt they¡¯re using it to heal puppies and kittens.¡± He chuckled, brushing a finger across one of the vials. ¡°And you believe Corsair is at the heart of this little science experiment?¡± ¡°Corsair¡­ or the person Watcher called ¡°the creep¡±... That creep might be the actual mastermind, I think.¡± The room felt heavier now, as if the very air carried the weight of what we¡¯d discovered. Tempus straightened, his gloved fingers lingering over the crate before he stepped back, his smirk sharpening like a blade. ¡°Well, Replica, it seems you¡¯ve stumbled upon a delightful mystery,¡± he mused, his voice deceptively light. ¡°Whoever this ¡®creep¡¯ is, they¡¯re playing a dangerous game. And Corsair? Just a pawn, I¡¯d wager.¡± ¡°A well-paid pawn,¡± I muttered, closing the crate with deliberate care. ¡°But we need more than guesses. If this is Genesis Serum, someone in Neo Lyon is manufacturing it. The Red Hands are just couriers.¡± Tempus chuckled. ¡°And here I thought you were the brawn of this partnership. Who knew you had brains to match?¡± I ignored the jab, my focus shifting back to the thugs. The wiry man was still clutching his wrench, his resolve fraying with every passing second. I stepped toward him, my voice low and cold. ¡°The ¡®creep.¡¯ Who is he? Where does he operate?¡± The man faltered, his defiance collapsing under the weight of fear. ¡°I don¡¯t know who he is, okay? We never meet him! Corsair handles all that. We just move the shipments.¡± Tempus sighed theatrically. ¡°Well, aren¡¯t you just a font of disappointment? No names, no locations, no juicy secrets? What do you know?¡± The scarred woman glared at him. ¡°We know you two are a pain in the ass.¡± Tempus grinned, unfazed. ¡°Why, thank you. I do strive to be memorable.¡± ¡°Enough,¡± I snapped, cutting through the banter. I grabbed the wiry man¡¯s collar, pulling him closer until our faces were inches apart. ¡°Corsair must have a safe house. A fallback point. Where?¡± He stammered, his resolve crumbling entirely. ¡°There¡¯s... there¡¯s a place in the Croix-Rousse tunnels. An old hideout we used before we expanded. Corsair might be there. That¡¯s all I know, I swear!¡± I released him, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. Tempus raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. ¡°Efficient. Brutal, but efficient,¡± he remarked. ¡°The Croix-Rousse tunnels, you say? Charming. I¡¯ve always loved a good labyrinth.¡± I turned to him, my tone sharp. ¡°This isn¡¯t a game. If Corsair or this ¡®creep¡¯ gets away, we lose our lead. You in or not?¡± Tempus placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. ¡°Darling, I wouldn¡¯t dream of abandoning you now. Besides, this ¡®creep¡¯ sounds positively fascinating.¡± I suppressed a groan, motioning toward the door. ¡°Let¡¯s move. Before they regroup.¡± 020: Maze The chill of the night air bit at my cheeks through my mask as I followed Tempus down the quiet streets of Neo Lyon''s upper district. His midnight-blue suit glinted faintly under the muted glow of the streetlights, the hourglass motif shimmering like some cosmic warning. I hated how calm he seemed, hands casually resting in his pockets as if we were taking a leisurely midnight stroll instead of sneaking into one of the most secure areas in the city. My own nerves were frayed, but I forced myself to keep steady. After all, we were here for a reason¡ªa tunnel, buried deep under layers of bureaucratic nonsense and guarded like the crown jewels. That alone made it suspicious, and suspicious was worth investigating. Even Tempus agreed on that much, which was why we¡¯d struck this uneasy alliance in the first place. ¡°Are you always this silent?¡± Tempus¡¯s voice cut through the quiet like a shard of glass, startling me out of my thoughts. ¡°Are you always this chatty?¡± I shot back, adjusting the strap of my utility belt. My gear wasn¡¯t heavy, but every ounce seemed to weigh more under the tension of the district¡¯s eerie quiet. He chuckled, low and sardonic. ¡°Fair point. Still, your grim determination? A bit much. You could try smiling, you know. Might make you look less like you want to kill someone.¡± ¡°Maybe I do¡­ And how¡¯d you know if I were smiling? My mask covers my full face!¡± ¡°Call it intuition,¡± he said, his voice dripping with mockery. ¡°You¡¯ve got that ¡®death glare behind the mask¡¯ vibe down to an art form.¡± I ignored him, focusing instead on the street ahead. The upper district of Neo Lyon wasn¡¯t built like the rest of the city. It didn¡¯t sprawl or blend into chaos; it towered in orderly blocks of glass and steel, wrapped in a clinical precision that felt unnatural. Here, the streets weren¡¯t filled with graffiti or the echoes of street vendors, but with an oppressive silence that only heightened my unease. Tempus stopped abruptly at an alleyway, his hand brushing against the metallic wall beside him. I caught up, my breath puffing white in the cold. ¡°This is it?¡± I asked, surveying the alley. It looked nondescript¡ªa shadowed crevice tucked between two imposing high-rises. Nothing about it screamed ¡°secret tunnel.¡± Tempus tilted his head as if listening for something, his hand brushing the wall again. ¡°Patience, dear Replica. You¡¯ll learn something yet. Here.¡± He took a step forward, knocking lightly at a seemingly solid steel panel. At first, nothing happened. Then, with a low hiss, the panel slid away, revealing a dark, yawning opening in the wall. I glanced at him. ¡°And how exactly did you figure this out?¡± ¡°I have my methods,¡± he said with a smug grin that I wanted to slap off his face. ¡°Convenient.¡± I stepped through the opening first, the dark swallowing me whole. The air inside the tunnel was cold, a stark contrast to the dry chill of the night outside. It smelled damp, like wet stone and metal, with a faint tang of ozone. My footsteps echoed against the smooth concrete floor as I descended into the shadowy depths, my senses on high alert. Tempus followed, his movements unnervingly quiet, like a ghost trailing in my wake. The passageway was narrow, lined with dull steel walls that seemed to absorb the light from my flashlight rather than reflect it. No markings, no signs, just an unbroken corridor stretching ahead into the unknown. It felt wrong¡ªtoo clean, too precise for something that shouldn¡¯t even exist here. ¡°What¡¯s the point of this place?¡± I muttered, my voice low to keep it from bouncing back at us. ¡°It doesn¡¯t match anything in the city¡¯s infrastructure records.¡± ¡°Who says it¡¯s supposed to match?¡± Tempus replied smoothly. His voice held the faintest edge of amusement, as if the strangeness of our surroundings didn¡¯t faze him. ¡°You think the city council would publicize something like this? Hell! It could even be a Meta¡¯s work!¡± I took another cautious step forward, shining my flashlight along the smooth steel walls. The beam cut through the shadows, but the tunnel seemed endless, its emptiness mocking our presence. My fingers twitched with unease, as if my subconscious could sense something hidden in the dark. ¡°A Meta¡¯s work, huh?¡± I replied, keeping my voice low. ¡°If that¡¯s true, then whoever built this should have left some Power Trace, seeing the sheer size¡­ Someone would have felt it when they made it, no?¡± ¡°¡­True. Unless they¡¯re like you¡ªor me,¡± Tempus said, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic seriousness. ¡°No power trace. No signs of interference. Just¡­ something here that shouldn¡¯t be.¡± I had an inkling it was like that. I never felt anything whenever he used his power. So much so I thought I couldn¡¯t feel Power Traces. Thankfully, it seems like I am the same, that¡¯s less to think about at least. As I was ruminating over our power traces, we continued walking in silence, the noise present Tempus¡¯ boots hitting the floor, our breaths or the rare breeze coming inside the tunnel. The cold seeped into my gloves, making my fingers stiff as I gripped my flashlight. The beam cut through the oppressive darkness, but the longer we walked, the less comfort it gave me. The walls were unnervingly smooth, not a crack or bolt in sight. If this tunnel was old, it didn¡¯t show. If it was new, it was absurdly well-hidden. ¡°Careful,¡± Tempus said suddenly, his voice sharp. He reached out, stopping me just before my boot landed on an odd section of the floor. The steel panels here were faintly discolored, darker than the surrounding ones. ¡°What is it?¡± I asked, my flashlight hovering over the spot. ¡°Could be a pressure plate. Or just a bad weld. Either way, step over it.¡± I did as he said, carefully placing my foot beyond the suspicious section. He followed, his movements effortless as always. It annoyed me how easily he moved, like the world bent just slightly to his will. ¡°Pressure plates in a tunnel like this?¡± I asked once we were past the anomaly. ¡°That doesn¡¯t scream ¡®innocent government project.¡¯¡± ¡°Does anything in Neo Lyon?¡± Tempus quipped, but his tone was distracted. His gaze darted around the tunnel, his eyes narrowing. ¡°This place doesn¡¯t sit right. It¡¯s too precise, too controlled. If it¡¯s not a Meta¡¯s work, then someone with a lot of resources wanted it built without prying eyes.¡± ¡°Think it was there before? I mean, before they built Neo Lyon. From the ruins?¡± ¡°¡­Maybe,¡± Tempus muttered, his tone unusually thoughtful. ¡°But I doubt that. There¡¯s no charred walls, no trace of any fire. If it were there during Laubert¡¯s breakdown, it either resisted the fire quite well, or got restored since.¡± We continued deeper into the tunnel, its stillness a weight that pressed against my mind. The narrow steel walls felt like they were closing in, the air growing colder with each step. Tempus kept glancing at the strange map he¡¯d started sketching on a notepad he pulled from who knows where, an old-school touch for someone who could stop time. ¡°You seem a bit obsessed with that map,¡± I said, trying to mask my unease with sarcasm. ¡°Obsessed?¡± Tempus smirked without looking up. ¡°I prefer meticulous. It¡¯s called preparation, Replica. You should try it sometime.¡± ¡°I prepare,¡± I shot back. ¡°I just don¡¯t doodle every corner like it¡¯s a treasure hunt.¡± ¡°You¡¯ll thank me later,¡± he said with maddening calm, his pen tracing the lines on his notes. ¡°This place has more turns and dead ends than the city¡¯s tax code.¡± "Their tax code is a maze, alright," I muttered, my eyes scanning ahead. The tunnel stretched onward, the darkness seemingly alive, thickened by the faint metallic tang of the air. I adjusted my flashlight and moved forward. Tempus, with his maddening calm, trailed behind me like a shadow. The further we went, the more the tunnel''s eerie perfection gnawed at my nerves. ¡°This place doesn¡¯t just feel secure,¡± I said. ¡°It feels... wrong. Too controlled. No dust, no wear. It¡¯s not natural.¡± Tempus hummed in agreement. ¡°I get what you mean. Most secure places like this overcompensate with tech and traps, but this? It¡¯s almost like it¡¯s hiding itself.¡± ¡°Comforting,¡± I deadpanned, my grip tightening on the flashlight. ¡°You sure you¡¯re not leading us into some kind of trap?¡± ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it, dear Replica,¡± he said with a mock bow. ¡°But if this is a trap, I¡¯d bet good money it¡¯s one hell of an elaborate one.¡± I sighed, pressing forward. The monotony of the tunnel was starting to get to me¡ªevery turn, every featureless wall blended into the last, making it difficult to track our progress. But Tempus¡¯s notepad never stopped scratching. His focus on it was unnerving. Whatever he saw in this labyrinth was clearly more than I did.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°Anything interesting on your doodle?¡± I asked, gesturing at his map. Tempus glanced at me, his smirk faint in the flashlight''s glow. ¡°We¡¯ve taken at least seven lefts and six rights. Either this place loops, or someone built it deliberately to disorient.¡± I stopped walking, processing that. ¡°You¡¯re saying we might be going in circles?¡± ¡°Not might.¡± He held up the notepad. His scrawled lines converged into something that resembled a spiraling pattern. ¡°We are. But there¡¯s a difference between looping and repeating. I think we¡¯re moving deeper each time, just not in a straight line.¡± ¡°That¡¯s insane.¡± ¡°Welcome to Neo Lyon,¡± he quipped. ¡°But here¡¯s the fun part¡ªif someone wanted to hide something, this is exactly how they¡¯d do it. Layered paths, subtle changes, and enough confusion to deter anyone without persistence.¡± ¡°Or without your apparent need to solve every mystery like it¡¯s a Sunday crossword.¡± ¡°Hey, puzzles are my thing,¡± he said lightly. ¡°And I¡¯m not stopping now.¡± ¡°Talking about puzzles¡­ Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s strange we only saw that one pressure plate at the start and nothing else since? Doesn¡¯t that mean we are going the wrong way? Should we retrace our steps back to the plate?¡± ...Not necessarily,¡± Tempus replied, his tone thoughtful rather than dismissive. ¡°If this tunnel is designed to confuse, the lack of traps could be intentional. It lulls intruders into a false sense of security. But retracing our steps might not help if the route loops as I suspect.¡± I frowned, glancing at his notepad again. The sketch of the spiraling map unsettled me more than I cared to admit. ¡°So, what? We just keep walking until we hit something that makes sense?¡± ¡°Precisely,¡± Tempus said, his confidence unwavering. ¡°Patience, Replica. The answers are here¡ªwe just have to find them.¡± The darkness pressed in as we continued, the faint hum of unseen ventilation systems the only sound beyond our footsteps. The monotony was suffocating. Every step felt like walking deeper into an abyss, the flashlight''s beam slicing through shadows that seemed unnaturally dense. My gloved fingers brushed the smooth steel walls occasionally, searching for any anomaly, but they offered no clues¡ªno seams, no imperfections. Whoever or whatever had built this place was meticulous. ¡°Do you think this tunnel really has something to offer? They might have led us on to save their skin? I mean, clearly Corsair won¡¯t be here! We¡¯ve been walking on for hours now!¡± Tempus smirked at my outburst, the faint gleam of amusement dancing in his green eyes behind the faint silver of his Venetian mask. ¡°Ah, Replica, always the optimist. If this tunnel is just a wild goose chase, I¡¯ll buy you a drink. Deal?¡± ¡°You¡¯d better make it a strong one,¡± I muttered, focusing on the path ahead. ¡°But seriously, this is getting ridiculous. Maybe we should mark the walls or something.¡± ¡°And ruin this beautiful, sterile d¨¦cor?¡± Tempus quipped, running his hand lightly along the unblemished steel. ¡°Perish the thought.¡± Ignoring his sarcasm, I pulled out a marker from my belt¡ªa precaution I¡¯d brought, though I wasn¡¯t sure it would even show up on these unnervingly smooth walls. I paused to draw an arrow on the wall at eye level. The marker left a faint black line, a small relief against the unbroken monotony of the tunnel. ¡°This arrow will help us track if we¡¯re actually making progress,¡± I said, capping the marker with a satisfying click. ¡°Or if we¡¯re just walking ourselves into madness.¡± Tempus raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. ¡°A crude method, but I suppose it suits you.¡± I ignored him and pressed on, the tunnel stretching endlessly ahead. The beam of my flashlight swept across the walls, catching only the same smooth steel panels as before. The air felt thicker now, carrying an almost imperceptible hum that made my skin crawl. My thoughts kept circling back to the absurdity of this place. Who would build a labyrinth like this? And why bury it under one of the most secure districts in Neo Lyon? Tempus¡¯s map grew more intricate with each step, the lines twisting and overlapping in a way that made my head spin. His focus never wavered, his pen moving with precise strokes even as the oppressive atmosphere closed in around us. ¡°This place reminds me of a clockwork mechanism,¡± he said suddenly, breaking the silence. ¡°Each turn, each path¡ªit¡¯s all too deliberate.¡± ¡°Clockwork?¡± I asked, glancing back at him. ¡°You think this is some kind of machine?¡± ¡°Not literally,¡± he replied, his tone measured. ¡°But the design feels purposeful. It¡¯s not random. Someone wanted this to be a maze, and not just for fun.¡± ¡°Fun isn¡¯t the word I¡¯d use,¡± I muttered. ¡°Sadistic, maybe.¡± He chuckled lightly. ¡°Call it what you will. But there¡¯s intent here. And intent means someone thought this place was worth hiding.¡± The idea unsettled me more than I cared to admit. If this tunnel was built with such precision, it wasn¡¯t just a forgotten relic. It had a purpose, and whoever created it had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden. My grip tightened on the flashlight as we rounded another corner, my unease growing with each step. We walked in silence for what felt like hours, the tunnel¡¯s unchanging monotony eating away at my nerves. The only signs of life were the occasional arrows I left on the walls, their faint marks a small comfort in the endless void. Tempus¡¯s map had become a tangled web of lines, and even he seemed less confident as we continued deeper. Finally, the tunnel widened into a larger chamber¡ªa circular room with a high, domed ceiling. The walls were the same smooth steel, but the floor was different: a grid of tiles that glinted faintly under the flashlight¡¯s beam. It was empty. ¡°Well, this is... anticlimactic.¡± I sighed. ¡°Guess we just gotta walk back a few hours again to get back to the surface. This was really for nothing! Told you we should have went back to the pressure plate!¡± Tempus shrugged, his usual smirk flickering back. ¡°Come now, Replica. You didn¡¯t think we¡¯d uncover Neo Lyon¡¯s darkest secrets in one night, did you?¡± I swept my flashlight across the room one last time, desperate for some hint of meaning, a clue to justify the hours spent wandering this labyrinth. But there was nothing. Just the same sterile, unyielding steel. My frustration bubbled to the surface. ¡°This was a waste,¡± I muttered, jabbing the flashlight into my belt. ¡°A perfect, cold, empty nothing.¡± Tempus leaned casually against the wall, twirling his pen between his fingers. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call it a complete waste. We¡¯ve got a map now. That¡¯s something.¡± I shot him a glare through my mask. ¡°A map to nowhere.¡± ¡°Patience, dear Replica,¡± he said with maddening calm. ¡°Many paths are left unexplored.¡± I ignored him, focusing instead on the notepad he still clutched. The spiraling lines he¡¯d drawn seemed to mock me, their chaotic precision a reflection of my growing irritation. With a resigned sigh, I turned back toward the tunnel. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± I said. ¡°The air down here is giving me a headache. And the night is almost done, it will be hard to be stealthy once the sun rises.¡± We retraced our steps through the labyrinthine tunnel in silence, our combined frustration palpable. The hours we¡¯d spent down there gnawed at me, but there was no point in turning it into another argument with Tempus. He would just deflect with his maddening nonchalance, and I didn¡¯t have the energy for it. The chamber had been the endpoint of our exploration for the night, an empty space with nothing to show for its meticulous design except more questions. Despite Tempus¡¯s assurances that the map we¡¯d made was valuable, I couldn¡¯t shake the sense that this had been a wild goose chase. ¡°You know,¡± Tempus began as we navigated yet another featureless corridor, his voice echoing faintly in the oppressive silence, ¡°you could try lightening up. We did accomplish something tonight.¡± I shot him a sharp look. ¡°Like what? Discovering that Neo Lyon has even more useless secrets than we thought?¡± He smirked, his mask hiding most of his expression, but the glint in his eyes was unmistakable. ¡°Oh, Replica, your cynicism is showing again. A map, even of nowhere, is still knowledge. Knowledge can be power if used correctly.¡± ¡°Spare me the platitudes,¡± I muttered, stepping over another marked section of the floor. ¡°We¡¯ve mapped an uninhabited maze that might not lead anywhere. And as you love to point out, patience isn¡¯t my strong suit.¡± We reached one of the arrows I¡¯d drawn earlier, confirming we were on the right path back to the entrance. A rare moment of clarity in the monotony. Tempus noted it on his notepad, the scratching of his pen breaking the heavy quiet. ¡°Do you ever stop making noise?¡± I asked, glancing over my shoulder at him. ¡°Do you ever stop complaining?¡± he shot back, his grin audible even if I couldn¡¯t see it. I ignored him and focused on the task at hand: getting out. The air felt heavier the closer we got to the surface, a reminder of the weight this district carried¡ªnot just the physical structures above but the invisible threads of control MetaPol weaved here. When we finally reached the entrance, the steel panel slid open with a hiss, letting the night air flood in. I inhaled deeply, grateful for the sharp chill and the stars overhead. The suffocating stillness of the tunnel faded into the background, replaced by the distant hum of Neo Lyon¡¯s restless heartbeat. Tempus stepped out after me, his movements as smooth as ever. He stretched slightly, as if the hours spent underground had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. ¡°Well, that was fun,¡± he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. I turned to face him, arms crossed. ¡°Define ¡®fun.¡¯ Because I¡¯m pretty sure I just spent hours wandering in circles while you doodled.¡± He waved the notepad in the air. ¡°This ¡®doodling¡¯ is what separates us from the amateurs, dear Replica. Now we have a map of at least part of the maze. That¡¯s progress.¡± ¡°Progress toward what?¡± I demanded. ¡°We still don¡¯t know what this place is or why it¡¯s here. For all we know, it¡¯s just some abandoned project no one cared to clean up and the Red Hands saw as a possible way to confuse their enemies with weird places.¡± Tempus shrugged, his smirk deepening. ¡°Progress toward understanding. Knowledge, dear Replica. I know you find it boring, but it¡¯s the foundation of power.¡± I sighed, shaking my head. ¡°You sound like you¡¯re auditioning for a lecture series.¡± His laugh was soft, almost playful. ¡°Perhaps I am. You¡¯d make an excellent student, by the way. Always so eager to critique.¡± I turned sharply, walking away from him. ¡°We¡¯re done here.¡± Tempus fell into step beside me, his easy demeanor as infuriating as ever. ¡°Oh, Replica, don¡¯t be like that. You know you¡¯d miss me if I weren¡¯t around.¡± ¡°Not even remotely,¡± I shot back, quickening my pace. ¡°You¡¯re an endless source of annoyance.¡± ¡°And yet, here we are,¡± he said, his voice a teasing lilt. ¡°Two unlikely allies unraveling the secrets of Neo Lyon together. Admit it¡ªyou¡¯d be bored without me.¡± I stopped abruptly, forcing him to halt as well. ¡°We¡¯re not allies, Tempus. This¡ªwhatever this is¡ªends here. You go your way, I go mine.¡± Tempus tilted his head, mock hurt flashing in his eyes. ¡°So cold. And after I kept you safe from all those treacherous floor panels.¡± I took a step closer, letting my irritation show. ¡°The next time we cross paths, it won¡¯t be on the same side.¡± ¡°Ah, but wouldn¡¯t that make things even more exciting?¡± he said, his smirk softening into something almost sincere. ¡°You know where to find me if you change your mind.¡± Without waiting for a response, he gave a mock bow and started walking away, his notepad tucked neatly under his arm. The faint shimmer of his suit caught the streetlights as he disappeared into the shadows, his presence lingering like an unwelcome echo. I stayed behind for a moment, letting the night air clear the frustration in my head. Tempus had a way of getting under my skin, his charm a weapon as sharp as any blade. But he was right about one thing: the secrets of Neo Lyon wouldn¡¯t uncover themselves. And I¡¯d be damned if I let him be the one to unravel them first. 021: Musings The morning light filtered through the cracks in the blinds, pale and thin. Neo Lyon¡¯s sky was the same muted grey it always was, clouded with the remnants of battles and industry. It felt like a dream I couldn¡¯t shake off, except it wasn¡¯t a dream¡ªit was reality. A maddening one, with memories clawing at the edges of my mind like stray cats. I had barely managed three hours of sleep, but my body didn¡¯t ache with exhaustion the way it should have. It was strange, unsettling even, but I supposed this was another "perk" of my powers. My reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror mocked me¡ªa face too awake for the circumstances. The dark circles under my eyes were lighter than they had any right to be. I dressed in a loose hoodie and jeans, tugging the fabric over the scars and cuts I hadn¡¯t bothered to heal properly. A small, deliberate choice to remind myself I wasn¡¯t invincible. Every scrape felt like a penance for mistakes I hadn¡¯t yet defined. The shop was quiet when I arrived, its familiar scent of old vinyl and faded leather washing over me. Paul¡¯s haven, his pride and joy, was one of the few places in Neo Lyon that still felt human. Rows of records stretched like soldiers at attention, each sleeve a relic from a simpler time. The warm hum of an old amplifier buzzed softly in the background, its rhythm almost comforting. Paul waved at me from behind the counter, a coffee cup in one hand and a clipboard in the other. His concern was etched in the furrow of his brow. ¡°You sure you¡¯re good to be here today?¡± he asked, setting the clipboard aside. ¡°You look¡­ better than I expected, but still.¡± I offered him a half-smile, shrugging off his worry. ¡°Better here than staring at the walls of that apartment.¡± He nodded, his expression softening. ¡°Fair enough. Just¡­ take it easy, alright?¡± As if I knew how to do that anymore. I set my bag behind the counter, the worn strap catching briefly on the edge of the stool. Paul had already started sorting through the new arrivals, his meticulous nature evident in the neat stacks of records on the workbench. As I began to organize the returns, my mind drifted¡ªunbidden, but inevitable. Tempus. His voice lingered in my head, soft and mocking, tinged with a peculiar warmth that didn¡¯t match our first interaction "You¡¯ll know where to find me." I didn¡¯t. The labyrinthine tunnels of the underground maze still haunted my thoughts, their twists and turns etched into my memory. I could still feel the damp air pressing against my skin, hear the distant echo of my footsteps chasing me. But Tempus had navigated it as though it were his living room, unbothered by the oppressive darkness or the weight of the secrets buried there. Was it arrogance? Confidence? Or was it something else? The way he had smiled at me, the way he had called me by name¡ªlike we were old friends or comrades-in-arms¡ªsent a shiver down my spine. ¡°Liz? You good?¡± Paul¡¯s voice jolted me back to the present. I blinked, realizing I had been holding the same record sleeve for far too long. ¡°Yeah,¡± I said quickly, placing it on the rack. ¡°Just spaced out.¡± He didn¡¯t press, though I caught the faintest flicker of concern in his expression. The bell above the door jingled as a customer walked in¡ªa wiry man in his mid-forties, wearing a trench coat that had seen better days. He muttered a greeting before disappearing into the jazz section. ¡°Another regular?¡± I asked Paul, nodding toward the man. Paul grunted in affirmation. ¡°Benoit. Comes in every week, always looking for Coltrane or Monk. Quiet type, but decent enough.¡± Benoit lingered by the shelves, occasionally muttering to himself as he flipped through the records. I turned my attention back to the task at hand, but my thoughts betrayed me once again. Why was Tempus so friendly? I literally betrayed him and stole from him, and yet he was only joking and almost¡­ flirting¡­ with me. It didn¡¯t make sense. Was it some kind of game to him? A calculated maneuver to disarm me? Or did he see something in me that even I couldn¡¯t fathom? The questions swirled like smoke, leaving me restless and uneasy. The tunnels themselves were another mystery. At first, I had thought they were an elaborate trap laid by the Red Hands. But the more I replayed the events in my mind, the less certain I became. The sheer complexity of the maze, the sleek architecture that didn¡¯t match the rest of Neo Lyon¡ªit all felt out of place. The tunnels had a purpose, one that seemed so far removed from some gang turf war. Were they really just a base of operations, or something more? And if they weren¡¯t tied to the Red Hands, who or what had created them? The bell chimed again, and a woman in a heavy wool coat stepped inside. Her sharp heels clicked against the floor as she made her way to the counter. ¡°Excuse me,¡± the woman said, her voice clipped but polite. She placed a small slip of paper on the counter, listing a few albums she was searching for. Her hands were gloved, the wool of her coat slightly damp from the drizzle outside. ¡°Let me see if we have these in stock,¡± I replied, pocketing my daydreams. The list included some old French chansons, the kind that brought an air of melancholy to any room. As I checked the inventory on Paul¡¯s antiquated system, she idly mentioned, ¡°The weather¡¯s been dreadful, hasn¡¯t it? Almost as if the skies themselves are exhausted by this city.¡± I murmured in agreement, trying not to think too hard about her words. The city¡¯s suffocating atmosphere mirrored the haze in my mind. As the woman waited, she adjusted her gloves and glanced around the shop. Her gaze lingered on a framed poster of a jazz quartet in its heyday, the edges of the frame cracked with time. ¡°I saw something like this in a shop back in Vienna,¡± she remarked. ¡°Lovely city, though it¡¯s been tense lately.¡± ¡°Vienna?¡± I asked, curiosity piqued as I sifted through inventory. ¡°I thought things were quieter there compared to Neo Lyon.¡± She offered a tight smile. ¡°Not this week. There are whispers of the League of Chaos stirring. Some say they were seen on the outskirts.¡± The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, I forgot the search. The League of Chaos. Just the name sent a chill racing down my spine. ¡°If they¡¯re moving west¡­¡± I began, trailing off as the implications set in. ¡°Then they might end up here,¡± she finished grimly. ¡°That¡¯s the fear, isn¡¯t it? That nowhere is safe anymore.¡± I forced myself to nod and returned to the system, though my hands trembled faintly on the keys. Finding her albums didn¡¯t take long, and she left with a murmured thank you. The sound of the door¡¯s bell as it swung shut felt unnervingly final. ¡°As If this place was any safe anyway¡­¡± I said under my breath, unconsciously smiling wryly. The thought of safety¡ªor the lack of it¡ªhung over me like a storm cloud as I returned to organizing the stack of returned records. I didn¡¯t need another reminder of how precarious life in Neo Lyon had become. The scars running through the city¡¯s skyline were proof enough. Yet my thoughts couldn¡¯t escape the labyrinth beneath it, the strange, sterile tunnels that seemed to exist out of time and place. I replayed the events of the maze in my mind, trying to make sense of it all. The sleek walls, the uniform lighting that didn¡¯t flicker like most of Neo Lyon¡¯s failing infrastructure, the unnerving precision of the architecture¡ªit all screamed of something larger, more deliberate.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. If this had been Corsair¡¯s lair, why wasn¡¯t there more evidence of that? The thought gnawed at me as I stacked records mechanically, muscle memory taking over while my mind spiraled into the depths of the underground maze. Corsair was not one for subtlety, from what I¡¯d gathered. The Red Hands were brash, messy, and territorial. They left marks wherever they went¡ªgraffiti, discarded weapons, sometimes even blood. The tunnels, however, were sterile. Too clean, too calculated. Could Corsair have stumbled upon the maze and decided to use it? Maybe it was opportunistic¡ªa place to stash his goons or misdirect potential intruders. But why would a gang like the Red Hands need such an elaborate setup for a mere decoy? That didn¡¯t sit right. The bell above the door jingled again, and I looked up, startled. A young man with a mop of unkempt hair and a backpack slung over one shoulder stepped in. He nodded awkwardly at me before heading straight to the rock section. I breathed out a quiet sigh of relief. Paul was flipping through an old inventory list behind the counter, blissfully unaware of the storm raging in my head. ¡°Liz, you¡¯re holding that record upside down,¡± Paul¡¯s voice cut through the haze. I blinked, glancing down at the sleeve in my hands. Sure enough, the bold, colorful cover of Teenage Hero was inverted. ¡°Sorry,¡± I muttered, flipping it the right way and sliding it into the rack. Paul gave me a long look, the kind that made it clear he was debating whether to say something. Thankfully, he didn¡¯t press. Instead, he turned his attention to the young man browsing the shelves. ¡°Need any help finding something?¡± he called. The customer shook his head without looking up, mumbling something about ¡°just browsing.¡± Paul shrugged and went back to his list. The tunnels nagged at me like an itch I couldn¡¯t scratch. The air down there had been heavy, oppressive in a way that went beyond the physical. It was almost as if the walls themselves were watching, listening. And then there was Tempus¡ªhis calm, his ease, his damned smirk as though he belonged there. Had he known about the tunnels before, or was he improvising? The way he moved, how he¡¯d anticipated every twist and turn, suggested familiarity. But if that was true, what did it mean? Did Tempus have a deeper connection to Neo Lyon¡¯s underbelly than I realized? ¡°Earth to Liz,¡± Paul¡¯s voice broke through again, this time laced with humor. ¡°Where¡¯d you go?¡± ¡°Just thinking,¡± I said, grabbing another stack of records. He raised an eyebrow. ¡°Thinking, huh? You¡¯ve been staring at that same spot for the past minute. Want to share what¡¯s so fascinating?¡± ¡°Not really,¡± I replied with a half-smile, trying to deflect. Paul didn¡¯t push further, but I caught him watching me out of the corner of my eye. I busied myself sorting records, focusing on the physical task to keep my thoughts from spiraling again. It worked for a while¡ªuntil another customer came in, this time a teenager with brightly dyed hair and an armful of punk pins. She was looking for something specific, flipping through the punk section with an air of determination. ¡°Let me know if you need help,¡± I offered, but she didn¡¯t respond, too engrossed in her search. Paul snickered. ¡°Teenagers. Punk rebellion one minute, on their phones the next.¡± I smiled faintly but didn¡¯t respond. My mind was already drifting again. The thought that the tunnels beneath Neo Lyon were more than just a gang hideout clung to me like smoke. If they weren¡¯t Corsair¡¯s base, what were they? A military relic, perhaps, abandoned and repurposed? Or were they something older, something buried deep within the city¡¯s history, waiting to be rediscovered? The smooth walls and precise angles didn¡¯t fit the ramshackle aesthetic of the Red Hands or even Neo Lyon itself. But who else could they belong to? I couldn¡¯t shake the sense that I had stumbled into something bigger than I¡¯d intended. ¡°Curse those goons for having drawn us there¡­¡± I muttered to myself. The bell jingled again. A pair of middle-aged women strolled in, chatting animatedly as they made their way to the pop section. One wore a floral scarf draped dramatically over her shoulders; the other carried a large canvas tote that swung dangerously close to the shelves. Their conversation was loud enough to cut through the faint hum of music in the shop. ¡°I swear, if he forgets my birthday again, I¡¯ll¡ª¡± ¡°Marie, he¡¯s terrible with dates. Get over it,¡± the other interjected, pulling out a record and examining the cover with theatrical disinterest. I forced a polite smile and greeted them with a nod. Their chatter was oddly grounding, pulling me away from the oppressive thoughts of the tunnels and their mysteries. Paul glanced over, a bemused expression on his face. ¡°Think we should start charging for relationship counseling?¡± ¡°Only if we can add ¡®amateur therapy¡¯ to the shop¡¯s sign,¡± I quipped, trying to match his light tone. The interaction steadied me more than I cared to admit. The women lingered, flipping through records and debating song choices with an intensity that bordered on academic. Paul returned to his clipboard, humming absently as he scribbled notes. I fell back into the rhythm of organizing, letting the task distract me. The tunnels below Neo Lyon nagged at me relentlessly. I wasn¡¯t sure what unnerved me more¡ªtheir sleek, clinical design or the fact that they seemed so¡­ wrong for a city like this. It was as if they didn¡¯t belong in this reality at all, a piece of some other world that had been misplaced beneath our crumbling streets. The Red Hands¡¯ presence there had been the cherry on top of an already troubling puzzle. Were they the architects of the maze, or had they simply stumbled onto something they didn¡¯t understand? The thought of Corsair and his crew meticulously designing such a labyrinth seemed absurd. They were blunt instruments, good at causing chaos but not at crafting intricacies. No, it felt more like they had hijacked the space for their own purposes¡ªhiding out, laying traps, or misleading their enemies. Still, the tunnels had felt deliberate in a way I couldn¡¯t articulate, as if they were built for a purpose far removed from petty gang wars. ¡°Need a refill, Liz?¡± Paul asked, gesturing to my half-empty tea cup. His voice tugged me back to reality like a lifeline. I glanced at the cup, its contents tepid from neglect. ¡°Sure,¡± I replied, handing it over. Paul took it with a quick nod, his expression neutral but his eyes darting to me for a moment longer than necessary. I could tell he was keeping tabs, worried but unsure how to pry. He didn¡¯t need to. I knew I looked distracted¡ªI was distracted¡ªbut putting words to my thoughts felt like admitting defeat. Instead, I immersed myself in the task at hand: alphabetizing the returns. The bell above the door jingled, followed by a burst of laughter. A group of college students shuffled in, their energy instantly altering the shop¡¯s mood. They scattered toward different sections, flipping through records with an air of carefree excitement. One of them¡ªa girl with cropped green hair and a studded leather jacket¡ªbeelined for the punk rack. ¡°Hey, do you have anything by The Hyenas?¡± she asked, glancing at me with a hopeful smile. ¡°Let me check,¡± I replied, grateful for the excuse to focus on something tangible. I scanned the shelves quickly but came up empty. ¡°Doesn¡¯t look like it. We might have something in the back, though. Hold on.¡± I stepped into the storage room, letting the cool, musty air calm my fraying nerves. As I sifted through boxes, my thoughts returned to the tunnels. It wasn¡¯t just their design that felt strange¡ªit was their very atmosphere. The air had been damp, yet clean, without the stench of decay or grime that plagued most of Neo Lyon¡¯s underground. And the walls, polished and seamless, had seemed impervious to time or wear. They had no graffiti, no marks of ownership, nothing to indicate who or what had created them. The strangest part was how Tempus had moved through them. He hadn¡¯t hesitated, hadn¡¯t needed to think about which path to take. His confidence had been unnerving, as though he belonged there in a way I never could. That smirk of his, equal parts charm and mockery, lingered in my mind like a splinter I couldn¡¯t remove. ¡°Found it,¡± I said aloud, grabbing a Hyenas record from a dusty crate. I brushed off the sleeve and headed back to the shop floor, where the girl was still waiting. Her face lit up as I handed it over. ¡°You¡¯re a lifesaver,¡± she said, clutching the album like a treasure. ¡°No problem,¡± I replied, returning her smile. The group lingered for a while, their chatter a low hum that blended into the shop¡¯s ambient noise. Paul returned with my tea, placing it on the counter with a faint smile before turning his attention to a clipboard. I sipped the drink absently, letting the warmth settle in my chest. Outside, the muted drizzle continued, the shop windows fogging slightly from the temperature difference. It was a rare bubble of peace in a city that seemed allergic to it. The shop emptied as the afternoon slipped into early evening, leaving me alone with Paul¡¯s quiet hum and the soft crackle of a vinyl playing in the background. I leaned against the counter, the mundane rhythm of sorting returns grounding me, if only for a moment. But Tempus¡¯s words echoed in my mind. ¡°You¡¯ll know where to find me.¡± He had said it so casually, with that infuriating smirk, as if the answer was obvious. Yet here I was, grappling with the weight of what I didn¡¯t understand. His ease in the maze, the almost otherworldly calm in his demeanor¡ªit all pointed to a man who thrived in chaos. Or one who orchestrated it. I sighed, my gaze drifting to the shop window. The rain had intensified, streaking the glass and blurring the view of Neo Lyon¡¯s grimy streets. Something about the rain felt fitting¡ªa cleansing that never quite reached the rot beneath. ¡°Liz,¡± Paul¡¯s voice cut through my reverie, quiet but steady. ¡°You know you don¡¯t have to carry it all on your own.¡± I looked at him, startled by the unexpected softness in his tone. ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I said quickly, brushing it off. His eyes lingered on me for a moment before he returned to his work. ¡°Just remember that.¡± As I sorted the final stack of records, I felt the tether of Neo Lyon¡¯s shadows tightening around me. Answers weren¡¯t going to come easy. But somehow, I¡¯d find them. 022: Scouting A week. It¡¯s the time I¡¯ve spent shadowing, studying, and pretending I belong here. This routine¡ªif you can even call it that¡ªmight stop tonight. Maybe chance will dictate that it has to. The MetaWiki was my starting point. It had an unnerving amount of information about the comings and goings of factions in Neo Lyon, down to MetaPol¡¯s patrol schedules. But the more I studied it, the more I realized its limits. It wasn¡¯t trustworthy. It could just as easily be a trap laid by MetaPol to lure villains into a false sense of security. That¡¯s why I¡¯m here again, roaming the streets of Voltaire Part-Dieu. This district is dangerously close to MetaPol¡¯s Headquarters, right in the beating heart of the city. But that proximity also makes it a hub of activity. Businesses thrive here under the shadow of MetaPol¡¯s so-called ¡°aura of protection.¡± Bankers, executives, and the occasional rogue with deep enough pockets all converge here to indulge in the city¡¯s shiniest facade. But the shine doesn¡¯t fool me. The streets are unnaturally clean, not just free of litter but scrubbed of the life that marks most of Neo Lyon. There¡¯s no graffiti, no cracks in the pavement, no signs of the entropy that grips every other corner of the city. Everything gleams with a sterile perfection that feels more like a warning than an invitation. MetaPol wants people to know they¡¯re watching, even when their agents aren¡¯t patrolling. I keep my pace casual, blending in with the crowd as best I can. Hoodie up, hands shoved in my pockets, eyes scanning every reflective surface for signs of a tail. Surveillance cameras are everywhere, their unblinking lenses perched on building corners like carrion birds. The weight of their gaze settles between my shoulders, urging me to move faster, to get out of their sights. But I can¡¯t. Not yet. The streets are crowded tonight. Office workers in sharp suits march to catch the last trams, their steps brisk and determined. Couples walk arm-in-arm, heads close together to shield against the biting wind. The air smells faintly of roasted chestnuts from a vendor¡¯s cart, its steam curling like smoke signals into the twilight. I should feel safer here. This is the epicenter of MetaPol¡¯s reach, after all. But the truth is, this part of town terrifies me more than the unclaimed districts, where chaos reigns. Here, the order feels oppressive, like a vice closing around the city. My target is a small jewelry shop. It¡¯s wedged between a chic cafe and an unassuming bookstore on the district¡¯s outer edge. Not quite in MetaPol¡¯s direct sightline, but close enough that any mistakes will bring down a world of trouble. The shop¡¯s modest appearance is misleading. Beneath its quaint facade lies a safe stuffed with cash and untraceable gems¡ªprofits from high-end clientele who don¡¯t ask questions and pay in kind. The perfect target for someone like me. But this isn¡¯t just about the money. I take a detour, looping around the block to ensure I¡¯m not being followed. The rhythm of my footsteps blends with the city¡¯s pulse, each step calculated and deliberate. My eyes dart to the glint of a surveillance camera overhead. It sweeps lazily across the street, its motion fluid and indifferent. For now. I make a mental note of its range before slipping into a narrow alleyway behind the jewelry shop. The air here is damp and smells faintly of rot¡ªNeo Lyon¡¯s true undercurrent, seeping through the cracks of its polished veneer. The alley¡¯s shadows swallow me whole, muffling the city¡¯s noise. I crouch beside a dumpster, pulling a small notepad from my pocket. The scrawled notes inside are messy but thorough. Surveillance camera angles, patrol routes, guard shifts. Everything I¡¯ve observed over the past week is here, pieced together like a puzzle. But there are gaps in my knowledge. The store¡¯s security system, for one. I¡¯ve seen the keypad by the entrance and the faint glow of motion detectors inside, but I can¡¯t risk testing them¡ªnot yet. That¡¯s where my next step comes in. I pocket the notebook and make my way down the alley, keeping to the shadows. A few blocks away, there¡¯s a bar frequented by off-duty MetaPol agents and other security personnel. It¡¯s loud, crowded, and the perfect place to overhear things people shouldn¡¯t say out loud. The bar hums with a strange blend of energy and fatigue, like a machine running on fumes but refusing to quit. Neo Lyon¡¯s elite mingle with off-duty agents, their sharp uniforms softened by loosened ties and half-drained glasses. The air is thick with the smell of spilled liquor, cheap cologne, and the faint tang of stress. I slip into a corner booth, out of sight but with a clear line of view to the bar. My hoodie shields my face, and I keep my movements deliberate. People are less likely to notice you when you act like you belong. The bartender¡ªa wiry man with a tattoo snaking up his arm¡ªmoves with precision, pouring drinks and cracking jokes without missing a beat. He knows his regulars well, and they seem to know him too, laughing a little too loudly at his quips. The crowd is a mix of regulars and off-duty types. I spot the uniforms immediately¡ªshirts untucked, badges tucked into pockets, weapons left at home but muscles still taut from years of training. MetaPol agents. Their conversations are animated, laughter punctuating their words. Confidence oozes from their body language. Good. That means they¡¯re comfortable. A group of four agents occupies the center table, their drinks already halfway gone. One of them¡ªa tall woman with sharp features and a commanding presence¡ªleans back in her chair, laughing at something her colleague said. Her laugh is loud, boisterous, and just tipsy enough to suggest she might be my best target.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Their voices rise over the noise, snippets of conversation drifting toward me. "...and then he had the audacity to suggest we double back through the district, as if the entire perimeter wasn¡¯t already secured. Typical brass, am I right?¡± the sharp-featured woman said, her voice dripping with disdain. The group laughed, raising their glasses in a collective toast to the incompetence of their superiors. I leaned back in the booth, feigning disinterest while my ears honed in on their words. Their table was close enough for me to catch fragments of conversation, but not so close as to draw suspicion. This was the balance¡ªclose, but not too close. Invisible, but listening. The woman¡¯s voice cut through the din again. ¡°Anyway, that idiot Corsair has been quiet lately. Feels like a setup, doesn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Or he¡¯s finally running out of goons dumb enough to follow him,¡± one of the others chimed in, a burly man with a buzz cut. He tilted his glass back and drained it in one go. The burly man slammed his glass down with a smirk. ¡°What kind of idiot robs a district under MetaPol''s thumb anyway? It¡¯s like painting a target on your forehead.¡± The sharp-featured woman snorted. ¡°You¡¯d be surprised. People are desperate, and Corsair''s not exactly known for subtlety. Still, it¡¯s odd. Normally, his gang loves stirring up trouble in Brotteaux. Why the quiet?¡± Their table fell into a lull as they considered this. I filed the information away. Corsair¡¯s movements¡ªor lack thereof¡ªweren¡¯t directly relevant to me right now, but anything connected to Neo Lyon¡¯s factions was worth noting. He could be a useful distraction if things went sideways. ¡°Eh, maybe he¡¯s lying low after the last raid,¡± another agent¡ªa younger man with sandy hair¡ªoffered. ¡°MetaPol hit them hard last time. Even Corsair has to lick his wounds eventually.¡± The woman shook her head. ¡°Doubt it. He¡¯s too cocky for that. If he¡¯s quiet, it¡¯s because he¡¯s planning something.¡± A quiet Corsair was no less dangerous than an active one. In fact, it was worse. Unpredictability made him a wild card in a city already teetering on chaos. The thought gnawed at me, but I pushed it aside for now. Focus. Their conversation shifted to lighter topics, meaningless anecdotes about patrol mishaps and office politics. I waited, patient and still, until another thread of useful information emerged. "...and then, the last thing you want is to fumble the override code during an inspection. You¡¯d think they¡¯d streamline it by now,¡± the younger man with sandy hair grumbled, swirling the last of his drink in his glass. Override code. My ears perked up, and I adjusted my position in the booth slightly to catch every word. The sharp-featured woman rolled her eyes. ¡°Streamline? Ha! Like MetaPol¡¯s going to make life easier for us. They¡¯d rather we memorize a dozen variations than admit the system¡¯s outdated.¡± ¡°You think they¡¯ll ever replace the guards at the vaults with automated drones?¡± the burly man asked, leaning forward. ¡°Not in Voltaire,¡± the woman replied, her tone dismissive. ¡°Too high-profile, too many clients who want the personal touch. Keeps the tech flashy but relies on warm bodies for security. It¡¯s all about appearances there.¡± The burly man smirked. ¡°Right, ¡®cause a warm body can override a system when it malfunctions.¡± The group laughed, and the younger man shook his head. ¡°Still better than Brotteaux. That place is basically held together with duct tape and prayers.¡± Their laughter drifted into other topics, but I had heard enough. Voltaire¡¯s security might rely on a mix of tech and people, but if there was an override code for the jewelry shop¡ªor even a pattern to MetaPol¡¯s system¡ªit was critical intel. The next step was figuring out how to leverage that information. I waited until the group was thoroughly engrossed in their drinks and stories before slipping out of the booth. The bar¡¯s exit was a few steps away, but I hesitated, glancing at the bartender. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room with the precision of someone who had seen his share of trouble. If I left too quickly, it might draw attention. Instead, I took a detour toward the restroom, blending into the ebb and flow of patrons moving through the space. Inside, I leaned against the sink, letting the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights drown out the noise in my head. The pieces were coming together. The jewelry shop¡¯s security, MetaPol¡¯s patrols, and now the potential for an override system¡ªit all pointed to a plan that was just within reach. But it wasn¡¯t complete yet.
Later that night, I found myself crouched on the rooftop of a building overlooking the jewelry shop. The cool metal beneath me was slick with condensation, and the city¡¯s lights cast long, jagged shadows across the alleyways below. From this vantage point, I could see the shop¡¯s entrances and the surrounding streets. The shop had closed hours ago, but a lone security guard paced inside. His flashlight¡¯s beam swept lazily across the room, a pattern as predictable as clockwork. Outside, a patrol drone buzzed by, its red light scanning the street before it moved on. I waited until the drone was out of sight before descending the fire escape. My boots hit the pavement with a muted thud, and I melted into the shadows. The shop¡¯s back entrance was my focus tonight. It wasn¡¯t time for the heist yet, but I needed to confirm the layout and security system. If the keypad by the entrance was connected to a central alarm, I¡¯d need to figure out how to disable it¡ªor bypass it entirely. I approached the door cautiously, my breath misting in the chilly night air. The keypad¡¯s faint blue glow illuminated the metal surface around it, casting soft light onto the otherwise dark alley. A small sticker next to it bore the logo of a well-known security company¡ªMetaPol¡¯s favorite contractor¡ªThe Guild. As I examined the keypad, I noticed a faint smudge of fingerprints on the most frequently pressed buttons. It wasn¡¯t much, but it gave me a starting point. I pulled out a small device from my pocket¡ªa portable scanner I had lifted from a pawnshop weeks ago. It wasn¡¯t sophisticated, but it would pick up the electromagnetic signals of a basic security system. I held it near the keypad, watching as the display flickered to life with a series of numbers. The shop¡¯s alarm system wasn¡¯t as advanced as I¡¯d feared. It was connected to MetaPol¡¯s grid, but the signal wasn¡¯t encrypted. With the right tools, I could create a temporary loop to prevent it from triggering when I entered the code. Satisfied, I stepped back into the shadows and made my way to the alley¡¯s exit.
The next few days were a blur of preparation. I scoured the pawnshop circuit for tools I¡¯d need¡ªa signal jammer, a set of lockpicks, and a cheap, unregistered phone to use as a burner. Each night, I returned to the jewelry shop, watching, waiting, and noting every detail. The guard¡¯s pacing remained consistent, and the patrol drones followed a predictable route. It was almost too perfect, too clean. On the fourth night, I spotted something that made my blood run cold. A man in a dark coat loitered near the shop¡¯s entrance, his movements casual but deliberate. He wasn¡¯t a guard, and he didn¡¯t fit the profile of a typical passerby. His eyes darted to the shop, then to the surrounding streets, as if he were scoping the place out. Was he another thief? A MetaPol plant? I watched him from my rooftop perch, my mind racing. If he was after the same target, it could complicate everything. But if he was a decoy¡ªsomeone meant to draw out others like me¡ªthen my entire plan was already compromised. The man lingered for a few more minutes before disappearing into the night. I stayed on the rooftop long after he was gone, my thoughts tangled in a web of paranoia and strategy. Neo Lyon¡¯s shadows were never quiet for long. Tomorrow had to be the night. 023: Diamond In The Rough The rain was a fine mist that clung to everything, muting the glow of the city lights. Neo Lyon was a restless beast, its breath of smoke and decay heavy in the air as I crouched in the alley behind the jewelry shop. The droplet ran on my costume, leaving it pristine. Despite its cover, the cold still bit at my face. The days are getting colder each day, and that was perfect for today. I needed to stay on the edge. My eyes scanned the dim alley, pausing on the faint blue glow of the keypad by the back entrance. It was quiet¡ªtoo quiet. Even the faint hum of a patrol drone was absent. I had timed this window perfectly, threading myself through the patterns I¡¯d studied obsessively for days. I touched the small scanner in my utility belt, its weight grounding me. A quick sweep of the keypad earlier in the week had confirmed my suspicions: the system was connected to MetaPol¡¯s grid, but the encryption was laughably weak. Either this place had grown complacent under their umbrella of protection, or someone wanted to leave an opening. The thought made me uneasy, but I shoved it aside. Focus, Liz. The alley smelled of damp concrete and rotting garbage, Neo Lyon¡¯s eternal perfume. The flicker of distant neon signs painted the brick walls in fleeting bursts of color. I took a deep breath and slipped my portable signal jammer from its confines. The device was battered, its casing cracked from years of misuse, but it hummed to life when I flicked the switch. A faint beep from the keypad confirmed that the signal loop was working, overriding the connection temporarily. I pulled on a pair of thin gloves, my fingers trembling slightly as I keyed in the code I¡¯d pieced together from smudged fingerprints. The door clicked open. My heart thudded as I pushed it ajar, the soft creak of the hinges blending with the steady rhythm of the rain. Inside, the air was colder, the faint scent of polished wood and metal replacing the alley¡¯s stink. The storage room was small and utilitarian, stacked with cardboard boxes and cheap shelving. The safe was the real goal. I crept through the room, my boots silent on the ground, as they were designed. The faint glow of motion sensors dotted the walls, but I¡¯d already mapped their range. A quick shuffle to the left, a duck to the right, and I was past them, my pulse pounding in my ears. The safe sat in the corner like a sullen beast, its steel face reflecting the faint light from a nearby fixture. I knelt beside it, pulling out the small toolkit I¡¯d lifted from the pawnshop circuit. It wasn¡¯t some elaborate and pretty work, but it¡¯d do. Affixing it onto the lock mechanism, I turned it on. The lock sizzled a black-purplish smoke before it fell on the floor, toolkit in tow. ¡°The safe is now open¡­¡± I exhaled slowly, my breath clouding in the chill air. Inside, bundles of cash sat stacked neatly alongside a collection of velvet-lined boxes. The gems within caught the light, glinting like tiny stars trapped in their cases. I stuffed the cash into one of the pockets on my belt, the one where I kept at all times 20€ for emergencies. Now the money should amount to 500 times that, seeing the 200 bills. ¡°Lucky me, seems like lots of people still pay in cash¡­¡± A few choice pieces of jewelry followed, their weight oddly comforting. Those I kept in a more interior compartment of the belt. Less chances of losing those small, conspicuous pieces. I was almost finished when the soft sound of footsteps reached my ears. My body froze, every muscle coiling tight. The steps were deliberate, the kind that didn¡¯t belong to the security guard pacing lazily at the front of the store. I pressed myself against the wall, my breath shallow as I peered toward the entrance. A figure moved through the shadows with unsettling grace, their movements fluid and precise. A woman. She was tall, her frame lithe but strong, and her presence filled the room like a storm waiting to break. Her white suit was pristine, its starkness making her seem almost spectral in the dim light. A blue symbol of Libra adorned her chest¡ªa balanced scale that felt anything but reassuring. Just my luck, seems like a hero stumbled on me¡­ The rain dripped down from the open back door, a faint patter accompanying the tense silence in the storage room. My grip on the wall tightened, heart racing as the figure stepped closer. Her movements were deliberate, a predator with no intention of rushing its prey. Think, Liz, think. The suit marked her as a metahuman. Heroes and villains alike didn¡¯t walk into jobs like this without a purpose, which meant this wasn¡¯t a chance encounter. But why would anyone in a pristine white suit¡ªsomething clearly designed for show¡ªbe skulking around the back of a jewelry shop? I weighed my options. Fight? Not ideal. Escape? Also not promising with her between me and the exit. Hide? Too late for that. My only advantage was that she hadn¡¯t spotted me yet. The woman stopped near the safe, her gloved hand brushing against the open door. She glanced inside, her head tilting slightly as if in thought. A faint smirk tugged at her lips as she reached into the compartment, plucking a handful of jewels with an air of detached curiosity. ¡°Sloppy,¡± she murmured, her voice low but cutting through the silence like a blade. ¡°You really should¡¯ve locked this after opening it.¡± I bit back a curse. She knew I was here. The woman straightened, her gaze sweeping the room. I ducked lower into the shadows, my back pressed against the wall as tightly as possible. ¡°You can come out now,¡± she called, her tone calm but laced with authority. ¡°I¡¯m not in the mood to play hide-and-seek.¡± Her words were met with silence, the air between us growing heavier. Don¡¯t move. Don¡¯t breathe. Don¡¯t¡ª ¡°It¡¯s funny,¡± she continued, crouching to inspect the toolkit I¡¯d left by the safe. ¡°Whoever did this clearly knows their way around locks. But finesse? Not so much. Melting the mechanism? A brute-force solution.¡± She paused, her tone turning mocking. ¡°Not very subtle for someone stealing from MetaPol¡¯s backyard.¡± A cold knot formed in my stomach. My instincts screamed at me to bolt, but my brain wrestled them into submission. Running meant exposing myself. She rose fluidly, her posture relaxed but her movements deliberate as she scanned the room. ¡°You¡¯ve got ten seconds,¡± she said, stepping toward the shelves that shielded me from view. ¡°After that, I¡¯ll drag you out myself.¡± Shit, she isn¡¯t bluffing, and letting her yank me into the open would only put me at a greater disadvantage. Fine. ¡°Alright,¡± I said, stepping out with my hands raised, trying to project an air of calm I didn¡¯t feel. ¡°You caught me. Congratulations.¡± Her gaze locked onto mine, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of surprise in her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something colder. ¡°You¡¯re not Corsair¡¯s usual brand of goon,¡± she said, her sharp eyes raking over me. ¡°Too clean. Too clever.¡± I smiled faintly, more of a nervous tick from my barmaid time. ¡°Corsair? Please. Do I look like someone who¡¯d work for that hack?¡± Her expression didn¡¯t shift. Or more like I couldn¡¯t see if it shifted at all with the fabric over her whole face. The room seemed to narrow around her presence, her poised confidence leaving little room for rebuttal. ¡°You don¡¯t,¡± she admitted after a pause, her voice devoid of the tension I felt. ¡°Which makes me wonder¡ªwho are you working for?¡± ¡°No one. Just an independent taking advantage of an oversight. The less entanglements, the better.¡± Her gaze didn¡¯t waver. The pristine white of her suit was unmarred by the dampness clinging to the room, as if the grime of Neo Lyon didn¡¯t dare touch her. The symbol of Libra on her chest glinted faintly under the dim light, a strange beacon of authority and power that made my skin crawl. ¡°Independent,¡± she repeated, her voice carrying an edge of disbelief. ¡°In MetaPol¡¯s backyard? Either you¡¯re a fool, or you¡¯ve got bigger plans than a handful of cash and trinkets.¡± Her words pricked at me, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral. ¡°Plans? You¡¯re reading too much into it. Just a quick job, and I¡¯m gone. Quick money in only a few days of planning ahead.¡± The tension was thick as the white-suited figure studied me. Her presence was overwhelming, radiating an authority I couldn¡¯t place. She wasn¡¯t MetaPol¡ªher lack of their insignia made that clear¡ªbut the white colour and her symbol literally screamed ¡°I serve justice!¡±. ¡°Quick money,¡± she mused, her voice light but cutting. ¡°In a district crawling with MetaPol and surveillance drones. Either you¡¯re very confident or very stupid.¡± She took a deliberate step closer, her gloved hands loose at her sides but ready. ¡°Which is it?¡± I didn¡¯t flinch, though my heart thundered in my chest. ¡°Confident,¡± I replied evenly, lifting my chin just a fraction. ¡°Told you, planned ahead.¡± ¡°Planned, yes¡­¡± The fabric of her mask stretches slightly at where her mouth should be, a smirk maybe? ¡°But not planned well enough as I found you, no?¡± I sigh. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect some Vigilante deciding to patrol a Metapol District, true.¡± The smirk¡ªor what I assumed was a smirk¡ªlingered on her masked face as she shifted her weight slightly, her posture casual but clearly ready to strike if needed. ¡°Vigilante?¡± she echoed, tilting her head slightly. ¡°An interesting assumption.¡± I frowned, keeping my hands raised but lowering my tone. ¡°White suit, symbol of balance¡ªYou¡¯ve got the whole ¡®justice dealer¡¯ aesthetic down. If you¡¯re not a vigilante, then what are you?¡± Her laugh was low and cold, like the rain sliding down the walls outside. Her laugh was low and cold, like the rain sliding down the walls outside. ¡°Justice dealer?¡± she repeated, amusement dripping from her tone. ¡°Not quite. I¡¯m more... selective in how I dispense balance.¡± I narrowed my eyes, trying to gauge her intentions. She exuded confidence, a predator sizing up its prey, but there was something unnervingly calm about her. If she were here to stop me, she¡¯d have acted already. Instead, she seemed content to toy with me, which only made her more dangerous. ¡°Selective balance,¡± I echoed, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. ¡°Sounds like a fancy way of saying you¡¯re a mercenary for morality.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Her head tilted slightly, like a cat intrigued by a mouse. ¡°You could say that. Or you could say I make sure the scales tip in the right direction¡ªwhether or not the world agrees.¡± ¡°Cryptic much?¡± I shot back, shifting my stance slightly to prepare for any sudden moves. ¡°If you¡¯re not here for MetaPol or Corsair, then why are you here?¡± Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before she turned, idly examining the jewels I hadn¡¯t yet pocketed. ¡°Same as you, I¡¯d imagine,¡± she said casually. ¡°Opportunity. Though I prefer my methods to be a bit more... elegant.¡± I bristled at the jab but forced myself to stay calm. ¡°If you¡¯re after the loot, you¡¯re welcome to it. I¡¯ll just take what I¡¯ve already grabbed and be on my way.¡± Her laugh echoed again, colder this time. ¡°Oh, you think this is about loot? How quaint.¡± Before I could respond, her hand darted out, snatching one of the smaller jewel cases from the safe. She held it up to the light, the diamond inside catching the dim glow and refracting it in shards of brilliance. ¡°Diamonds,¡± she mused, her tone almost bored. ¡°Symbols of clarity, strength, resilience. And yet, they¡¯re so easily shattered under the right pressure.¡± Her eyes flicked back to me, piercing and unyielding. ¡°Tell me, thief, do you consider yourself resilient?¡± I bristled under her scrutiny, my instinct screaming that every word out of her mouth was more than just banter. It was a test¡ªa probe, seeking cracks in my composure. I wasn¡¯t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing me falter. ¡°I¡¯d say so,¡± I replied evenly, though my pulse betrayed me with its pounding. ¡°Haven¡¯t been crushed yet.¡± Her fingers tightened on the jewel case, and with a deliberate motion, she dropped it back into the safe. The soft clink of metal on velvet was louder than it should have been in the tense quiet. ¡°We¡¯ll see,¡± she said, her voice cool and enigmatic. ¡°Resilience isn¡¯t just about surviving¡ªit¡¯s about knowing what you stand for when the pressure¡¯s on.¡± I wasn¡¯t sure if she was taunting me, testing me, or just toying with me. Probably all three. Either way, the longer this conversation dragged on, the more dangerous it felt. My mind raced with escape plans, weighing the risks of making a move against staying locked in this bizarre standoff. ¡°Look,¡± I said, my voice low but firm. ¡°I don¡¯t know who you are, and frankly, I don¡¯t care. You¡¯ve got your philosophy about balance or whatever. Fine. But I¡¯ve got no interest in crossing you tonight, so how about we both walk away?¡± Her head tilted again, the fabric of her mask stretching slightly where her mouth should have been. Amusement? Contempt? It was impossible to tell. ¡°Walk away?¡± she repeated, her voice carrying a hint of mockery. ¡°From what, exactly? You¡¯ve already walked into something much bigger than you realize.¡± A chill ran down my spine. Her tone wasn¡¯t threatening¡ªit was something worse. She sounded amused, like she was watching a piece on a chessboard make an inevitable, losing move. ¡°I don¡¯t play games,¡± I said sharply, lowering my hands but keeping my posture defensive. ¡°If you¡¯ve got a point, make it.¡± Her body language shifted, and for a moment, I thought she might attack. Instead, she took a step closer, her presence overwhelming in the small room. ¡°My point,¡± she said, her voice quieter now but no less commanding, ¡°is that you¡¯re not just another thief. Not tonight. You¡¯re here, in this district, at this shop, for a reason. And whether you know it or not, you¡¯ve put yourself in the middle of something that¡¯s going to crush you if you¡¯re not careful.¡± I blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in her words. Was she trying to warn me? Or was this some twisted power play to rattle me? Either way, I wasn¡¯t about to show weakness. ¡°Cryptic much?¡± I said, forcing a smirk onto my face. ¡°You¡¯re making it sound like I stumbled into some grand conspiracy. Newsflash¡ªI¡¯m just here for the cash and the jewels.¡± Her silence was more unnerving than any retort she could have made. She simply stood there, watching me like a puzzle she was trying to solve. The longer the quiet stretched, the harder it became to maintain my composure. Finally, she spoke, her voice low and measured. ¡°You think this is about money? This place isn¡¯t just another jewelry shop. And that safe you cracked? It¡¯s not just holding trinkets¡ªit¡¯s holding leverage.¡± I froze, my mind racing. Leverage? What the hell was she talking about? Was this some kind of MetaPol operation I¡¯d unknowingly walked into? The idea sent a jolt of panic through me, but I shoved it down, keeping my expression neutral. ¡°Leverage, huh?¡± I said, forcing a dry chuckle. ¡°If that¡¯s true, maybe you should take it up with the shop¡¯s owner instead of bothering me.¡± Her gaze didn¡¯t waver. ¡°I would,¡± she said evenly, ¡°but they¡¯re not the one standing in front of me with stolen goods in their pocket.¡± I bit back a curse. This wasn¡¯t going anywhere. She was too composed, too confident, and every instinct I had screamed that she was in control of this encounter. I needed to change the dynamic before she decided to make a move. ¡°What do you want from me?¡± I asked, letting a hint of exasperation creep into my tone. ¡°If you¡¯re here to take me down, just get it over with. Otherwise, let me go and stop wasting my time.¡± For the first time, her posture shifted. She crossed her arms over her chest, the symbol of Libra on her suit catching the dim light again. ¡°What I want,¡± she said slowly, ¡°is to know why you¡¯re really here. And don¡¯t give me the ¡®quick money¡¯ excuse again. You¡¯re too careful for that.¡± I stared at her, my mind spinning. She wasn¡¯t going to let this go, and the longer we stood here, the more likely it was that something would go wrong. I needed to find a way to end this¡ªand fast. ¡°I told you,¡± I said, keeping my voice steady. ¡°I¡¯m an independent operator. No one sent me, and I¡¯ve got no ulterior motives. I saw an opportunity, and I took it. End of story.¡± The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife as the woman in white studied me. She leaned against the wall, her posture deceptively casual, though every inch of her screamed readiness. Her unwavering gaze burned like a spotlight, peeling back layers I¡¯d spent years constructing. "End of story?" she repeated, her tone dripping skepticism. "If that¡¯s true, then you¡¯re a bigger fool than I thought." I gritted my teeth. ¡°You¡¯ve made your point. I¡¯m not exactly thrilled about this conversation either, so why don¡¯t we just go our separate ways?¡± She ignored my words, stepping closer until she was within arm¡¯s reach of me. I tensed, ready to act, but she didn¡¯t strike. Instead, she reached into her pristine white coat and pulled out a small, black device¡ªsleek and unfamiliar. With a flick of her wrist, she turned it on. The room buzzed faintly, and the air seemed to shift. The weight of the moment hit me all at once. This wasn¡¯t some random vigilante or hero playing cat and mouse. Whoever she was, she had tech far beyond the likes of MetaPol or Corsair. ¡°You don¡¯t even know what you¡¯ve stumbled into, do you?¡± she asked, her voice softer now, almost pitying. ¡°This shop isn¡¯t what it seems, and the safe you cracked? It was more than just a score. You¡¯ve pried open a door you¡¯re not prepared to walk through.¡± I folded my arms, forcing myself to stand tall even though my instincts screamed at me to back down. ¡°Then enlighten me. What¡¯s so special about this shop that it¡¯s worth all this trouble?¡± The woman sighed, her gloved fingers tapping the edge of the device she held. ¡°This isn¡¯t just a jewelry store. It¡¯s a front¡ªa safehouse for something much bigger. Some of those velvet-lined boxes contain more than jewelry. They¡¯re holding data, documents, and leverage over powerful people. People who don¡¯t like their secrets being touched.¡± A cold knot formed in my stomach. The jewels and cash I¡¯d pocketed suddenly felt heavier, like they¡¯d grown thorns. ¡°Leverage?¡± I repeated. She nodded. ¡°MetaPol uses shops like these as hidden archives¡ªplaces to store sensitive information away from their official networks. The fact you¡¯ve breached it is a problem¡ªfor them and for you.¡± I stared at her, trying to process her words. My first instinct was to call her a liar, but something in her tone¡ªcalm, steady, and devoid of theatrics¡ªmade me pause. ¡°So what now?¡± I asked, my voice tight. ¡°You take me in? Hand me over to MetaPol?¡± She chuckled, the sound low and sharp. ¡°If that were my goal, you¡¯d already be in cuffs. No, I¡¯m not here to help MetaPol. I¡¯m here because the information in that safe could tip the balance of power in Neo Lyon¡ªand I can¡¯t afford for it to end up in the wrong hands.¡± Her words hung heavy in the air. I didn¡¯t trust her, but I couldn¡¯t ignore the gravity of what she was saying. ¡°And whose hands are the right ones? Yours?¡± She didn¡¯t flinch at the accusation, her gaze steady. ¡°I¡¯m not asking for your trust. I¡¯m asking for your cooperation.¡± A dry laugh escaped me before I could stop it. ¡°Cooperation? You want me to just hand over everything I¡¯ve taken and pretend this never happened?¡± ¡°Not exactly.¡± She took a step back, giving me space, though her presence still loomed. ¡°What I want is to make sure this doesn¡¯t spiral into something worse. The people who own this data don¡¯t play fair, and they don¡¯t leave loose ends.¡± The implications hit me like a punch to the gut. If what she said was true, then by cracking that safe, I¡¯d put myself in the crosshairs of some of the most dangerous players in Neo Lyon. ¡°Why are you telling me this?¡± I asked, narrowing my eyes. ¡°What¡¯s your angle?¡± Her gaze softened, just a fraction. ¡°Because whether you like it or not, you¡¯re involved now. And if you want to survive, you¡¯ll need my help.¡± I didn¡¯t like the way her words settled in my chest, but she wasn¡¯t wrong. The idea of walking away from this unscathed was laughable, and my instincts told me that this woman¡ªwhoever she was¡ªwasn¡¯t bluffing. ¡°What¡¯s the catch?¡± I asked, my tone wary. ¡°No catch,¡± she said, though the faint smirk on her face suggested otherwise. ¡°You walk out of here with what you¡¯ve taken, and I walk out with what I came for. But you keep your head down and your hands clean, or I won¡¯t be there to save you when the consequences come knocking.¡± I clenched my fists, weighing her offer. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but the alternative¡ªfacing MetaPol or whoever else owned this shop¡¯s secrets¡ªwas worse. ¡°Fine,¡± I said finally. ¡°But if this backfires, I¡¯m not going down alone.¡± Her smirk widened. ¡°Fair enough.¡± With that, she turned back to the safe, extracting a small, nondescript USB drive from a hidden compartment. She slipped it into her pocket with the ease of someone who¡¯d done this a hundred times before. The woman¡¯s movements were deliberate, every step calculated. She moved like she owned the room¡ªhell, the entire city¡ªand I hated the way that unsettled me. My instincts screamed at me to run, to fight, to do anything but stand here, pinned by her words and her presence. But something told me she wasn¡¯t bluffing. The USB disappeared into her coat, her expression unreadable beneath the mask. ¡°You¡¯ve got good instincts,¡± she said, breaking the silence. ¡°Quick thinking, resourceful, and you¡¯re not afraid to take risks. That¡¯s rare in Neo Lyon, especially from someone flying solo.¡± ¡°Flattery won¡¯t get you anywhere,¡± I said flatly, crossing my arms to keep my hands from trembling. ¡°If you¡¯re trying to recruit me, save it. I don¡¯t play well with others.¡± Her chuckle was low and almost amused. ¡°Recruit you? No. But I¡¯m not above making an ally where one might be useful.¡± Ally? Was she serious? I stared at her, trying to read past the mask, past the deliberate way she carried herself. She wasn¡¯t giving anything away, but the way she spoke¡ªthe confidence, the subtle weight behind her words¡ªtold me she was used to getting what she wanted. ¡°You think I¡¯m just going to trust you because you haven¡¯t knocked me out or dragged me to MetaPol yet?¡± I asked, my voice sharp. She shrugged, unbothered. ¡°Trust isn¡¯t what I¡¯m asking for. Cooperation, on the other hand? That¡¯s a different matter. You¡¯ve already proven you can get into places most people can¡¯t. That makes you valuable.¡± ¡°Valuable enough to let me walk away?¡± I asked, my tone bitter. ¡°For now.¡± Her head tilted, the faint light catching the scales on her suit. ¡°But don¡¯t mistake this for charity. You¡¯ve crossed into a game you don¡¯t even know you¡¯re playing, and the stakes are higher than you think.¡± I bit back the retort forming on my lips. If she was telling the truth, then my simple heist had just turned into a disaster waiting to happen. But I wasn¡¯t about to let her see how much her words rattled me. ¡°So what now?¡± I asked, keeping my voice steady. ¡°You walk out with your USB, I keep my haul, and we pretend this never happened?¡± ¡°Essentially,¡± the woman said, her tone a perfect blend of assurance and finality. ¡°But don¡¯t mistake silence for inaction. You¡¯ve drawn attention tonight, whether you realize it or not, and attention in this city always comes at a price.¡± Her words landed heavier than they should have, the weight of implication settling into my chest. I wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong, but the truth was I couldn¡¯t be sure. Neo Lyon¡¯s underworld wasn¡¯t forgiving, and neither was MetaPol. ¡°And you?¡± I asked, crossing my arms to steady myself. ¡°What¡¯s your price in all this?¡± She paused, the faintest glimmer of amusement behind her mask. ¡°Consider it a professional courtesy. You¡¯ve stepped into something larger than a quick payday, and while I can¡¯t guarantee you¡¯ll come out unscathed, I can ensure you¡¯re not trampled entirely.¡± ¡°Generous,¡± I said dryly, though I couldn¡¯t quite keep the edge of suspicion from my voice. ¡°Why not let me fend for myself? Or hand me over to MetaPol?¡± ¡°Because I need someone who knows how to get into places like this.¡± Her voice sharpened, cutting through the tension. ¡°You¡¯ve already proven you¡¯re capable, even if your methods could use refinement. And you¡¯re not tied to Corsair, which makes you a rarity¡ªa free agent in a city full of pawns.¡± A free agent. It sounded better than thief or fugitive, but it didn¡¯t erase the precarious position I found myself in. Still, the fact that she hadn¡¯t already handed me over¡ªor worse¡ªsuggested she wasn¡¯t bluffing about wanting cooperation. Or at least, her version of it. ¡°So, what¡¯s your play?¡± I asked, narrowing my eyes. ¡°You¡¯ve clearly got more than a USB on your mind. What happens when this shop¡¯s owner realizes the safe¡¯s been hit?¡± ¡°Let them,¡± she said simply, her confidence unnerving. ¡°They¡¯ll find a mess, sure. But nothing that leads back to me. Or you, if you¡¯re smart.¡± I bristled at the implication but stayed quiet. Her movements were deliberate, almost calculated to keep me on edge without pushing me too far. Whatever game she was playing, she had the upper hand, and we both knew it. ¡°You¡¯ll know me as Libra.¡± she said finally, her voice taking on a commanding edge. ¡°And what should I call you, Ms. Thief?¡± ¡°Replica. Just call me Replica.¡± ¡°Good. Then Replica, I hope you¡¯ll be able to properly leave this place safely. I expect seeing you on friday there.¡± As she declared, a card flew up her hand in my direction. I barely had the time to catch and read the address on it that Libra had disappeared in the pitter patter of the rain. 024: New Alliance The streets of Neo Lyon never slept. Neon lights flickered against the puddles left by an earlier drizzle, casting long shadows that stretched like claws over the damp asphalt. It was a world of whispers and dread, where even the bravest pedestrians hurried home with their heads down. Tonight, I wasn¡¯t among them. Tonight, I had business with a Meta. I adjusted my hood, tugging it low over my eyes as I stepped into an alleyway in T¨ºte d¡¯Or¡ªdangerously close to my place. The air reeked of damp concrete and distant rot. My boots made quiet splashes as I moved, every sound amplified in the stillness. The heist from 2 days ago wasn¡¯t exactly my proudest moment, but necessity demanded I take risks. I needed the money to secure a new living place¡ªI had to let go of the Metapol Relief apartment next month. It would also be good if I could find some hideout for Replica¡­ But the moment I turned the corner and spotted Libra standing in the faint glow of a buzzing streetlamp, I knew my night was about to become far more complicated. "You''re early," I said, my voice low, my tone deliberately disinterested. Libra turned, the white of her mask catching the light. The blue scales of justice on her chest gleamed like an accusation. Her costume was pristine, as always, contrasting sharply with my own black costume with barely any visible accents but the lines catching the light in awkward places and moments¡ªchaos incarnate. She carried herself with the casual arrogance of someone who knew exactly how dangerous they were¡ªand how much they enjoyed being underestimated. "You''re late," she countered smoothly, her voice clipped and faintly amused. She crossed her arms, tilting her head as if studying me. "Not too hard of a place to find, was it?¡± I stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against the damp brick wall. ¡°Let¡¯s not pretend this is a social call. You asked me to come here before disappearing. You got a job for me or something?¡± Libra¡¯s mask tilted slightly, and though her face was obscured, I could feel her eyes boring into me. She held that silence for a moment longer than was comfortable, a game to assert control over the conversation. Finally, she broke it. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t call it a job, exactly. More like an opportunity. For both of us.¡± The way she said it, smooth and practiced, made me bristle. Opportunities with people like Libra were rarely straightforward. ¡°Cut to the chase,¡± I said, keeping my tone even. ¡°What do you want?¡± Libra stepped forward, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the wet pavement. ¡°The Red Hands. They¡¯ve been making moves across the city¡ªgrowing bolder, sloppier. They¡¯re desperate. I think you and I have a shared interest in seeing them crumble.¡± The name sent a shiver down my spine. She shouldn¡¯t know. Almost all my interactions with Metahumans since I have donned my mask have been with Red Hands goons. They are indeed a thorn in my side, and even worse, since the night at The Vault¡­ They both should fear me but also want to get rid of me with Watcher¡¯s state¡­ Despite the storm raging in my mind, I try feigning indifference in front of Libra. ¡°The Red Hands? You mean the group you took me as a goon for? Why would I care?¡± "The Red Hands? You mean the group you took me as a goon for? Why would I care?" I shot back, my voice steady despite the churn of unease inside me. Libra couldn¡¯t know about my vendetta, the tangled web of vengeance and survival that tied me to them. If she did, I¡¯d need to reevaluate the level of danger she posed. Libra chuckled softly, the sound echoing faintly in the confined alley. She tilted her head, her mask reflecting the dim light in an unsettling way. "You¡¯ve crossed paths with them before. Don¡¯t play coy, Replica. It doesn¡¯t suit you." I kept my posture loose, leaning against the wall like I didn¡¯t care, but my mind was working overtime. How much did she know? Did she know about The Vault? About Watcher? About what I¡¯d done? ¡°So what if I have? They¡¯re pests, nothing more. I don¡¯t make a habit of wasting time on roaches.¡± Libra stepped closer, slow and deliberate. ¡°Pests can multiply if left unchecked. And they¡¯ve been getting more and more organized with time. They are less like roaches and more like a proper gang if given enough time. That¡¯s why we need to crush them before that!¡± I folded my arms, letting her words hang in the air. Libra¡¯s tone was sharper now, carrying that weight of conviction that bordered on fanaticism. It wasn¡¯t the first time I¡¯d seen someone like her¡ªburning bright with a purpose they believed was righteous. But purpose like that? It burned you up from the inside. ¡°Bold of you to assume I¡¯d care about your crusade,¡± I said dryly. ¡°What¡¯s in it for me? You wouldn¡¯t call me out to this charming location just to sell me on your moral high ground.¡± Her posture stiffened, a flicker of irritation breaking through her usual calm. ¡°You care more than you let on, Replica. Don¡¯t insult me by pretending otherwise. You¡¯ve seen what the Red Hands are capable of.¡± I kept my face impassive, though her words hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. Of course, I¡¯d seen it. I¡¯d seen what power-hungry metas could do. The destruction, the terror they left in their wake. And what they¡¯d done to me¡ªwhat they¡¯d taken from me¡ªwas etched into my very being. But they weren¡¯t strong yet, they didn¡¯t pose any real threat yet. But the Genesis Serum¡­ Maybe I could work with stomping them. But showing Libra my cards wasn¡¯t an option. Not yet. ¡°And what if I have? Doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m interested in playing the vigilante,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯ve got my own priorities. You should know that by now.¡± Her gaze¡ªor what I imagined as her gaze¡ªpierced through me. For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional drip of water from the rooftops. ¡°You¡¯re working against them already,¡± Libra said finally, her voice softer but no less certain. ¡°Whether for revenge, survival, or something else entirely, you¡¯re in their sights. And that makes us natural allies.¡± I pushed off the wall, stepping closer so the space between us felt charged. ¡°Allies? Is that what you¡¯re offering? Or is this just a convenient way for you to use me as bait while you pursue your own agenda?¡± Libra¡¯s lips curled into a smile beneath her mask, a sly curve that was almost playful. ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s both. But that¡¯s not such a bad thing, is it? You and I¡ªwe both thrive in chaos. Together, we can bring the Red Hands to their knees.¡± Her words hung in the air, heavy with promise and danger. I let them settle, weighing my options. I didn¡¯t trust Libra¡ªtrust was a luxury I couldn¡¯t afford. But I couldn¡¯t deny that taking down the Red Hands was a shared goal, one that aligned with my own goals. ¡°Their base is not going to burn itself down,¡± Libra added, her tone sharp with an edge of impatience. ¡°I¡¯ve been scouting their operations for weeks. I know where to strike. We can move tonight.¡± I stepped back slightly, creating a buffer between us. The air in the alley felt heavier as I considered her offer. Libra¡¯s eagerness to dismantle the Red Hands was palpable, but rushing in? That reeked of impulsiveness¡ªor desperation. ¡°Not tonight,¡± I said, my voice firm. ¡°I¡¯m not exactly the type to barrel into situations without a plan.¡± Libra folded her arms, her posture a mix of exasperation and amusement. ¡°Oh? And what exactly is your plan, Replica? I¡¯d love to hear it.¡± I hesitated. Sharing too much would expose my hand, but lying outright might push Libra away¡ªor worse, make her suspicious. She already knew too much for my comfort. I settled on a half-truth, one that gave just enough to keep her interested without betraying the intricacies of my own agenda. ¡°There¡¯s someone I¡¯m working with,¡± I began, keeping my tone measured. ¡°Let¡¯s just say they¡¯ve got some information that could help us find the Red Hands¡¯ weak points. Rushing in now would be a waste of an opportunity. We¡¯re close to something big.¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Libra studied me for a long moment, the glow of the streetlamp reflecting off the white of her mask. Her silence was a challenge, one I wasn¡¯t eager to rise to. Finally, she broke it with a sharp, derisive laugh. ¡°You¡¯ve got someone you¡¯re working with,¡± she repeated, her voice laced with skepticism. ¡°How convenient. Care to share who this mysterious ally is, or should I just take your word for it?¡± I shrugged, maintaining my facade of indifference. ¡°Names aren¡¯t important. What matters is results. And this person has leads you don¡¯t.¡± Her masked face tilted slightly, as if weighing the truth in my words. ¡°Let me guess. Another rogue operator? Someone who thinks they¡¯re clever enough to outplay the Red Hands?¡± ¡°You could say that,¡± I replied, nonchalant. ¡°But this isn¡¯t a game of wit, Libra. It¡¯s strategy. And strategy requires patience. You¡¯re too eager to charge in headfirst. That¡¯s how people get killed.¡± Libra¡¯s posture stiffened. Her next words came out low, cold. ¡°Don¡¯t mistake my eagerness for recklessness. I¡¯ve done the groundwork. I know their patterns, their defenses. I¡¯m not some novice playing at heroics.¡± ¡°Then you¡¯ll understand why waiting makes sense,¡± I countered, my tone firm but not confrontational. ¡°If we¡¯re going to take them down, we need to make sure we hit where it hurts the most. Scattering them won¡¯t solve the problem. They¡¯ll regroup, rebuild. We need to destroy the foundation.¡± Her silence stretched between us, the tension in the air thick enough to cut. I could tell she hated waiting. People like Libra, driven by their convictions, didn¡¯t take well to delays. But she wasn¡¯t stupid. She had to see the logic. "Fine," Libra finally said, her tone clipped. She uncrossed her arms, shifting her weight as if physically restraining herself from arguing further. "But I won¡¯t wait forever, Replica. These bastards are a stain on Neo Lyon. If you¡¯re wasting my time, I¡¯ll handle this myself." Her words struck like a challenge, but I let them roll off me. I¡¯d dealt with zealots before¡ªpeople who believed in their own righteousness to the point of blindness. Libra might be sharp, but she was still predictable in her passion. I stepped forward, just enough to meet her intensity without being drawn into it. ¡°We¡¯ll do this right,¡± I said, my voice steady. ¡°One move, clean and precise, to make sure they don¡¯t get back up.¡± Libra tilted her head, her masked visage unreadable. ¡°And when do you plan to make this clean and precise move? While you and your nameless accomplice sit around twiddling your thumbs?¡± ¡°Tomorrow night,¡± I said, the decision coming to me as I spoke. It felt right, logical. I had plans to confirm tonight, and it would give me time to approach Tempus¡ªthough I still didn¡¯t trust him entirely either. ¡°Meet me in Croix-Rousse. Near the old textile factory. 22.¡± Libra¡¯s head tilted slightly at my proposal, her posture shifting ever so subtly. I could feel her gaze scrutinizing me even through her mask, weighing the truth of my words. For a heartbeat, the silence was suffocating, punctuated only by the occasional drip of water from the rooftops. ¡°Croix-Rousse,¡± she repeated, her voice sharp, deliberate. ¡°Near the old textile factory. Tomorrow at ten. Fine.¡± Her agreement came with an undertone of suspicion, a subtle warning that she wasn¡¯t entirely convinced of my motives. But she wouldn¡¯t challenge me directly. Not yet. Libra had too much pride to admit she needed me for this, and I wasn¡¯t about to shatter that illusion. ¡°Good,¡± I replied, pushing off the wall and adjusting my hood. ¡°But don¡¯t get any ideas. This isn¡¯t me signing up for your crusade. I have my own reasons for going after them, and they don¡¯t include playing hero.¡± Libra took a step closer, her boots clicking softly against the wet pavement. She stood just within my space, close enough that I could see the faint scuffs on her otherwise immaculate costume. ¡°Call it whatever you want, Replica. But don¡¯t mistake me for someone who fights for glory. I¡¯m here for results. I won¡¯t tolerate half-measures.¡± Her words carried a bite, but I didn¡¯t flinch. I couldn¡¯t. People like her thrived on weakness, even the smallest crack in your armor. ¡°You¡¯ll get your results,¡± I said coolly. ¡°But only if you follow my lead. One wrong move, and this whole thing could backfire. And trust me, you don¡¯t want that.¡± She didn¡¯t respond immediately. Instead, she let the silence stretch, an invisible tug-of-war for control. But finally, she stepped back, the tension easing just enough for me to breathe easier. ¡°Tomorrow, then,¡± she said, her tone laced with finality. I nodded and turned on my heel, leaving the alley without another word. The damp night air clung to my skin as I slipped back onto the dimly lit streets of Neo Lyon. The distant hum of the city¡¯s nightlife was a stark contrast to the charged conversation I¡¯d just left behind. I walked quickly, my mind racing.
Reaching the streets where the tunnel was located, I froze. The quiet echo of footsteps carried down the deserted lane, bouncing off the cold stone walls. It wasn¡¯t the hurried shuffle of a pedestrian or the drunken stagger of a reveler. These steps were deliberate, even. Someone was here. I pulled my hood lower and pressed myself into the shadows of the nearest building. The streetlights flickered, casting dim halos of light over the uneven pavement. My breath misted in the cold air, and I focused on steadying it. Whoever was down there, I couldn¡¯t afford to let them spot me before I understood their intent. The footsteps grew louder, coming from the direction of the tunnel¡¯s entrance. A tall figure emerged from the gloom, cloaked in the deep blue of Neo Lyon¡¯s night. I recognized the Venetian-style mask before I saw the faint glimmer of silver accents on their suit. Tempus. His presence sent a ripple of relief and irritation through me. So, he was here, just as his cryptic words had suggested. Still, I couldn¡¯t shake the suspicion that this wasn¡¯t a coincidence. Tempus didn¡¯t seem like the kind of person who left things to chance. ¡°You¡¯ll know where to find me,¡± he¡¯d said. And here he was, pacing the tunnel¡¯s perimeter like a watchful sentry. Stepping out of the shadows, I kept my voice low but firm. ¡°You always this predictable, or were you waiting for me?¡± Tempus turned sharply, his masked gaze landing on me with unsettling precision. He tilted his head slightly, a smirk audible in his tone even if it was hidden beneath the mask. ¡°Replica. You¡¯ve got quite the knack for timing. Did you miss me?¡± I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. ¡°Hardly. I¡¯ve got better things to do than chase down cryptic remarks.¡± I gestured toward the dark maw of the tunnel behind him. ¡°Care to explain why you¡¯re loitering around here like some lost tourist?¡± He chuckled softly, the sound echoing in the stillness. ¡°Loitering? That¡¯s harsh. I prefer ¡®mapping the uncharted.¡¯¡± He stepped closer, his movements deliberate but not threatening. ¡°And it seems my instincts were right. You¡¯re here. That tells me you¡¯re curious.¡± ¡°Curious isn¡¯t the word I¡¯d use,¡± I said, keeping my tone neutral. ¡°But if you¡¯ve been down here every night, I figured you might¡¯ve stumbled across something useful.¡± Tempus gestured dramatically toward the tunnel, the silver motifs on his gloves catching the faint light. ¡°The maze is full of secrets, Replica. But secrets don¡¯t come cheap. You should know that.¡± I crossed my arms, glaring at him from beneath my hood. ¡°And here I thought you were just being helpful.¡± ¡°Oh, I am,¡± he replied, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. ¡°But it¡¯s no fun if I do all the work. So, what¡¯s your angle? You wouldn¡¯t be here unless you had one.¡± For a moment, I considered withholding the truth. Tempus was slippery, his allegiances as fluid as time itself. But if we were going to work together, even briefly, I needed him to trust me¡ªor at least think he could. ¡°I¡¯m planning a move against the Red Hands,¡± I said finally. ¡°And if this tunnel is connected to them in any way, I need to know.¡± Tempus tilted his head, as if weighing my words. ¡°Finally some actions! And to answer your question, my dear, I¡¯ll say that a part is theirs, that¡¯s for sure.¡± I nodded, absorbing the information. ¡°Good. Then tomorrow night, 22 sharp, I need you here. We¡¯re going to act.¡± Tempus folded his arms, the silver details of his gloves catching the faint light. ¡°That¡¯s quite the demand, Replica. You¡¯re not even going to ask nicely?¡± ¡°Would it make a difference?¡± I shot back, my tone clipped. ¡°Not really,¡± he admitted with a soft laugh. ¡°But I like to know where I stand. So, what¡¯s the plan? Or do you just enjoy dragging people into your chaos?¡± I stepped closer, lowering my voice. ¡°The plan is simple. We confirm what we need to about the tunnel¡¯s connection to the Red Hands, then take it from there. If you¡¯re worried about chaos, Tempus, you should¡¯ve thought twice about calling this city home.¡± He chuckled again, a sound that seemed too casual for the tension in the air. ¡°Touch¨¦. But fine, I¡¯ll be here. 22 sharp, like you said. Just don¡¯t keep me waiting. Time isn¡¯t a luxury I like to waste.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dream of it,¡± I replied dryly. Tempus turned back to the tunnel, his gloved hand brushing against the stone wall as though it whispered secrets only he could hear. He paused, tilting his head as if listening for something in the distance. ¡°You should know, Replica, this maze doesn¡¯t play fair. It twists and turns, leads you in circles, and spits you out in places you never expected.¡± I frowned, his words setting me on edge. ¡°Is that your way of saying we¡¯ll run into trouble?¡± His masked face turned toward me, the faint glow of a streetlamp catching the curve of the Venetian mask. ¡°Always. But isn¡¯t that half the fun?¡± I didn¡¯t dignify that with a response. Instead, I turned away, my boots crunching softly against the gravel as I headed back toward the street. ¡°Tomorrow night,¡± I called over my shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t be late.¡± Tempus¡¯s voice followed me, light and teasing. ¡°I¡¯m never late, Replica. I just arrive when I¡¯m needed.¡± I rolled my eyes, pulling my hood lower as I stepped back into the city¡¯s neon-lit streets. Behind me, the shadows of the tunnel seemed to pulse, alive with the weight of secrets I wasn¡¯t sure I wanted to uncover. But tomorrow night would bring answers¡ªor more chaos. Either way, I¡¯d be ready. 025: Whispers The air was thick with the mingled scents of rain-soaked concrete and distant exhaust fumes as I approached the agreed meeting spot, my senses on high alert. Neo Lyon was quieter tonight, an unsettling kind of quiet that always felt like the prelude to something catastrophic. The glow of a streetlamp flickered overhead, casting my shadow long and distorted on the pavement. I was a street away from the tunnel¡¯s entrance, where the city¡¯s forgotten veins twisted into a maze of secrets. And, as promised, there was Libra. Her white costume gleamed even in the weak light, the bold blue scales on her chest defiant against the shadows. She stood motionless, arms crossed, a lone sentinel among the muted hum of the city. Her mask, an unyielding depiction of blind liberty, turned toward me as I approached. ¡°Prompt as ever,¡± I said, my voice casual but low. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± she replied curtly, though I could hear the faintest hint of amusement beneath her clipped tone. I tugged my hood lower, ignoring her jab. ¡°The tunnel¡¯s just ahead. Let¡¯s move before we attract attention.¡± Libra fell into step beside me, her movements precise and deliberate. She didn¡¯t speak as we walked, her focus unnerving in its intensity. If she was curious about the plan, she didn¡¯t show it. I wasn¡¯t about to offer explanations, either. We were halfway to the tunnel¡¯s entrance when I caught the faint sound of footsteps echoing from the opposite direction. I instinctively tensed, my eyes scanning the dimly lit street ahead. A figure emerged from the darkness, their stride easy and confident. Tempus. His Venetian mask caught the light as he moved closer, the silver accents on his midnight-blue suit gleaming faintly. He raised a gloved hand in a mock salute. ¡°Evening, Replica,¡± he called, his tone light and teasing. ¡°And who¡¯s this? You¡¯ve brought along a friend. I¡¯m flattered.¡± Libra stopped abruptly, her masked gaze locking onto Tempus. Her posture shifted subtly, the faintest edge of tension creeping into her stance. ¡°Tempus,¡± she said, her voice sharp with recognition. ¡°I¡¯ve read about you.¡± Tempus tilted his head, clearly intrigued. ¡°Oh? Flattery or infamy?¡± ¡°Both,¡± Libra replied evenly, though her tone carried an undercurrent of caution. ¡°A Rogue with a penchant for time manipulation. You¡¯ve crossed paths with the Moon-Eaters, haven¡¯t you?¡± Tempus chuckled, a low, easy sound. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t say crossed paths. More like danced around them. They¡¯re not exactly my type.¡± He turned to me, his mask tilting slightly. ¡°And you, Replica? Expanding your social circle?¡± ¡°Hardly,¡± I muttered. ¡°Libra and I have¡­ overlapping interests tonight.¡± Tempus¡¯s amusement was palpable, even through the mask. ¡°Fascinating. I do love a good intersection of chaos. And in such good company as you two ladies. Shall we, then?¡± Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the tunnel, his movements fluid and unhurried. Libra and I exchanged a glance¡ªhers wary, mine resigned¡ªbefore following. The air thickened as we approached the mouth of the tunnel, its yawning darkness a stark contrast to the faintly glowing streets behind us. The once vibrant cityscape faded with each step, replaced by the heavy, damp smell of old stone and forgotten spaces. Tempus, ever the embodiment of unwarranted cheer, walked a step ahead, his gloved fingers trailing along the rough surface of the tunnel wall. Libra kept to my left, her measured strides betraying no hint of hesitation, though her rigid posture spoke volumes about her distrust of our newest companion. ¡°I must say,¡± Tempus began, his voice breaking the silence like a blade through paper, ¡°this has all the trappings of a delightful mystery. Three Rogues, skulking about in Neo Lyon¡¯s underbelly. I almost feel like I¡¯m in a heist film. Do we have a script, or shall we improvise?¡± Libra¡¯s sharp exhale was the closest thing I¡¯d heard to a scoff from her. ¡°Some of us don¡¯t treat every mission like a joke,¡± she snapped. ¡°You should take this seriously, Tempus. The Red Hands aren¡¯t a joke.¡± Tempus turned slightly, his mask catching the dim light filtering from above. ¡°And here I thought you¡¯d appreciate a touch of levity, Libra. Perhaps that mask of yours is a little too tight?¡± ¡°Enough,¡± I interjected, my voice low and firm. ¡°If either of you wants to keep arguing, feel free to do it where the Red Hands aren¡¯t setting traps. Otherwise, save it.¡± Libra stiffened but said nothing more. Tempus chuckled softly, raising his hands in mock surrender. ¡°As you wish, dear Replica. Lead the way.¡± ¡°Lead the way? You are the mapmaker here, Tempus. All those nights skulking around in here makes you our guide in there.¡± ¡°Ah, of course! The blind shall lead the blind, and I, your humble mapmaker, will navigate these treacherous depths. Though, I must say, it¡¯s not often one gets to chart a path for such esteemed company. Shall I add an extra flourish to make this adventure truly unforgettable?¡±
The air grew colder as we ventured deeper into the tunnel, the damp stone walls pressing in around us like the weight of a thousand buried secrets. Every step echoed faintly, the sound bouncing through the labyrinthine corridors and amplifying the uneasy silence that seemed to settle over our group. The faint, far-off drip of water punctuated the stillness, like a heartbeat marking the passage of time. Tempus led the way, his movements confident and languid, his gloved fingers tracing idle patterns on the walls as though he owned the place. Behind him, Libra¡¯s rigid posture and calculated steps betrayed her suspicion, every movement a study in controlled precision. I walked last, my senses attuned to the shifting echoes and the faint scrape of boots on stone. ¡°Fascinating, isn¡¯t it?¡± Tempus¡¯s voice broke the silence, his tone carrying its usual undercurrent of amusement. ¡°Neo Lyon¡¯s forgotten veins, winding beneath the city like an unspoken history. I wonder how many secrets these walls have seen?¡± ¡°Fewer than the secrets you keep, I¡¯d wager,¡± Libra shot back, her tone clipped. Tempus glanced over his shoulder, the silver accents on his mask glinting faintly in the dim light. ¡°Oh, I assure you, my dear, my secrets are far less interesting than yours. Though I am curious... Have you read about all my exploits, or just the greatest hits?¡± Libra didn¡¯t respond immediately. Her silence felt heavy, but it only seemed to encourage him. ¡°Let me guess,¡± he continued, his tone teasing. ¡°You¡¯ve read about my little spat with the Moon-Eaters? Or was it the Guild incident that caught your eye? Both were terribly exciting, I must admit.¡± Libra exhaled sharply, the sound echoing like a drawn blade. ¡°I read enough to know you¡¯re unreliable.¡± Tempus chuckled, a low, smooth sound. ¡°Unreliable? That¡¯s harsh. I prefer ¡®selectively dependable.¡¯ And yet, here we are, venturing into the dark together. Trust is such a peculiar thing, isn¡¯t it?¡± I rolled my eyes, keeping my voice low. ¡°Trust isn¡¯t the word I¡¯d use. Now keep moving.¡± ¡°Always the pragmatic one, Replica,¡± he replied, his voice practically a purr. ¡°And here I thought you¡¯d appreciate a bit of charm to lighten the mood. Or is it that you¡¯re worried you might actually enjoy my company?¡± ¡°Not likely,¡± I muttered. The tunnel twisted and turned, each intersection branching into paths that looked indistinguishable from one another. Without Tempus¡¯s occasional gestures¡ªpointing left, nudging us right¡ªit would¡¯ve been easy to get lost. The air grew heavier the farther we went, the faint scent of damp metal mingling with the earthy musk of old stone. ¡°You know,¡± Tempus said after a moment, his voice conversational, ¡°it occurs to me that we make quite the trio. Libra, the embodiment of justice. Replica, the face of calculated chaos. And me, the rogue timekeeper caught between it all. If I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d say we were a story waiting to be written.¡± Libra scoffed audibly this time, her irritation palpable. ¡°If you spent half as much energy on the mission as you do on spouting nonsense, we¡¯d already be done.¡±Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°Who says I can¡¯t multitask?¡± Tempus shot back smoothly. He turned his head slightly, directing his next words at me. ¡°What about you, Replica? Surely you see the appeal of a little banter to break the tension?¡± I didn¡¯t look at him, keeping my gaze fixed ahead. ¡°The only appeal I see is getting out of here alive. Save your banter for someone who cares.¡± Tempus sighed dramatically, as though deeply wounded. ¡°You¡¯re both terribly serious, you know. It¡¯s almost endearing.¡± The air in the tunnel seemed to press heavier with each step, the damp stone walls gleaming faintly with moisture. It was as if the place itself exhaled the weight of ages, carrying the whispers of every secret it had ever swallowed. Ahead, Tempus moved with infuriating ease, his gloved hands tracing patterns on the wall as though he were a tourist admiring ancient ruins. ¡°Selective dependability,¡± Libra muttered under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear. Tempus turned his head slightly, catching her words despite the low volume. ¡°It¡¯s a gift, really,¡± he said, his tone light and teasing. ¡°You should try it sometime, Libra. Being selectively approachable might do wonders for your charm.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t need charm to deal with people like you,¡± she snapped. ¡°Touch¨¦,¡± Tempus replied, unbothered. He glanced back at me, the silver motifs on his mask catching the faint glow of our portable light. ¡°What about you, Replica? Ever feel the urge to break out of that brooding persona and indulge in a bit of lighthearted fun?¡± ¡°I think I left ¡®lighthearted fun¡¯ back with my patience,¡± I said flatly. Tempus chuckled, his laugh echoing faintly down the tunnel. ¡°So serious, both of you. I swear, it¡¯s like I¡¯m trapped with the sternest book club in Neo Lyon.¡± ¡°You can leave anytime,¡± Libra snapped. ¡°And miss the chance to witness justice incarnate in action? Perish the thought,¡± Tempus replied, his voice dripping with theatricality. ¡°Talking about justice incarnate¡­ With such a name and costume, why are you not a hero or vigilante, Libra? Why are you okay with acting with such a shady character and a nobody like me?¡± ¡°And now our dear Replica is asking the questions!¡± Tempus added with a dramatic flair, glancing over his shoulder at me. ¡°You¡¯re not usually one to show curiosity, my dear. I¡¯m flattered.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be,¡± I replied flatly. ¡°I¡¯m just trying to figure out how someone like Libra ended up here, of all places. You¡¯ve got the whole ¡®righteous avenger¡¯ aesthetic down. So why slum it with rogues like us?¡± Libra slowed her pace slightly, turning her head just enough to let me know she was considering my question. When she spoke, her voice was measured, as though she¡¯d anticipated this line of inquiry. ¡°Justice isn¡¯t bound by rules,¡± she said. ¡°The system is broken. Heroes and vigilantes play by laws written to protect the powerful, not the innocent. Sometimes, to do what¡¯s right, you have to step outside the lines.¡± Tempus let out a low whistle. ¡°Impressive. So you¡¯re a philosopher as well as a fighter. I¡¯d wager you¡¯ve got a bookshelf full of dusty tomes about ethics and morality.¡± Libra ignored him, her focus shifting back to the path ahead. I could hear the conviction in her voice, the kind of unwavering belief that could turn dangerous if left unchecked. ¡°And you think stomping through Neo Lyon¡¯s tunnels with a time-bending flirt and someone like me is justice?¡± I asked, my tone sharper than I intended. Libra stopped abruptly, turning to face me. Her masked gaze was unreadable, but her posture radiated a quiet intensity. ¡°You have your reasons for being here, just as I have mine. I¡¯m not interested in justifying myself to you or anyone else. We¡¯re here to deal with the Red Hands. That¡¯s all that matters.¡± Before I could respond, Tempus interjected, his voice light and teasing as ever. ¡°Oh, the drama! I do love a good philosophical debate, but perhaps we could save it for after we¡¯ve dealt with whatever nastiness awaits us in this lovely maze?¡± Libra shot him a withering glare, but she didn¡¯t argue. Instead, she turned and resumed walking, her movements as precise as ever. I followed without a word, my thoughts swirling. Tempus, seemingly oblivious to the tension, continued his attempts to fill the silence. ¡°You know, Replica, I think you and Libra have more in common than you realize. Both of you have that delightful air of mystery, that alluring sense of purpose. It¡¯s positively riveting.¡± ¡°Do you ever shut up?¡± I muttered. ¡°Rarely,¡± he replied with a grin evident in his tone. ¡°But you¡¯d miss me if I did.¡± Libra muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, but she kept walking. We turned a corner, and the tunnel opened into a small chamber, the walls lined with old, rusted pipes. In the center of the room were several wooden crates, their surfaces marked with a familiar symbol that sent a chill down my spine¡ªthe same emblem I¡¯d seen associated with the Genesis Serum. ¡°And behold! My treasure trove!¡± Tempus exclaimed in his usual cheerful tone, ¡°Found this place 2 days ago, the crates weren¡¯t there, though, just some bloke with red gloves and a pirate hat ordering around some red gloved goons!¡± I approached the closest crate, half-ignoring Tempus¡¯ unnerving demeanour. ¡°Empty,¡± I muttered, kneeling to pry open one of the crates. The wooden lid gave way with a hollow creak, revealing nothing but dust and the faint outline of long-removed contents. ¡°Of course.¡± ¡°Careful, dear Replica,¡± Tempus drawled, leaning casually against a nearby pipe, his mask tilted in amusement. ¡°You sound almost disappointed.¡± Libra crouched beside me, running her gloved fingers over the edge of the crate. ¡°They¡¯ve been moved recently,¡± she said, her tone clipped. ¡°The marks here are fresh.¡± Her observation sent a spike of unease through me. If these crates were part of the Red Hands¡¯ operation, then they had much more resources than I expected. ¡°We need to figure out where they¡¯ve taken it,¡± I said, straightening. ¡°The serum alone is dangerous enough, but if they¡¯re storing that much¡­¡± I let the thought trail off, the weight of what we might be facing settling over me like a shroud. ¡°Serum..?¡± Libra echoed me. "...The Genesis Serum," I clarified, my voice lower than I intended. "A substance that can create metas¡ªbut at a cost. It¡¯s unstable, unpredictable, and turns most of its subjects into mindless husks or worse." My words hung in the air, the gravity of them darkening the already oppressive chamber. Libra¡¯s head snapped toward me, her masked face unreadable. ¡°And you didn¡¯t think to mention this earlier?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t think it was relevant until now,¡± I shot back, unwilling to let her scolding tone unnerve me. ¡°As you mentioned, everyone has their own goals with tonight¡¯s raid.¡± The dim chamber¡¯s silence thickened as Libra processed my words. Her hands, still resting on the edge of the crate, curled into fists. The sharp crackle of her leather gloves breaking the silence felt louder than it should in the oppressive stillness. ¡°So,¡± she said, her voice cutting through the air, ¡°we¡¯re not just dealing with a gang. We¡¯re dealing with a group with the means to weaponize a serum that creates metas.¡± Her words carried a dangerous calm that made me meet her masked gaze despite myself. ¡°We don¡¯t know how far they¡¯ve gone with it,¡± I replied, keeping my voice measured. ¡°These crates might have been a temporary stash. For all we know, they¡¯ve already moved whatever they had.¡± Tempus chuckled softly from his perch against the rusted pipe. ¡°Ah, Replica, ever the pragmatist. Always looking at the dark side of things. Though, I must admit, the stakes have certainly spiced up this little venture.¡± Libra ignored him, standing abruptly. ¡°If you knew about this serum, why haven¡¯t you done anything about it?¡± Her accusation hit like a slap, but I¡¯d expected it. ¡°Because I didn¡¯t have the luxury of diving headfirst into danger,¡± I shot back, my tone sharper than intended. ¡°And because it wasn¡¯t my priority¡ªuntil now.¡± Her shoulders stiffened, and I knew my answer hadn¡¯t satisfied her. Before she could press further, a sound cut through the chamber¡ªthe faint echo of voices carried by the tunnel¡¯s twisting corridors. Tempus straightened instantly, his playful demeanor vanishing like a mask dropped at the end of a performance. ¡°Oh, how delightful. Company.¡± His voice was a whisper, his tone laced with curiosity rather than fear. I shot him a glare before motioning for silence. The voices grew louder, their words still indistinct but their cadence unmistakable. Two people. One voice, low and furious, reverberated with authority; the other, higher-pitched and defensive, carried an edge of panic. Libra moved without hesitation, ducking behind the shadow of a column of pipes. I followed, keeping close to the wall, every movement deliberate and silent. Tempus, to his credit, melted into the shadows with a fluidity that reminded me why he was so dangerous. The voices became clearer as their owners approached. ¡°I told you to keep your mouth shut!¡± the deeper voice snapped, his words echoing with venom. ¡°Do you have any idea how close you¡¯ve brought them to finding us?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to!¡± the second voice stammered. ¡°I didn¡¯t think they¡¯d actually¡ª¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t think, period,¡± the first voice snarled. ¡°Now we¡¯ve got to clean this up before it spirals out of control.¡± They were closer now, just on the other side of the chamber¡¯s narrow entrance. I crouched lower, my breath shallow, as I caught sight of them. Two figures emerged into the faint light of the chamber: one tall and broad-shouldered, his face obscured by his pompous pirate hat¡ªCorsair¡ªand the other wiry and twitchy, clutching a clipboard as though it might shield him from the larger man¡¯s wrath. Tempus, hidden in the shadows nearby, made no sound, but I could feel his presence. His gaze seemed to flick between the two men and the crates we¡¯d been investigating moments before. ¡°Do you know how much this serum is worth?¡± the larger man hissed, jabbing a finger into the smaller man¡¯s chest. ¡°If this operation gets exposed, we¡¯re done. Do you understand that? Done.¡± The smaller man flinched but managed a shaky nod. ¡°I know, I know. I¡¯ll fix it. I¡¯ll¡ª¡± ¡°You¡¯ll do nothing but follow orders,¡± the larger man cut in. He turned abruptly, his gaze sweeping the chamber, and I pressed myself deeper into the shadows. ¡°And you¡¯ll pray no one else finds their way down here. If they do¡­¡± He left the threat hanging, but the sharp glint of a blade at his belt completed the unspoken sentence. Libra¡¯s hand moved slightly, her fingers brushing the hilt of the weapon at her side. I reached out, barely brushing her arm, signaling for her to wait. There was too much we didn¡¯t know yet. The smaller man hesitated, then nodded rapidly. ¡°Got it. No one comes down here. I¡¯ll¡­I¡¯ll double-check the outer perimeter before the next shipment.¡± ¡°Good,¡± the larger man growled. ¡°And get those crates loaded onto the transport. We¡¯re moving them to a more secure location tonight.¡± My chest tightened. Tonight. If we didn¡¯t act soon, this lead¡ªand the serum¡ªwould vanish into the labyrinth of Neo Lyon¡¯s underworld. As the two men turned to leave, Tempus¡¯s voice broke the silence, low and silky, a predator testing its prey. ¡°Leaving so soon?¡± The effect was immediate. Both men froze, their heads snapping toward the shadows where Tempus stood. 026: Gunpowder The air in the chamber grew electric the second Tempus spoke. ¡°Leaving so soon?¡± His voice was as smooth and casual as always, but the undertone of smug satisfaction made my stomach tighten. Corsair, the larger man in the ridiculous pirate hat, snapped his head toward the shadows where Tempus stood. His hand shot forward in a vague "stop right there" gesture, and in an instant, ethereal flintlocks materialized in the air around him, their polished barrels gleaming faintly in the dim light of the chamber. Tempus didn¡¯t flinch. If anything, he seemed almost amused, tilting his head as though Corsair¡¯s sudden aggression was a mildly interesting development. ¡°Now, now,¡± he began, his tone light, ¡°no need for theatrics¡ª¡± The crack of gunfire cut him off. Corsair didn¡¯t waste time with warnings or posturing. The nearest flintlock fired, the bullet screaming through the air faster than I would have thought possible for something so archaic. Tempus tried to dodge, but the blast caught him mid-step. He staggered, his hand reflexively clutching his side before his body hit the ground. The deafening crack of Corsair¡¯s flintlock reverberated through the chamber, echoing off the damp stone walls like a harbinger of chaos. My stomach clenched as Tempus crumpled to the ground, clutching his side. For all his theatrics and wit, he hadn¡¯t been fast enough this time. ¡°Tempus!¡± I hissed, my voice sharp, though I didn¡¯t dare rush to him. Corsair¡¯s eyes swept the chamber like a predator sizing up his prey. He moved with unsettling precision, his heavy boots thudding on the stone floor, the sharp click of his ethereal pistols resetting filling the room. ¡°So, the rats have come to play,¡± Corsair sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. His flintlocks floated around him like silent sentinels, each one primed and ready to fire. ¡°Let me show you what happens to pests who crawl into my tunnels.¡± Before I could react, Corsair¡¯s hand flicked upward, and three of his spectral pistols fired in rapid succession. The bullets screamed through the air, ricocheting off the stone walls with an ear splitting whine. I dove for cover behind one of the rusted pipes, the heat from the near-miss grazing my shoulder. ¡°Replica, move!¡± Libra¡¯s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. I glanced to my left and saw her crouched behind a cluster of crates, her eyes darting everywhere. She was clearly trying to find a plan among the chaos. ¡°What are you doing?¡± I shouted, pressing myself tighter against the pipe as another volley of bullets peppered the space around me. ¡°Buying us an opening,¡± she snapped. ¡°Keep him distracted!¡± Distracted. Right. With Tempus out cold and Libra locked in whatever careful calculation her powers required, that left me to keep Corsair and his flintlocks from turning us into corpses. Great. I took a steadying breath and peeked around the edge of my cover. Corsair was advancing steadily, his pistols fanning out to cover every angle of the chamber. His smaller accomplice had already bolted toward the tunnel entrance, likely to fetch reinforcements. ¡°Oi!¡± I shouted, drawing Corsair¡¯s attention as I darted out from behind the pipe. ¡°What¡¯s with the pirate gimmick? Was the eye patch out of stock?¡± Corsair¡¯s lips curled into a wicked grin. ¡°Ah, the smart-mouthed one. Let¡¯s see if you¡¯re still so cheeky when I¡¯ve turned you into a fine mist.¡± The air crackled with residual energy, the echoes of Corsair¡¯s gunfire still ringing in my ears. Tempus lay crumpled on the cold stone, a dark stain blooming on his side. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the chaos. Tempus¡­ I had to reach him. But Corsair was a whirlwind of lethal motion. His ethereal flintlocks danced around him, spitting fire and death with terrifying precision. Each crack of gunfire sent shards of stone and dust flying, forcing me to duck and weave, my breath catching in ragged gasps. I risked a glance at Libra; she was still crouched behind the crates, her brow furrowed in concentration, her hands moving in intricate gestures. Whatever she was conjuring, it wasn¡¯t ready yet. My first instinct was to reach for Tempus, to try and establish a tether, to draw on his power, whatever I could gleam of it, and to transfer the wounds to any other enemies I could reach and fight. Maybe that would also wake him up¡­ However, Corsair¡¯s relentless barrage pulled me out of both my thoughts and Tempus¡¯ area. Every time I dared to move, a hail of bullets forced me back, pinning me down. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood. I rolled behind a fallen pillar, the rough stone scraping against my skin. This wasn¡¯t working. I couldn¡¯t reach Tempus, and I couldn¡¯t fight Corsair head-on. Not like this. I needed a different approach. I focused, pushing my awareness outwards, searching for any advantage in the environment. However, the only thing I could notice was the sound of echoing footsteps closing in. The cavalry was here, and it wasn¡¯t on our side¡­ The air in the chamber seemed to press down heavier with each second. Corsair stood like a predator at the center of the chaos, his flintlocks floating in a deadly orbit around him. Each crack of gunfire felt like a thunderclap in the confined space, the muzzle flashes briefly illuminating his twisted grin. Tempus was still down, his masked face turned toward the cold stone floor. I could see the faintest rise and fall of his chest¡ªhe was alive, at least. But that was cold comfort with Corsair relentlessly firing, pinning both Libra and me in place. I ducked behind the pillar again as another volley of bullets ricocheted dangerously close, fragments of stone slicing against my arm. I winced, clenching my fists. Every instinct screamed to run to Tempus, to form a tether and pull a sliver of his power to me. But doing that would transfer his wound to me. Would I even be able to bear the pain? No point in thinking. Corsair is still keeping me from reaching anyway, and his goons are soon to be here. ¡°Libra!¡± I called over the cacophony, risking a glance her way. ¡°Whatever you¡¯re doing, make it fast!¡± Her masked head turned sharply toward me. ¡°I need time! Keep him off me!¡± ¡°Sure, no problem,¡± I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm. ¡°Let me just waltz out there and ask him politely to stop shooting!¡± The sharp echo of more footsteps filled the chamber, cutting through the chaos. My stomach dropped as I spotted the reinforcements¡ªseven, no, eight Red Hands goons flooding into the room, all armed with blades or basic firearms. Corsair didn¡¯t even glance their way as they spread out, forming a loose perimeter around him. ¡°Kill the woman in black,¡± Corsair barked, his voice booming with authority. ¡°Leave the one by the crates for me.¡± The order hung in the air, a death sentence delivered with chilling nonchalance. My blood ran cold, but a surge of adrenaline sharpened my focus. This wasn¡¯t good. This was very, very bad. Eight goons, plus Corsair, all converging on us. Libra was still working, her movements precise and focused, oblivious to the encroaching threat. I was on my own. I took a deep breath, forcing down the rising panic. I couldn¡¯t reach Tempus yet, not with Corsair¡¯s relentless fire and the incoming reinforcements. But I could create an opening. I could create chaos. The first goon, a hulking brute with a scarred face and a rusty cleaver, charged from the left. I rolled out from behind the pillar just as he swung, the cleaver whistling through the air where I¡¯d been moments before. I sprang to my feet, using his momentum against him, grabbing his arm and twisting sharply. A satisfying crack echoed through the chamber as his elbow gave way. He roared in pain, dropping the cleaver. I didn¡¯t give him a chance to recover. I kicked out, my heel connecting with his knee, sending him crashing to the ground. The second goon, armed with a crude pistol, fired as I turned. The bullet whizzed past my ear, close enough to make me flinch. I ducked behind a low-lying pipe, the metal pinging as another bullet struck it. I needed to move, to keep them off balance. As the goon with the pistol rushed forward, thinking he had me cornered, I burst from behind the pipe, grabbing a loose piece of metal rebar lying nearby. I swung it in a wide arc, catching him across the face. He staggered back, clutching his nose, blood streaming between his fingers. Before he could regain his footing, I brought the rebar down on his head, the sickening thud echoing through the chamber. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious. I quickly touched his head, creating my second tether on a goon before rushing to another cover. Just in time as a flintlock bullet pierced where I was a few seconds ago. A shiver ran down my spine. Two down. Six more, plus Corsair. And Tempus¡­ I risked a glance in his direction. He hadn¡¯t moved. I had to reach him. The chamber had become a maelstrom of violence. The air thrummed with the echoes of gunfire, the grunts of exertion, and the sickening thuds of bodies hitting the cold stone floor. Two goons down, and the rest swarmed like angry wasps, their crude weapons glinting in the dim light. Corsair remained a chillingly composed presence amidst the chaos, his ethereal flintlocks spitting death with calculated pressure. He hadn¡¯t even deigned to acknowledge the loss of his men, his eyes fixed on me with a predatory gleam. I rolled behind a stack of crates, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My arm stung where a fragment of stone had grazed it, a small but irritating reminder of Corsair¡¯s continuous harassing fire. I needed to reach Tempus. The thought echoed in my mind like a desperate mantra. I needed his power, his strange, temporal energy, to turn the tide of this fight. Another goon, this one wielding a rusty axe, charged towards my cover. I could hear his heavy breathing and the scrape of his boots against the stone. I braced myself, waiting for the opportune moment. As he rounded the corner of the crates, I sprang out, grabbing his axe-arm and using his own momentum to spin him around. I slammed him into the crates, the impact eliciting a grunt of pain. Before he could recover, I kneed him sharply in the back, sending him stumbling forward. I then grabbed his head and slammed it on the crates. Another tether.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Three down. The tide was turning, but ever so slowly. I glanced at Libra, her brow still furrowed in concentration, her lips moving, as if she were psalmoding. Whatever she was doing, it was taking its time. I was running out of it. Another volley of gunfire forced me back behind cover. I could feel the heat of the bullets as they whizzed past, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder. I risked another glance at Tempus. He still hadn''t moved. The sight of him lying there, vulnerable and unresponsive, spurred me on. I had to get to him. I focused my senses, pushing outwards, searching for an opening. The goons were becoming more cautious now, their initial aggression tempered by the loss of their comrades. They moved in a loose formation, trying to flank me, to cut off my escape routes. I could hear their ragged breathing, the shuffle of their feet, the clink of their weapons. One of the goons, a skinny man with a nervous twitch, broke from the group and darted towards a nearby pillar. He seemed to be trying to get a better vantage point, to flank me from the side. This was my chance. I burst from behind the crates, sprinting towards the pillar. The goon turned, his eyes widening in surprise. He fumbled for his weapon, a crude knife tucked into his belt. I reached him before he could draw it, grabbing his wrist and twisting sharply. He cried out in pain, dropping the knife. I then grabbed his head and slammed it hard into the pillar. A loud crack resonated in the room, and it clearly didn¡¯t come from the pillar. No time to dawdle. More gunshots. A searing pain ripped through my side, a white-hot agony that stole my breath. I staggered, clutching at the wound, my vision blurring. Corsair¡¯s flintlock had found its mark. The bullet, or whatever spectral energy propelled it, had torn a jagged gash in my flesh, just below my ribs. It felt as though a white-hot poker had been thrust into my side and then twisted. The pain brought me to my knees, a metallic taste flooding my mouth as I gasped for air. The world seemed to tilt as if Corsair''s shot had struck more than just my side. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to stop, to fall, to surrender to the pain. But I couldn¡¯t. Tempus was still down, Libra was still focused on her ritual, and Corsair¡¯s gang wouldn¡¯t stop until we were all dead. I gritted my teeth, dragging myself upright. The blood seeping through my fingers felt slick and warm, a grim reminder of how close to death I danced. But there was no time for hesitation. I staggered toward Tempus, using the chaos of the goons circling and Corsair¡¯s sadistic taunts to my advantage. Another goon lunged toward me, his crowbar arcing downward in a vicious swing. I barely managed to sidestep, the movement tearing at the wound in my side. The agony was blinding, but I forced it down, swinging the rusty pipe I¡¯d grabbed earlier in a wide arc. The improvised weapon connected with his kneecap, shattering it with a sickening crunch. His scream echoed in the chamber, but I didn¡¯t stop. I slammed the pipe against his temple, and he crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut. Five down. The tether snapped into place as I made contact with him, a faint pulse of energy buzzing at the edge of my awareness. More wounds to fling at them, but now I need to heal myself and Tempus. I can only try to make my tether without hurting the goons¡­ I stumbled toward Tempus, each step feeling like I was dragging myself through wet concrete. Corsair¡¯s flintlocks swiveled in my direction, firing a volley of shots. I threw myself to the ground, the bullets striking the stone where I¡¯d stood moments before. Fragments of rock sprayed across my face, stinging like needles, but I pushed myself forward. Finally, I reached Tempus. He was still unconscious, his mask slightly askew, and his breaths shallow. The dark stain of his wound had spread, but his chest was still moving. That was all I needed. My hand trembled as I reached for him, my fingers brushing against his gloved hand. The tether formed instantly. ¡°Good¡­¡± I whispered, wheezing immediately as the action made my wound prickle. The pain was getting bearable, but such movement reawakened it slightly. I dragged myself up, clutching my side. Corsair¡¯s laughter echoed through the chamber, deep and mocking, as his ethereal flintlocks continued to hover around him like vultures circling a fresh kill. The tether with Tempus pulsed faintly, an anchor tying me to his energy and wounds. A goon broke from the pack, charging me with a bat raised high. His heavy steps echoed off the stone walls, the sound thudding in my skull. I had no time to think, only act. I sidestepped his first swing, barely managing to avoid the splintered wood. Pain flared in my side, but I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to focus. My hand shot out, gripping his wrist and yanking him forward. The moment I made contact, I felt it¡ªthe tether snapping into place, a connection forged in an instant. I didn¡¯t hesitate. With a mental pull, I willed my wound to transfer to him. The effect was immediate. His scream tore through the chamber as he staggered, clutching at his side. Blood seeped through his shirt, mirroring the wound Corsair¡¯s bullet had left in me. He collapsed to his knees, his bat clattering to the ground as he gasped for breath. My chest heaved, the pain in my side easing slightly as my body began to heal. It wasn¡¯t perfect¡ªthere was still an ache, a sharp reminder of the injury¡ªbut I could move again. I kicked the goon aside, his cries muffled by the chaos around us, and turned just in time to see another thug lunging at me. This one was faster, more precise. He closed the distance between us before I could dodge, his knife slashing through the air. The blade caught my arm, slicing through fabric and skin. I hissed in pain, stumbling back, but the tether with Tempus thrummed in my mind like a lifeline. I reached out, my fingers grazing the man¡¯s wrist. The tether pulsed, and I yanked on it with everything I had. Tempus¡¯s wound¡ªdeep, ragged, and far worse than mine¡ªtransferred to him in an instant. The goon froze mid-step, his knife falling from his hand as his eyes widened in shock. He staggered, clutching his side where blood began to pour through his shirt. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the cold stone floor, writhing in agony. "Two for one," I muttered, wiping blood from my face as I turned back toward Corsair. Both him and his last goon were clearly taken aback by the events. However Corsair didn¡¯t stay idle for long and got back to shooting at me and towards Libra¡¯s hiding place. I dove behind a nearby crate, the bullets splintering wood and ricocheting dangerously close. ¡°Libra!¡± I shouted over the chaos. ¡°How much longer?¡± Her voice came back, tight with focus. ¡°A few more moments! Hold him!¡± Tempus was still on the ground, but his breathing had deepened. He stirred faintly, a slight twitch of his gloved fingers catching my attention. The tether between us pulsed in my mind like a heartbeat, its faint energy a flicker of hope amidst the storm. If he woke up now¡ªif he could use his powers¡ªwe¡¯d have a chance. Corsair¡¯s attention, however, was wholly on me. His eyes gleamed with sadistic glee beneath the shadow of his ridiculous hat. "You¡¯re a slippery one, aren¡¯t you, girl?¡± he sneered, raising his hand. The flintlocks rotated around him, realigning with deadly precision. "But I wonder¡ªhow long can you keep running before my bullets find their mark again?" I swallowed hard, my heart pounding against my ribs. I needed to buy more time. ¡°Oh, please,¡± I spat back, forcing a smirk despite the burning ache in my side. ¡°You think you¡¯re scary with your toy pistols and bad cosplay? Get over yourself, Corsair. The Renaissance Fair¡¯s long over.¡± Corsair¡¯s grin twisted into a snarl. ¡°Mock me all you want, rat, but let¡¯s see if your sharp tongue stops a bullet.¡± The pistols fired in unison, a deafening explosion that lit up the chamber. I ducked behind the crates, splinters of wood raining down as the bullets tore through my cover. My mind raced. If I kept hiding, Corsair would corner me. If I ran, I¡¯d be shot. A glint of silver caught my eye. Tempus. He groaned softly, rolling onto his side, his mask catching the dim light. And then, as Corsair¡¯s flintlocks adjusted their aim to fire again, Tempus raised his hand. The bullets stopped mid-air. They hung suspended, spinning lazily in place as if caught in an invisible web. Corsair froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. The chamber fell into an eerie silence, the sound of dripping water the only thing that broke it. ¡°What¡ª¡± Corsair started, but Tempus cut him off with a low, rasping laugh. ¡°You really should know better than to shoot at a timekeeper,¡± Tempus murmured, his voice laced with amusement. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, one hand clutching his side where blood still seeped, the other gesturing lazily toward the suspended bullets. Tempus¡¯s sudden resurgence shifted the air in the chamber, thick with anticipation and disbelief. Corsair''s sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of unease that he tried¡ªand failed¡ªto mask. The flintlocks surrounding him wavered, their movements no longer as precise. His predatory confidence was cracking. Tempus, still holding his side, straightened with a slow, deliberate grace, as if time itself bent to his will. His hand remained outstretched, the bullets frozen in a surreal tableau mid-flight. The soft, metallic hum of their suspension vibrated faintly in the air. ¡°I was just starting to enjoy my nap,¡± Tempus said, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of malice. ¡°And then you had to go and ruin it with all this noise. Quite rude, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± Corsair¡¯s jaw clenched. His flintlocks realigned with Tempus in a rapid, almost desperate motion, their ethereal glow intensifying. ¡°You think parlor tricks will save you, Timeman? Let¡¯s see how long you can play your little games before I turn you into a corpse.¡± Suddenly, before Tempus could even jest back, the ground under us started trembling and moving organically. The ground beneath Corsair shifted unnaturally, as if it had come alive. It began to ripple and churn like a disturbed pond, swallowing his feet inch by inch. I stood frozen, unable to look away, as the solid earth transformed into something... wrong¡ªits surface twisting and snaking upward in eerie, fluid motions. His legs were consumed first, the dark soil coiling around them as though it were alive, dragging him downward with an insidious purpose. The sound of the shifting ground was a wet, grinding noise that made my stomach churn, a sound no solid ground should ever make. By the time only his neck and head remained above the surface, I realized I was holding my breath. The ground rippled around him like a sea of snakes, a grotesque parody of motion, until even that slowed. ¡°What the fuck is going ooooon!¡± Screamed the fake pirate. Finally getting out of my stupor, I looked around, to see that all the goons, down or not, were equally swallowed by the floor while our group was in pristine condition. Libra was calmly walking towards us. ¡°That¡­ that was you?¡± I asked, unsure. I thought with her name and all that symbolism etched on her costume, Libra would fight more straightforwardly, and here she manipulated matter? ¡°Yes, although I didn¡¯t expect the floor to move this organically, to be honest¡­¡± Libra replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from her masked face. She surveyed the scene, her gaze lingering on the disturbed ground where Corsair¡¯s head was the only thing now visible. ¡°I intended to create a simple fissure, a¡­ well, a less dramatic means of incapacitation. The earth, it seems, had other ideas.¡± Tempus, still clutching his side, let out a low chuckle. ¡°Perhaps it simply appreciates a bit of flair. A touch of the theatrical. Much like myself, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± He winked, though the gesture was somewhat diminished by the grimace of pain that followed. Right then, where were we? Ah, yes, the dramatic entombment of Corsair and his chums. A rather theatrical exit, even for this lot, wouldn''t you say? Let''s continue, shall we? ¡°Yes, although I didn¡¯t expect the floor to move this organically, to be honest¡­¡± Libra replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from her masked face. She surveyed the scene, her gaze lingering on the disturbed earth where Corsair had vanished. ¡°I intended to create a simple fissure, a¡­ well, a less dramatic means of incapacitation. The earth, it seems, had other ideas.¡± Tempus, still clutching his side, let out a low chuckle. ¡°Perhaps it simply appreciates a bit of flair. A touch of the theatrical. Much like myself, wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± He winked, though the gesture was somewhat diminished by the grimace of pain that followed. I shook my head, still slightly bewildered by the sudden turn of events. ¡°Right. Flair. Just what we needed. Anyway, Tempus; what you are feeling is just phantom pain. You have no wounds anymore, stop acting all weak.¡± ¡°Stop ignoring me! Bitches! Let me go!¡± ¡°Well this phantom pain hurts like a bitch, I¡¯ll have you know!¡± Tempus shot back at me. ¡°And why are you so alright despite having clearly been shot at yourself?¡± I rolled my eyes, gesturing vaguely towards the still-shifting earth. ¡°Remember my¡­ abilities? I transferred the wound. It¡¯s gone now.¡± I winced slightly as I moved, a phantom ache still lingering where the bullet had grazed me. ¡°Though Corsair¡¯s bullet was rather unpleasant, I must admit.¡± ¡°Unpleasant?¡± Tempus echoed, raising an eyebrow, his gaze shifting to the writhing earth where Corsair was still trying to get our intention. ¡°Though I must say, Libra¡¯s little¡­ earthworm impression was rather effective in distracting me from my own discomfort. Most appreciated, my dear. Now then, ladies, what should we do with our captive?¡± 027: Interrogation The air inside the tunnels was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bite of burnt gunpowder. The floor littered with heads of the Red Hands goons, as well as Corsair¡¯s. The room was now dead silent. Corsair was likely too tired to continue screaming and couldn¡¯t control his ethereal flintlocks with his hands trapped, it would seem. Some kinetic component to his powers? Libra was standing still, observing the room, I think, not that her fully covered facemask gave out much clues as to what she was doing. Only a mind reader would be able to know what she was actually doing. If those even existed. Tempus, on the other hand, had chosen a different form of post-fight relaxation. Sitting cross-legged on an overturned crate, he was scrawling something into his notepad with an eerie, open-mouthed grin. The casual way he doodled, completely unfazed by the eerie sight of people buried alive in the floor up to their neck, made me question his sanity, once more. And then there was me. I sat on the cold floor, still catching my breath, my muscles aching from exertion. My knuckles were raw, and my costume was torn in places, but I¡¯d suffered worse. At least I was still standing¡ªor sitting, at least. ¡°Well,¡± Tempus finally broke the silence, closing his notebook with a soft thump against his thigh. ¡°What do we do now that we have them all nicely trapped in the floor?¡± Libra shifted slightly, tilting her head toward Corsair. ¡°We have done our part. We could just send them to MetaPol¡± I frowned, rolling my shoulders. My gut told me that was a bad idea. MetaPol would clean up the mess, sure¡ªbut they wouldn¡¯t get us any closer to what we needed. We still didn¡¯t know what the Red Hands were doing down here, or why they had crates labeled with the same symbol as the Genesis Serum. There were questions that needed answers, and Corsair still had his tongue, even if his body was useless to him right now. ¡°You know as well as I that MetaPol is utterly incompetent.¡± Tempus spit back. ¡°We bring them the Red Hands and they¡¯ll just lose them in seconds. They¡¯ll just get back to business, and now with a big target on our heads! I propose we just kill them off? It¡¯s one less meta group off the map of our beautiful city, and more money for us down the way!¡± Libra let out a slow, controlled breath, the slight tilt of her head betraying her distaste. "Murdering prisoners is not justice." "Oh, spare me," Tempus scoffed, kicking one of the buried Red Hands in the head lightly with his boot. The man groaned but otherwise remained silent, probably too terrified to move. "These people aren¡¯t victims. They wouldn¡¯t hesitate to kill us if the roles were reversed. And besides, do you really think MetaPol will handle them properly? At least this way, they don¡¯t get another chance to cause trouble." "We need answers," I interrupted before Libra could retort. My voice was hoarse, but firm. "I don¡¯t care what happens to them after that, but we need to know what the hell they were doing here and why they have connections to the Genesis Serum. If we just hand them over or execute them without knowing anything, we¡¯re throwing away our only lead." Corsair let out a weak chuckle, his head lolling to one side. Despite the bruises forming along his jaw and the blood smeared over his temple, his usual arrogance was still there. "What makes you think I¡¯ll tell you anything, eh?" His voice was raspy, but still defiant. "MetaPol? They¡¯ll let me go in a day. Kill me? You get nothing. Either way, you lose." I exhaled slowly, pushing myself up to my feet. "That¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong." I crouched next to him, placing my hand lightly on his exposed scalp. He flinched at the touch, but it didn¡¯t mean anything¨Cwe were now tethered. ¡°We can just torture you.¡± I whispered to his ear, my hand still on his scalp. ¡°See,¡± I declared louder so everyone in the room could hear, ¡°what I did to your little lackeys? I can do it to you!¡± "Go ahead, then," he spat, though his voice wavered. "You think you can scare me? I¡¯ve seen worse than you, girl." I didn''t answer right away. Instead, I let the silence stretch, holding his gaze until I saw it¡ªthe flicker of uncertainty behind his bravado. A man like Corsair, he knew how to play tough, but no one was unshakable. He had seen what I could do, and no matter how much he postured, a part of him knew that I was something he didn¡¯t understand. Libra shifted slightly. "We¡¯re not torturing him," she stated flatly, her voice steady but edged with warning. "We don¡¯t need to stoop to that level." Tempus rolled his eyes, flipping open his notebook again and idly doodling something. "Oh please, like he''s going to just hand us the answers if we ask nicely? Corsair, tell us everything or we¡¯ll buy you a cupcake. No? Damn, guess we have to let you go." He scoffed and tapped his pen against his knee. "This isn''t a kindergarten lesson, Libra. These people are scum." Libra crossed her arms. "We don¡¯t have to be." I sighed. This was going to take longer than it needed to. "Libra, we¡¯re not saints. We don¡¯t have the luxury of playing fair, not when we¡¯re this close to something big. Look at those crates," I gestured toward the empty metal containers stamped with the Genesis Serum¡¯s symbol, their lids cast aside. "This isn¡¯t just gang warfare. This is bigger. If we don¡¯t find out what the Red Hands were doing down here, we¡¯re walking blind into something dangerous." Libra hesitated, and I knew she hated that I had a point. Corsair gave another weak chuckle. "You all talk a big game, but you won¡¯t get shit from me. You wanna kill me? Do it. Otherwise, stop wasting my time." I crouched closer to Corsair, my voice a low murmur meant for his ears alone. "Oh, Corsair, you misunderstand. We''re not going to kill you. That''s far too¡­ pedestrian. Death is a release, a merciful end. We have something far more¡­ creative in mind." I tightened my grip on Corsair¡¯s scalp, a faint tingling sensation passing between us. ¡°Oh, Corsair,¡± I purred, my voice a low, dangerous whisper. ¡°You think you¡¯ve seen worse? You¡¯ve seen the effects of what I can do, perhaps. But you haven¡¯t seen the¡­ process.¡± I leaned closer, my breath ghosting across his ear. ¡°You see, the beauty of my¡­ gift,¡± I continued, loud enough for Tempus and Libra to hear, ¡°is that I don¡¯t just mirror physical pain. I mirror everything. The crushing weight of guilt, the gnawing emptiness of despair, the mind-shattering terror of the void¡­ I can share it all. And the best part? I can dial it up. Just a little¡­ or a lot.¡± I straightened, my voice returning to its normal volume. ¡°Now, I could start with the physical. Relive every broken bone, every searing burn, every agonizing moment you¡¯ve inflicted on others. But why stop there? Why not delve a little deeper? Perhaps a taste of what it¡¯s like to be buried alive? Or maybe a glimpse into the abyss of your own insignificance?¡± Tempus, ever the showman, clapped his hands together softly. ¡°Ooh, psychological warfare! My favourite! Tell him about the chronal disjunction, Replica. That always gets them going.¡± I shot Tempus a look, but played along. ¡°Yes, Corsair,¡± I said, turning back to our captive. ¡°Tempus here is quite the expert in manipulating time. He can¡­ stretch a single second into an eternity. Imagine, Corsair, reliving the same agonizing moment, over and over, for what feels like a lifetime. Each breath a struggle, each heartbeat a hammer blow against your skull. And just when you think you can¡¯t take anymore¡­ he rewinds. And you get to experience it all again.¡± Corsair¡¯s bravado was starting to crack. His breathing became shallow, his eyes darting between me and Tempus. ¡°Of course,¡± I added casually, ¡°we haven¡¯t even touched on Libra¡¯s¡­ speciality. She has a way of getting inside people¡¯s heads, doesn¡¯t she, Libra?¡± Libra, bless her, played her part perfectly. She remained silent, her masked face an impassive void. The lack of response was more terrifying than any threat. ¡°Libra,¡± I continued, ¡°has a gift for¡­ persuasion. She can unravel your deepest fears, your darkest secrets, and weave them into your reality. She can make you question your sanity, your identity, your very existence. She can make you see things, hear things¡­ things that aren¡¯t there. But feel very, very real.¡± I paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the air. ¡°So, Corsair,¡± I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper. ¡°Are you feeling lucky?¡± Corsair swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the floor. The fight had gone out of him. He knew he was trapped, not just physically, but mentally. We had painted a picture of torture so terrifying, so complete, that resistance seemed futile. ¡°Fine.¡± he croaked, his voice barely audible. I tilted my head. "Fine?" "I¡¯ll talk," he said, voice strained. "But only because you¡¯re right. MetaPol? They¡¯d throw me in a cell, and I¡¯d be out before sunrise. I¡¯d rather deal with you freaks than let them get the credit."If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. I gave him an encouraging pat on the head before pulling away. "Smart man." Tempus tossed his notebook onto the crate and clapped his hands together. "Alright then! Enlighten us, Captain Corsair." Corsair sucked in a breath, his head rolling slightly as if contemplating where to start. "Red Hands were never in the Genesis Serum game. That was Loom¡¯s deal." "Loom?" I echoed, exchanging a glance with Libra. The name was familiar, but I couldn¡¯t put my finger on it.. Corsair nodded, a flicker of his old arrogance returning now that he''d conceded. "Loom. They''re the one cooking up the Serum. We¡­ we were just muscle. Hired to secure shipments, protect their assets. This tunnel¡­ it''s a distribution point they told us to use." Tempus, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward, his eerie grin widening. ¡°And what exactly were these ¡®assets¡¯ you were protecting, Corsair? More vials of magical juice? Or something a tad more¡­ substantial?¡± Corsair hesitated, his gaze flickering nervously towards the overturned crates. ¡°That¡­ and something¡­ else,¡± he mumbled, his voice losing its earlier bravado. ¡°They called it¡­ catalysts.¡± ¡°Catalysts?¡± Libra repeated, her voice laced with curiosity. ¡°What is it?¡± Corsair shrugged, a gesture that seemed strained and unnatural in his current predicament. ¡°I don¡¯t know the specifics. They just told us it was¡­ important. Worth more than all the Serum in Neo Lyon.¡± ¡°Important how?¡± I pressed, my voice low and urgent. ¡°What does it do?¡± Corsair shook his head, his eyes darting around the tunnel as if he expected someone to jump out of the shadows. ¡°I told you, I don¡¯t know! They kept it locked away in crates. We just moved it from place to place. Kept it safe.¡± ¡°And what do you even know?¡± Libra interjected, ¡°Do you even know what their plan was with the Serum? Why turn people into Metas?¡± "Power," Corsair rasped, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the tunnel walls. "They said it was about power. Control. Creating an army of¡­ enhanced. Loyal. Disposable." He spat the last word like a curse. "They didn''t care about the cost, the¡­ the instability. They just wanted soldiers." ¡°What for? Were they planning to wage war or something?¡± "Something like that," Corsair muttered, his gaze still distant. "They talked about¡­ reshaping the city. Taking control. They think Neo Lyon is weak, ripe for the taking. They want to build it in their image." Tempus snorted. "Every two-bit Villain in Neo Lyon fancies themselves a kingmaker. What makes Loom any different?" "They have resources," Corsair said, his voice regaining a sliver of its earlier strength. "More than anyone I¡¯ve ever seen. Money, weapons, influence¡­ they¡¯re not just some solo Villain. They have ties." He paused, his gaze finally returning to us. "And they''re not afraid to use what they have. They¡¯ll kill anyone who gets in their way. Including you, if they find out you¡¯ve been poking around.¡± Corsair finished, a hint of his former arrogance creeping back into his voice. He seemed to relish the idea that he¡¯d delivered a chilling warning, even in his compromised position. Libra¡¯s masked face remained inscrutable, but I could feel the tension radiating from her. She was processing the information, weighing the implications. This Loom, with his resources and ambition, was a threat not just to us, but to the fragile peace of Neo Lyon. Tempus, ever the pragmatist, broke the silence. ¡°So, Loom wants to reshape the city, eh? Build it in their image? Sounds like your typical megalomaniacal Villain with a god complex. The city¡¯s crawling with them.¡± He tapped his pen against his notebook, his eyes gleaming with a strange mix of amusement and something else¡­ anticipation? ¡°But these ¡®catalysts¡¯¡­ that¡¯s the interesting bit, isn¡¯t it? What are they? Some sort of super-weapon? A mind-control device? Maybe they¡¯re just fancy paperweights.¡± I turned back to Corsair, who was watching us with a mixture of fear and grudging respect. ¡°You said these catalysts are worth more than all the Genesis Serum in Neo Lyon. That¡¯s a bold claim. Care to elaborate?¡± Corsair hesitated, his gaze flickering towards the overturned crates. He knew he¡¯d given us a tantalizing morsel of information, and now he was caught between his loyalty to Loom and his desire to avoid our¡­ attentions. ¡°I told you,¡± he mumbled, his voice strained. ¡°I don¡¯t know what they are. Just¡­ important. Loom¡¯s orders were clear: protect them at all costs.¡± ¡°Orders from Loom,¡± I repeated, my voice soft but firm. ¡°And how do we get in touch with this Loom?¡± Corsair snorted. ¡°You think he¡¯s going to just send you a calling card? Loom operates in the shadows. He came to me only to start off the collaboration, haven¡¯t seen him since, but sure as hell saw the money flooding.¡± ¡°Money, eh?¡± Tempus interjected, his eyes gleaming with avarice. ¡°Always a motivator. So, Corsair, let¡¯s talk about this ¡®collaboration¡¯ with Loom. How much did they pay you for your¡­ services?¡± Corsair hesitated, his gaze flickering towards the overturned crates. He knew he¡¯d already revealed too much, but the lure of self-preservation, coupled with Tempus¡¯s thinly veiled greed, loosened his tongue further. ¡°Enough,¡± he mumbled, ¡°Enough to make it worth my while.¡± ¡°Enough isn¡¯t an answer,¡± Tempus pressed, his voice hardening. ¡°We¡¯re not interested in vague platitudes. We want specifics. Numbers.¡± Corsair shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the tunnel as if he expected Loom¡¯s enforcers to materialize from the shadows. ¡°I¡­ I can¡¯t say,¡± he stammered. ¡°Loom¡­ he made it clear. Loose lips¡­ and all that.¡± ¡°Loose lips sink ships,¡± I finished for him, my voice laced with a chilling undertone. ¡°But in your case, Corsair, loose lips might just save your life. Or what¡¯s left of it.¡± I crouched down next to him again, my hand resting lightly on his scalp. The connection was still there, a faint tingle that allowed me to feel the thrum of his fear. ¡°You see, Corsair,¡± I whispered, ¡°we¡¯re not unreasonable. We understand the concept of loyalty. But loyalty has its limits. And when those limits are tested, well¡­ let¡¯s just say that things can get messy.¡± ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s not loyalty¡­ You don¡¯t understand¡­ That guy¡­ he is far too creepy¡­ The only time I met him¡­ I couldn¡¯t even move by myself¡­ He just¡­ made me move around like a puppeteer!¡± "A puppeteer, you say?" Tempus chuckled, scribbling furiously in his notebook. "Fascinating. So, Loom not only has deep pockets and a penchant for dramatic entrances, but also some rather unsettling mind-control abilities? This is getting more interesting by the minute." Libra, ever the voice of reason, though her tone remained impassive, addressed Corsair directly. "You''ve given us some valuable information, Corsair. Information that could save lives, or perhaps¡­ prevent a great deal of suffering. But we need more. We need to know the full extent of Loom''s operation, his plans, and most importantly, the nature of these ''catalysts''." Corsair, his bravado thoroughly shattered, looked from Libra to me, his eyes pleading. "I¡­ I swear, I''ve told you everything I know! I''m just a mercenary. A hired gun. I don''t know the details. Loom kept everything compartmentalized. I just followed orders." "Compartmentalized, eh?" I echoed, tightening my grip on his scalp, just enough to elicit a flinch. "That''s a clever tactic. Keeps everyone in the dark, except for the puppet master pulling the strings.¡± ¡°I think we are done here.¡± Libra announced. ¡°Corsair has nothing to tell us I think, and I think my power is going to run off soon and they¡¯ll be back on the floor.¡± "Right then," Tempus chirped, capping his pen with a flourish. "Time for a little field trip, wouldn''t you say? MetaPol might be a bunch of blundering buffoons, but they do have a holding cell or two, I suppose. And who knows, perhaps a bit of official pressure will loosen Corsair''s tongue further. Although," he added with a sly grin, glancing at me, "I rather doubt it." I nodded in agreement with Libra. "Agreed. We''ve gleaned what we can from Corsair for now. He''s a cog in the machine, not the engine itself. Loom is our target, and these ''catalysts'' are the key." We hauled the groaning Red Hands out of their earthen prisons, tying them up with some rope we found in one of the crates. They were a sorry lot, their bravado evaporated, replaced by a gnawing fear of what we might do to them. Corsair, still sporting a bruised ego, was particularly sullen. He knew he¡¯d spilled the beans, and the knowledge gnawed at him. He''d betrayed Loom, and that was a dangerous game to play. "Now, now, boys and girls," Tempus said, clapping his hands together. "Let''s be civilized, shall we? No need for any unnecessary roughness. We''re just taking you for a little chat with our friends at MetaPol. They''re ever so keen to hear about your¡­ business ventures."
¡°So,¡± Tempus said, breaking the silence as we emerged from the tunnel, ¡°MetaPol it is, then? Or do we fancy a little detour first? Perhaps a spot of tea and biscuits before we deliver our¡­ package?¡± Libra gave him a withering look. ¡°MetaPol. Directly. We¡¯ve already wasted enough time down there. The longer we delay, the greater the chance Loom catches wind of what we know.¡± ¡°Spoilsport,¡± Tempus muttered, but he didn¡¯t argue. He knew Libra was right. Time was of the essence. We reached a deserted alleyway, the perfect spot for a discreet handover. I pulled out a disposable phone, dialing the MetaPol urgency number. "...MetaPol Dispatch," a gruff voice answered on the other end. "We have a¡­ delivery for you," I said, keeping my voice low and impersonal. "We got the Red Hands goons and their leader, Corsair, apprehended.¡± "...Location?" the voice crackled back, laced with suspicion. MetaPol wasn''t used to receiving gifts, especially not wrapped in the messy packaging of a metahuman brawl. "Alleyway behind the Crimson Dragon restaurant, off Ruplinger Street," I replied. "They''re all tied up and ready for processing. Just¡­ try not to lose them this time, eh?" I hung up before the man could ask anything else, tossing the phone into a nearby dumpster. Libra gave a curt nod, her masked face betraying nothing. Tempus, however, was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a manic glint in his eyes. "Right then," he chirped, rubbing his hands together. "Let''s be off. I''ve got a sudden craving for noodles. And perhaps a little light reading on the history of Neo Lyon''s criminal underworld. Something tells me we''re about to delve into some rather murky waters." ¡°Right¡­ I guess meeting at the tunnel would be too much now¡­ See you next Friday night here?¡± "Next Friday, same bat-time, same bat-channel," Tempus quipped, giving a mock salute. "Wouldn''t miss it for the world. Although," he added, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow, "I do hope we have a bit more to discuss than just the culinary delights of Neo Lyon. This Loom character¡­ he''s got potential, hasn''t he? A real puppet master pulling the strings from the shadows. Reminds me of that chap, what was his name¡­ Ah, never mind. Point is, we need to tread carefully. This isn''t just some two-bit gang we''re dealing with. Loom is playing a different game, a bigger game. And we, my dear companions, have just stumbled onto the board." Libra nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the spot where we¡¯d left the Red Hands. ¡°He¡¯s right. This Loom¡­ he¡¯s not like the others. Corsair¡¯s fear¡­ it was palpable. He wasn¡¯t just afraid of us. He was terrified of Loom. That kind of fear¡­ it speaks volumes.¡± She paused, her masked face turning towards me. ¡°And those ¡®catalysts¡¯¡­ they¡¯re the key. We need to find out what they are, what Loom plans to do with them.¡± ¡°Indeed,¡± I agreed, my mind already racing with possibilities. ¡°Corsair said they were worth more than all the Genesis Serum in Neo Lyon. That¡¯s a staggering claim. What could be so valuable, so important, that it dwarfs the Serum¡¯s potential?¡± I shivered, a cold dread creeping up my spine. The implications were terrifying. If Loom had something that powerful, something that could reshape the city, then Neo Lyon was in serious trouble. ¡°Well,¡± Tempus said, clapping his hands together briskly, ¡°no use standing around here like a bunch of gargoyles. We¡¯ve got work to do. We need to delve deeper into Loom¡¯s operation, find out who he is, what he wants, and most importantly, what these ¡®catalysts¡¯ are capable of.¡± ¡°Agreed,¡± Libra said, her voice firm and resolute. ¡°This alliance¡­ it might be longer than we anticipated.¡± Side-A1: Paul The morning light filtered through the dusty windows of D¨¦j¨¤ Vu Records, casting long, golden streaks across the worn wooden counter where Paul leaned, idly flipping through the store¡¯s inventory book. The small shop had been his home away from home for years, peaceful as ever. Outside, the city hummed with mundane life. Office workers rushed to catch trams, their coffee cups steaming against the crisp morning air. An elderly man haggled over fruit at a nearby stall. A couple, wrapped in scarves and laughter, passed by the window, their steps light and carefree. Paul sighed, pressing his pen absently against his lower lip as he turned another page in the book. He knew Liz wouldn''t be in today¡ªshe rarely came around anymore, even when she had no reason not to. A bell jingled as the door swung open, pulling him from his thoughts. "Morning, Paul," came a familiar voice. ¨¦tienne, one of his regulars, ambled in, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. "Got anything new in the progressive rock section?" Paul smirked, setting the book aside. "You ask me that every week, and every week I tell you that ¡®new¡¯ and ¡®progressive rock¡¯ rarely mix." ¨¦tienne chuckled. "Fair point." He wandered toward the back, already lost in the stacks, and Paul let his gaze drift back to the street. Life here felt... normal. Predictable. Even with the occasional news about Metahuman fights, they were always something happening elsewhere¡ªon the Eastern borders of the UCE, somewhere deep in Africa, where territories changed hands like playing cards every time another Meta decided to play at warlord. Not here. Not his life. No, his life was defined by the warm crackle of vinyl spinning under a needle, the routine of opening the shop at nine and closing at six, the easy rhythm of conversation with customers who never had to fear for their lives. And yet, Liz had started looking at him like he was the strange one. It had been four months since she lost Mel. He knew she wouldn¡¯t have healed yet¡ªgrief didn¡¯t work like that. But there was something else, something beyond mourning. Liz had focus now. A sharpness in her gaze that wasn¡¯t there before. Like she was looking for something, always on guard. He remembered the last time they had met for coffee, barely a week ago. Paul had waved her over when he saw her hesitating near the caf¨¦ door, her shoulders hunched under the weight of some invisible burden. She had sat down across from him, wrapping her fingers around the cup he had ordered for her¡ªblack, no sugar, no milk. The way she used to drink it when they pulled all-nighters at the shop, arguing over music theory or the best live albums of all time. But Liz didn¡¯t argue anymore. Instead, she had spent most of the conversation watching. Not him, not really. Her eyes kept flicking to the windows, the door, the people passing by. As if she were waiting for something to go wrong. It made him uneasy. ¡°What¡¯s on your mind?¡± he had asked. She had blinked, as if remembering he was still there. ¡°Nothing.¡± Paul had let out a quiet laugh. ¡°You sure? You¡¯re staring at that guy by the counter like you think he¡¯s going to pull a gun out of his laptop bag.¡± Liz had looked away, hiding behind her coffee cup. ¡°Just¡­ habit, I guess.¡± Habit. That was the part that scared him the most. Back in D¨¦j¨¤ Vu Records¨C and away from his reminiscing¨C¨¦tienne approached the counter with an armful of albums, humming to himself as he stacked them. ¡°You¡¯re in a good mood,¡± Paul noted, ringing up the purchase. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I be? The city¡¯s beautiful today.¡± ¨¦tienne grinned. ¡°Sun¡¯s out, no smog, no protests, no metas throwing buses at each other¡ªwhat more can a guy ask for?¡±Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Paul gave a small chuckle. Exactly. The peace was easy to take for granted. Even when MetaPol reports flashed across the news screens, most people just shook their heads, muttered about how ¡°things are getting worse,¡± and then moved on. That¡¯s what people did. The morning passed in its usual rhythm. The steady hum of conversation, the quiet shuffle of feet against the wooden floors, the distant drone of a tram rolling past outside. D¨¦j¨¤ Vu Records was a sanctuary of sorts¡ªa pocket of time untouched by the chaos that occasionally seeped into Neo Lyon¡¯s streets. Paul liked it that way. He finished ringing up ¨¦tienne¡¯s purchase, slipping the vinyls into a paper bag. ¡°You heading straight home, or is this another one of those I¡¯m supposed to be working, but music is more important days?¡± ¨¦tienne grinned, tucking the bag under his arm. ¡°Listen, my boss pays me to stare at spreadsheets all day. That¡¯s a crime against humanity. This, on the other hand¡ª¡± he tapped the top of the bag, ¡°¡ªis culture.¡± Paul smirked, shaking his head. ¡°Give my regards to the spreadsheets.¡± ¡°Will do. Hey, you free this weekend? The guys are getting together for a movie night.¡± ¡°Depends. Are we talking actual movies, or is Nico making us watch some three-hour philosophical art piece where a guy stares at a glass of water for half of it?¡± ¨¦tienne cackled. ¡°Alright, first of all, L¡¯eau et la R¨¦flexion was¡ª¡± ¡°Unbearable.¡± ¡°¡ªa masterpiece,¡± ¨¦tienne finished, still laughing. ¡°But no, this time it¡¯s something normal. We¡¯re thinking old-school action. Something with ridiculous stunts and explosions that defy physics.¡± ¡°Now you¡¯re speaking my language,¡± Paul said, nodding. ¡°I¡¯ll swing by.¡± ¨¦tienne gave a lazy salute before stepping out into the street, disappearing into the late morning crowd. The door swung shut behind him, and Paul exhaled, settling back into his usual spot at the counter. A quiet day. He had them more often than not, even now, despite everything that had happened in the city over the last few months. The news always spoke of Meta-related incidents¡ªheroes and villains clashing in the night, underground groups making their moves, some new threat rising only to be stamped out by another¡ªbut those things felt distant. Here, in his world, life remained simple. Sure, there was always a lingering awareness, a knowledge that things happened, but for most people, Neo Lyon was just a city. A place where they went to work, ran errands, met friends, and argued over coffee about which bakery made the best croissants. The occasional super-powered incident was something to complain about at the bar, not something that defined their daily existence. Paul saw it all the time. There was the elderly woman who ran the flower shop next door, who spent her afternoons trimming roses and swapping gossip with customers. The street artist who set up across the tram station every morning, painting over old posters with bursts of color and sharp, rebellious strokes. The group of teenagers who always loitered outside the bakery at lunchtime, debating loudly over the best way to sneak into concerts. Life went on. Even when the skyline bore scars of battles long past¡ªcharred buildings that had yet to be repaired, street signs still bent from some forgotten clash¡ªpeople simply adjusted. They walked past the reminders without dwelling on them. That was how the city worked. The bell jingled again, and Paul straightened, expecting another customer. Instead, Nico strolled in, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, already halfway through pulling a record off the nearest shelf. ¡°Hey,¡± Paul greeted. ¡°Weren¡¯t you supposed to be meeting with your editor today?¡± Nico waved a dismissive hand, flipping the album over to read the tracklist. ¡°Rescheduled. Or, well, he rescheduled. Probably realized I was going to spend the first twenty minutes arguing about deadlines.¡± ¡°Classic Nico.¡± ¡°Damn right,¡± he muttered, putting the record back. ¡°You heard from Liz?¡± Paul hesitated. ¡°Not recently.¡± Nico gave him a look, but didn¡¯t push. He never did. Instead, he just wandered toward the listening station, pulling his headphones around his neck. Paul busied himself with the counter again, flipping absentmindedly through the store¡¯s inventory book. He found himself lingering on old notes¡ªthings Liz had written in the margins months ago. Restock on punk section¡ªsomeone cleaned it out last week. Ask Paul why the hell we still don¡¯t have any good metal albums in here. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. It was different now. Liz had always been sharp, opinionated, quick to fight over the smallest musical disagreements just for the hell of it. But now¡­ Now, she didn¡¯t argue. Now, she didn¡¯t linger. Now, when they talked, it felt like she was only half there, like she was listening to something beyond the conversation. Watching things he couldn¡¯t see. She used to love this place. Now, she barely came around. The thought sat uncomfortably in his chest. Grief really changes people, he thought, before getting back in motion.