The alley was damp, lit only by the dim flicker of a faulty streetlamp. It buzzed, stuttered, then lit again—casting brief, twitching light on the scene below.

  Ashara sat atop a man, legs pinning his trembling arms to the cold pavement. His eyes were wide, red from crying, mouth shaking with half-formed pleas for mercy.

  She didn’t blink.

  The blade in her hand was long, narrow, hungry.

  “Why can’t things just be simple?” she murmured, tilting her head as she slowly pressed the tip into his abdomen.

  He screamed. She didn’t flinch.

  “I mean… I liked it better when I didn’t have to think,” she continued, dragging the blade in slow, calculated strokes. “Just… slice, shred, spill. Put it on the board, and carve.”

  His hands twitched. He begged again—something about a family, about kids.

  Ashara rolled her eyes.

  “See? That’s what I mean. Unnecessary noise.” She stabbed again, this time faster, but not deep. Just enough to make him jolt and gasp like a puppet with cut strings.

  She let out a breath, sitting back slightly. “Devil’s Den was good for that, y’know? Gave me cover. Targets. Schedules, even. I didn’t have to plan. Just point me at something and let me cook.”

  Blood ran from his wounds like wine spilled on a cutting board.

  “But then Vasiliev.” She clicked her tongue.

  “They say I went too far. Too far? After everything we’ve done? He had it coming. All I did was slice where it mattered. But nooo,” she said, mocking the tone of authority, “Ashara, that was too much. You upset the Den Mother. You caused instability.”

  She giggled, high and sharp.

  “It sucked—It just sucked ’cause now I gotta find new cover.”

  She leaned forward again, gripping the blade tighter. The man beneath her tried to move, but his strength was leaving with every drip of blood.

  Ashara dragged the blade under his chin splitting it.

  “No more Den. No more rules. Just me… and the board.”

  She pierced his throat.

  A gurgle. A twitch.

  Then silence.

  She smiled. Tilted his head gently, almost sweetly.

  And carved a smile into his face.

  Long and crooked.

  “There we go,” she whispered. “So much prettier when you agree with me.”

  Ashara stood, wiping the blade on his shirt. The world stretched out before her—full of people, places, and systems that still thought they were whole.

  She smirked.

  The world was now her cutting board. And a few auras nearby would be the next course.

  ——

  From Crimline’s perspective, this was less of a mission and more of a frustrating chore.

  The four of them moved like phantoms—silent through the back alleys and rooftop ledges of the lower district, cutting across the city.

  Crimline herself was shrouded in a fitted obsidian cloak, layered over a skin-tight tactical exosuit pulsing faintly with crimson sigils. Her long braids were tucked beneath a helmet shaped like a cracked porcelain mask—white on one side, scorched black on the other. Surrounding her were eight Eidolon rifles, sleek and spectral, rotating slowly in the air like orbiting serpents, each one whispering softly in languages only she could hear.

  Her boots didn’t make a sound.

  Each step landed in perfect rhythm with the team’s movements:

  Waxjaw was to her left, bare-chested with a chiseled, almost molten torso. His flesh glowed from within, like a kiln constantly stoked, steam rising in bursts from the rusted jaw-clamp that replaced his lower face. A massive blacksmith’s maul rested over one shoulder, crackling with latent mani.

  Latch Baby crept along the edge of the building behind them, limbs too long, hoodie oversized and stitched with copper thread. A cracked pacifier hung from a chain around their neck, and their patchwork gas mask—painted like a child’s toy—hid the twitching smile beneath. They hummed a broken lullaby, their fingers twitching erratically.

  And then there was Crestlock Vale, tall and statuesque, clad in immaculate white armor trimmed in regal blue. His face was hidden beneath a visored helm, but the twin silver crests on either shoulder flared like the wings of a holy beast. He carried his spear-like Eidolon with reverence, each footstep a soldier’s promise—disciplined, precise, almost ritualistic.

  They were hunting Ashara.

  And Crimline hated it.

  She should’ve never gotten out.

  Not just because Ashara was unstable, not just because she was a reckless carving knife given form, but because her escape made them look weak. The fact that she killed Vasiliev—Vasiliev, the Abyssal Hand, the one they all thought was stronger between them—was already hard enough to swallow.

  But now?

  Now they had to track her down like runaways chasing a shadow, all because some manic freak with too much appetite and too little restraint decided to fight her own death sentence.

  “Twelve dead since her escape,” Crimline said aloud, though her voice was flat and quiet—more observation than outrage.

  Waxjaw muttered something about “pressure revealing the truest sins.” Crestlock Vale didn’t answer, merely adjusted the angle of his lance-shaped Eidolon. Latch Baby giggled, whispering a song Crimline ignored.

  She pressed her fingers to her comm. “Target proximity estimated. Movement southward of 13th Avenue. Reconfirm trace on our missing unit.”

  No answer came.

  She already knew.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  He was dead.

  Ashara was close.

  Crimline’s optics glowed faintly, red lenses scanning the horizon. All of this, every single step, was a waste of resources. She didn’t care that the Den Mother was upset—what frustrated her more was that Ashara had forced them to divert from actual threats.

  The new Veythari girl from the California rift event had finally woken up. That was where the Cult’s attention should’ve been. That was what mattered. Echo-9 had been attacked, the sky had changed, scanners across their network scrambled for hours after that gold-blue surge four days ago. That had to be the Riftkeeper Crucible.

  Something bigger was happening.

  And yet here they were, chasing a stupid girl. Crimline’s smile twitched.

  The sooner we shoot her down, she thought, the sooner we return to what actually matters.

  The cult was patient.

  But even patience had its limits.

  ———

  The subway tunnel groaned with age as the New York Unit stepped deeper into the shadows, boots crunching on gravel and debris. The further they moved, the colder it got—not temperature-wise, but something else. The kind of chill that crawled up the spine and whispered of things not meant to be seen.

  That’s when they came.

  The Red Hook Boogeymen.

  They surged from the dark like water breaking a dam—shadowy figures with glowing red eyes, cloaked in black mist and shaped like hunched, malnourished men. Their hands were too long, with fingers ending in dock-hook claws. Their bodies faded at the edges like smoke, flickering as they rushed forward in erratic zig-zags, too fast for normal eyes.

  Backbeat was first to respond.

  “Let’s gooo! Echo. True. Image!” she shouted, slamming her palms together. Echo-clones burst out on all sides, each matching her perfectly—five of her now moved in a stuttering rhythm. Her clones surged forward, slamming two Boogeymen into support beams with reverb shockwaves that boomed like bass drops.

  “Covering your left!” called Tai, sparking his gauntlets to life. His Core Attribute, Pyro Vise, ignited twin spirals of condensed flame around his forearms, allowing him to switch between burning strikes and short bursts of concussive pressure. He surged in behind Backbeat, grabbing a Boogeyman mid-leap and crushing it into the ground, the impact kicking up a burst of blue-white flame that seared a shadow into the concrete.

  “Threads. Move. Obey!” Mina called, hovering slightly off the ground.

  Golden threads shot out from her sleeves, whistling through the air like wires under tension. Her power, String Sanctum, allowed her to control battlefield space with pre-laid traps and high-precision binds. She sent a trio of threads around the necks of three Boogeymen, lifting them into the air like cursed marionettes before whipping them into a wall.

  “Nice hit,” Anaya called, dashing through the shadows as her Violet Burn Act blazed beneath her. Kinetic flames licked at the floor as she moved, igniting from pressure alone. She darted behind two clones of Backbeat, igniting the floor around one Boogeyman before it could recover. The flames clung to it like oil, devouring it.

  “Behind you!” Cherry shouted.

  Anaya dropped low as a barrier disc flung over her head—one of Cherry’s Bubble Shot spheres. It exploded on contact with a charging Boogeyman, suspending it in mid-air with a crystallized pink casing before it shattered and sent the creature flying back into a rusted rail column.

  “Thanks,” Anaya said, giving a brief smile. She adjusted mid-sprint and redirected a blast of flame from her foot to vault upward and slam down on another creature with a full-body flaming kick.

  “You’re doing great, firecracker,” Cherry said with a smirk, tossing another barrier out to protect Tai’s back.

  “Focus,” Anaya said with a slight blush, blasting a wave of violet heat toward a trio of enemies. “We can’t afford distractions.”

  Mina’s threads created escape paths and lock-downs. Tai used controlled flame surges to push enemies into traps. Cherry laid out layered shields and explosive zones while Backbeat’s echo-clones distorted the field with overwhelming force. And Anaya? She anchored it all, weaving from fighter to fighter, applying pressure where needed, and melting anything too dangerous to leave standing.

  “I want something fried,” Cherry said. “Dumplings, empanadas, corndogs, I don’t care.”

  “Empanadas, please,” Backbeat’s clones chorused as they slowly faded.

  Anaya shook her head but smiled. “Let’s finish the sweep. Then food.”

  Backbeat’s clones boomed with percussion, sending another creature spinning like a broken record.

  “Alright but after this, I’m all for getting food,” Tai grunted, shoulder-checking a cryptid with a burst of reverse-flame healing that left scorch-marks in the shape of kanji. “And none of that fake vegan sushi again.”

  After the last Boogeyman disintegrated into dark mist and silence returned to the tunnels, the team stood catching their breath.

  “Good cardio,” Tai muttered, wiping a streak of grime from his brow.

  “I’m voting dumplings,” Cherry said, spinning. “Like… a lot of dumplings.”

  “Barbecue,” Anaya said mid-dash, a streaking curve of flame. “Messy. Burnt. Filling.” She counted off on three fingers.

  Cherry licked her lips as she deformed a triple-stack of barriers. “I like the way you think.” The rest of the team started to walk ahead. Anaya saw her chance. Taking a deep breath—

  “Then we should get dinner,” she said, her voice a little breathless—not from the fight, but from the nerve it took to say it.

  Cherry turned toward her, mid-spin. “Oh?” she said sweetly.

  “I mean, like. Not as a mission hang. Like… dinner-dinner.”

  Cherry blinked.

  “No,” she said with a straight face.

  Anaya froze mid-step. “Wait—”

  Cherry burst into laughter. “Kidding! Of course I’d love to, baddie. Took you long enough!”

  Anaya blinked. Her flames flared once—just a flick of embarrassed heat.

  They climbed up out of the subway and into the cool, open air of the city. The stars were dim against the glow of streetlights, but the breeze felt clean.

  That’s when they saw them.

  Across the street, just at the edge of a long-abandoned plaza, stood four figures. Cloaked in silhouette, but distinct.

  Crimline. Waxjaw. Latch Baby. Crestlock Vale.

  The Devils Den.

  They weren’t in a combat stance. Not yet.

  Crimline’s Eidolon rifles hovered in slow rotation. Waxjaw cracked his knuckles, jaw steaming faintly. Latch Baby stood still, humming. Crestlock Vale rested his spear against his shoulder like a knight observing a rival camp.

  Anaya stepped forward, flames flickering at her heels.

  “…Now what?” Tai muttered under his breath.

  “Now,” Cherry said softly, her tone still light, “we find out if this dinner’s getting postponed.”

  The silence between the two groups stretched like a taut wire, the city hum muted beneath the weight of tension.

  Anaya continued forward, arms loose at her sides, her boots dragging gentle sparks along the pavement as faint purple flame trailed behind her.

  Crimline, flanked by the monstrous bulk of Waxjaw and the unnerving stillness of Crestlock Vale, didn’t budge. Her white-and-black mask reflected the nearby streetlight, and her Eidolon rifles hovered around her like silent sentinels.

  “Crimline,” Anaya said flatly. “You’re not supposed to be anywhere near this sector.”

  Crimline tilted her head slightly, voice calm, clipped. “We’re not here for trouble. We detected a surge of mani—spiked and warped. We thought it might’ve been someone we’re tracking.”

  “Who?” Mina asked sharply, her threads already slithering just barely off the ground.

  Crimline paused, then simply said, “Not your concern.”

  Anaya’s flame flared instinctively at her heels. “That’s not how this works. You think I’m just gonna let Den Devils walk free without explanation?”

  Crimline’s voice didn’t rise, but the chill in it cut deep. “You’re the only A-Rank among your team, little girl. I have two with me. Including myself.”

  Latch Baby let out a low grunt. Crestlock Vale’s spear shimmered faintly with restrained killing intent.

  “A fight here won’t end well for your little patrol,” Crimline said.

  Anaya didn’t back down. Her flame coiled upward like a serpent. “Maybe. But I can’t just let a group of Judicators wander around like they own the streets. You’re enemies of the E.R.O., not tourists.”

  Both teams shifted. Tai’s flames sparked from his fingertips. Backbeat’s clones readied themselves in perfect sync, Cherry summoned a double layer of barriers, and Mina’s threads slithered like golden lightning at her feet.

  On the other side, Waxjaw’s furnace glow grew brighter, Crestlock Vale set his stance like a duelist awaiting a call to charge, and Latch Baby… giggled.

  Then tilted their head and whispered something incomprehensible. A dull pulse rippled out from their mask—a disruptive mani wave.

  All the E.R.O. comms went silent with a soft chime. Signal blocked. No backup.

  “Great,” Cherry muttered. “Of course they brought a freak with WiFi jamming powers.”

  Just as Anaya’s flames surged in response and Crimline raised a hand—

  A presence stopped them all mid motion.

  “Don’t stop now… you all were just about to do something so interesting.”

  Everyone froze.

  Above them, lounging on a rusted billboard support like a cat basking in the moonlight, lay Ashara.

  She wore an oversized pink Hello Kitty hoodie, the sleeves stretched past her fingers, the hood halfway up like she was hiding in plain sight. The cutesy cartoon face on her chest was stained with dried blood and ash.

  Piercings lined her ears, a black choker hugged her neck, and smudged liner framed her half-lidded, mischievous gaze. Her legs dangled lazily off the edge. She tapped the board-walkway in rhythm to her own soft humming—a twisted lullaby drifting down to the street below.

  Her katana rested across her lap, pale in color and etched with erratic markings—her fingers idly spinning it by the hilt. Her grin was crooked, yet full of excitement.

  Crimline’s entire posture tightened. Her rifles subtly shifted.

  “Ashara,” she muttered beneath her breath.

  Ashara smiled wider, resting her chin on her palm.

  “Miss me?”