The first shot wiped one smile off the room.
The bullet punched through the nearest mask between the eyes. White cracked. A body dropped, black elegant suit folding into the red-lit floor.
Nobody even flinched.
Ten other masks simply turned toward Takeshi.
Hands rose.
Knives rose with them.
Not steel. Luminite.
Long violet shards slid out from sleeves and cuffs, levitating weightless in the air. Each one pulsed with a low, stormy glow, like a thundercloud caught in glass.
Fingers twitched.
The fragments fired.
Three shards tore for his chest. Two went for his knees. One came straight for his eye, slow and confident, tracing where his head should move.
Takeshi's left arm came up.
The red gem in his prosthetic flared hard. Plates spun and overlapped, turning the forearm into a blunt shield.
The first shard hit with a scream. It scratched a line and bounced.
The second buried halfway into the metal and got stuck, humming.
The third skidded off and kissed his ribs instead, opening a burning line.
He moved anyway.
Marcus's pistol cracked twice more.
A second mask snapped back and shattered. A third Moirai took a round in the throat and collapsed without a sound.
The masks stopped being patient.
On Takeshi's left, two masked suits spread their fingers wide. Shards slashed across the room like violet teeth. On the right, another dozen traced small circles in the air.
The fragments curved, turned, then came at him from behind.
Control. Not raw. Not wild.
Precise and deadly.
Takeshi dropped behind a chair.
It lasted less than a second.
Knives chewed through wood and steel, shredding it into splinters.
He rolled, came up on one knee, and shot under the table.
The round took a Moirai in the knee. The leg bent in an unnatural angle. A few knives faltered for a breath, patterns breaking.
The leader at the head of the table finally moved.
He did not rush. He simply lifted his hand, fingers closed a fraction.
Every loose shard in the room shuddered and rotated toward him.
They floated in a ring over his shoulders, humming. Dozens of violet points, all aimed at Takeshi now.
He didn't even have time to breathe properly.
Shards tore across the space - three shards in a row aimed at his heart, a tight group for his throat, others for hips, joints, femoral, spine. No wasted angle. No wasted edge.
The gem in his arm answered.
Plates locked even tighter, seams glowing red.
From the arm, rays erupted and intertwined, forming a forcefield protecting Takeshi's front.
The storm hit.
It felt like standing in front of a train made of knives. Edges slammed into the field in a continuous roar. Fragments exploded in violet sparks. Some shards shattered outright. Some bent. Some dug in the field, hesitating before falling to the ground.
Three got past.
One stabbed into his thigh.
One scratched his side and kept going.
One sliced across his shoulder, leaving a thin line of blood behind.
As an answer, Takeshi ran straight at the table.
His palm gripped the edge. The red gem roared. Metal, flesh and luminite agreed for once.
He heaved.
The long table ripped free of the floor bolts with a screech and flipped.
Then it slammed into the far wall, crushing three Moirai - including the leader - against the glass.
Red data shattered. Lines of text broke and flickeredacross the cracked surface.
Takeshi holstered the pistol without looking. His left hand grabbed a jagged corner of a chair and tore a chunk off.
Plates whined. The gem flared so bright, the color was almost white.
He kept walking, dragging the makeshift slab with him.
One of the pinned Moirai managed to wrench a hand free, fingers twitching for a shard.
Takeshi brought the chair chunk down.
It hit the leader's head like a battering ram.
The smiling mask cracked down the middle.
Every shard in the room stuttered.
Half of them simply fell, some shattering on the ground.
Takeshi threw the chair piece towards the mask to his left, completely shattering the glass on the wall.
The head behind it hit the spiderwebbed glass and slid down, leaving a red smear.
Another suit dragged a violet shard free and flung it at point blank.
It never had time to fly.
Takeshi caught his wrist, and twisted.
The shard clattered to the floor.
A short elbow to the jaw shut him off.
Takeshi turned, eyes empty.
Three Moirai remained.
They stood farther apart than the others had, black suits spaced around the ruined table. Their knives did not scatter like before.
The violet shards rose in a slow spiral, obedient.
Each set of fragments drew together and hardened.
One Moirai shaped his into a long spear.
Another gathered his into a wide, curved arc that hovered in front of his chest like a shield.
The third kept his close, a tight ring of slivers orbiting him at throat height, all points turned outward.
The spear shot first.
It came in low, then snapped up for the gut. Takeshi turned. It still caught his side - a red-hot line across the ribs - and buried itself in the wall behind him. The impact shook dust from the ceiling.
The red gem in his arm pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
The heat changed. It was not just strength now. It crawled up his forearm and pooled in his palm, like hot sand.
He opened his fingers.
Red light poured out.
It drew itself into a thin, simple shape.
A knife.
A clean, sharp edge made of light.
Takeshi didn't waste time being surprised.
He threw.
The red knife left his hand in a straight line.
The shield Moirai twitched his fingers. Violet fragments snapped in front of his face.
But the red blade ignored them.
It cut through the shard wall, splitting them.
The knife shattered the white mask and the face behind, man dropping as if someone cut his strings.
Two left.
The spear re-formed and lunged again, faster. Takeshi moved toward it instead of away.
He stepped inside the trajectory, metal forearm taking the hit, redirecting the spear. The impact bit deep, scraping sparks, but didn't get through.
Another knife grew out of his palm as he pushed forward.
He slammed his shoulder into the spear caster and drove the new blade up under the mask, just below the chin.
The body jerked once, then went slack.
The spear fell apart midair. The shards hit the floor like hail.
Only one Moirai remained.
The last one finally backed up.
His ring of shards tightened around him, spinning faster, a violet halo that would slice anything foolish enough to step in.
Takeshi's breathing had turned rough now. Blood dampened his shirt at the side and shoulder, hot and wet.
But he kept walking.
The halo hissed in front of him.
He raised his hand one last time.
The third knife took longer to form. It shook once as it solidified, red edge jagged for a heartbeat before smoothing out.
The Moirai's fingers twitched.
Half the ring of shards snapped out to intercept the throw.
But Takeshi didn't throw it.
He stepped in and used it.
He cut the fragments, one breath away from getting his head cut off.
Violet and red crashed.
The red knife met three shards at once. All three broke.
The man lost his focus, a bit confused.
The shards that were left stuttered in the air, uncertain for a breath.
That was all Takeshi needed.
He stepped behind the last moirai, grabbing the head and smashing it into the closest wall.
Porcelain cracked. Once. Twice.
On the third hit, the mask shattered.
The last shards floating in the air dropped like they had finally accepted defeat.
Silence.
No more violet light. No more humming knives.
Just a cold room full of broken glass, white fragments, and quiet bodies in black suits.
The red knife in Takeshi's hand flickered and bled out into nothing. The gem in his arm dimmed to a deep, tired ember.
He stood there, chest heaving, looking at what was left.
The Moirai were gone.
All of them.
Something inside him eased. Not joy. Not peace. Just… Emptiness. A space where rage had lived for too long.
Takeshi took one step.
Then another.
A hand grabbed his ankle.
He looked down.
One of the masked bodies he had put through a wall earlier hadn't stopped breathing. The mask was cracked, but the eyes behind it were still wide open.
The Moirai's other hand held a knife.
Not violet. Not luminite.
Steel.
It flashed up, thrown with the last inch of strength the moirai had left.
Takeshi tried to twist away.
The blade still cut into his side, low, under the ribs, angling up.
Not deep enough to drop him.
Deep enough to matter.
Heat exploded in his stomach. His whole body clenched around the point.
Takeshi's answer was simple.
He pulled the knife out and threw it back, two times stronger.
This time, nobody moved.
Takeshi stayed hunched for a moment, breath shallow, hand on the wound.
Blood leaked between his fingers.
Too dark. Almost... Violet.
Thicker than it should be.
The edges of the cut burned, not like fire, but like frost. His tongue went numb at the back of his mouth.
Poison.
The Moirai were dead.
Their poison wasn't.