Lucien slowed the café racer as the village came into view. The fog clung to the road like something alive, and Redford sat ahead—dark, crooked, and half-rotten.
He rolled to a stop near the broken signboard.
The voice muttered, amused:
"Looks abandoned… but it's not."
Lucien stared into the darkness.
"Yeah," he replied quietly. "I can feel it too."
There was life here—thin, hidden, wrong.
Not families.
Not travelers.
Not locals.
More like pests scattering when the light hits.
He pushed forward, guiding the bike deeper through the silent village. Collapsed roofs, shattered windows, half-burnt doors—every house looked dead. But as he passed between them, eyes watched him.
A man ducked behind a broken fence.
Two silhouettes slipped into an old shop.
Soft footsteps retreated into shadows.
Not villagers.
Not by a long shot.
Lucien killed the engine before it gave him away, pushed the café racer behind a fallen water tank, and walked the rest on foot.
The air grew heavier the further he went.
Wrong air.
Polluted with sweat, metal, and fear.
He slipped between gutted cars and hollow buildings until the trees opened up, revealing the warehouse at last.
Rust-eaten walls.
Yellow generator lights.
Men pacing lazily with guns.
Tire tracks in the dirt.
Spilled powder.
Footsteps dragged toward the back.
The voice sounded almost pleased.
"This is the place."
Lucien didn't respond.
He climbed the broken ladder on the old grain silo beside the warehouse, moving like a shadow. One quiet step after another. No sound. No stumble.
He reached the top and crouched low, the oni mask staring down at the yard.
Men lingered outside—smoking, swearing, stomping around like they owned the night.
Lucien leaned forward, listening.
Their voices rose just enough.
"…shipment's ready. The kids are locked in the back room."
"That buyer better pay on time this run. Last time he was late."
"Relax. Drugs, guns, bodies—everything's moving tonight."
"You think the boss is showing up?"
"No idea. But we better stay sharp. Heard someone wiped the whole Red Ridge crew tonight."
"Shut up. Eight guys? No way."
"No, I'm serious! They said bones were broken in half. Like someone folded them."
Lucien's jaw tightened.
The voice chuckled in his mind.
"They're talking about you, kid."
Lucien remained still.
Watching.
Listening.
Learning.
The night stretched around him, cold and silent, as the pieces of a much bigger problem started falling into place.
Lucien stayed crouched on the silo, the night wind brushing past the oni mask.
He closed his eyes.
Both hands lifted slowly, fingers weaving into a precise shape—two middle fingers interlocked, thumbs pressed together, palms half-open like a spider ready to strike.
A hand sign he had done thousands of times, drilled into him until it was instinct.
He whispered:
"Kagekan… Shadou Kanshi."
A pulse rippled beneath him.
From Lucien's shadow, thin black threads erupted outward—silent, weightless, spider-web strands crawling across the ground.
They slithered between rocks.
Scaled broken walls.
Slipped under doors.
Wove around buildings.
And kept spreading.
Fifty meters.
Two hundred.
Five hundred.
A full thousand meters swallowed in shadow-web.
Lucien inhaled once.
Then the world hit him all at once—
not with sight, but with heartbeats.
Fast ones.
Fearful ones.
Angry ones.
Weak, trembling, fading ones.
Each one pressing against his chest like invisible pulses.
The voice whistled.
"Look at that… thirty… no, thirty-four thugs around the area."
Lucien exhaled slowly, steadying the map in his mind.
"And deeper in—"
He felt them.
Dozens of tiny, fragile pulses.
Cold.
Shaking.
Barely alive.
A cluster of weak heartbeats packed tightly together inside a steel cargo box.
The voice went silent for a beat.
Then:
"…That box is full of kids.
A lot of them."
Lucien didn't twitch.
Didn't gasp.
Didn't even blink behind the mask.
But a heat spread behind the mask—
controlled, slow, lethal.
He stood up at the highest point of the silo, the shadow-web still pulsing under everything in a kilometer.
"…Found them," he murmured.
The voice laughed quietly, dark and pleased.
"Good.
Now let's get to work."
Lucien stepped off the ledge—
straight into the dark.
Lucien crouched, ready to drop down on the first guard—
when a sudden glare washed over him.
Headlights.
Multiple.
Bright enough to light up half the yard.
Lucien barely had a fraction of a second.
He flipped off the top of the silo, body twisting mid-air.
His gloved fingers shot out—
and he latched onto the rusted metal wall, sticking to the side like a shadowed insect.
The headlights swept past the exact spot he was just standing on.
"…Fuck," he muttered quietly. "Almost got caught."
The voice snorted.
"Slipping, Lucien. Are we getting old or something?"
Lucien's eyes narrowed behind the mask.
"Shut up."
But then the voice shifted tone—calmer, focused.
"On a more important note…
I'm guessing that's the boss."
Lucien looked down as three black SUVs rolled into the warehouse yard.
Men scrambled to open the gates.
The thugs outside straightened instantly.
Everything about the arrival felt heavier.
"Yeah," Lucien murmured. "That's him."
The voice clicked its tongue.
"Well… why don't we go investigate?"
Lucien didn't hesitate.
He kicked off the silo wall.
Gravity pulled him down—
and black smoke burst from his palms and feet, twisting into long trails that slowed his fall and guided his descent.
He glided through the air like a dark specter, silent, controlled.
He landed on the warehouse roof without a sound, crouching low.
Smoke curled around him and vanished.
Below him, doors slammed.
Boots marched.
A deeper, colder heartbeat pulsed from inside one of the SUVs.
Lucien leaned forward.
"…Let's see who's in the car," he whispered.
The voice smiled inside his skull.
"Oh, this is going to be fun."
Lucien stayed low on the warehouse roof, the metal cooling slowly under the night air. Below, three black SUVs rolled in and stopped with perfect precision—too organized for small-time trash.
Doors opened.
Thugs straightened instantly, backs stiff, eyes down, trying to look useful.
Then the man stepped out.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
A black coat too clean for this rotten place.
Gloves on.
Hair slicked back.
Face half-hidden by the SUV's headlights.
He didn't look nervous.
Didn't look excited.
He looked… bored.
Lucien's fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the roof.
The voice whispered, dry:
"Yeah… that's the boss."
Lucien didn't answer.
Two lieutenants rushed toward the man.
"Sir, the shipment is ready—kids inside the container, drugs separated, weapons accounted for—"
The boss raised one hand.
Silence dropped instantly.
"If yesterday's route hadn't been compromised," he said calmly, "we wouldn't be behind schedule."
Lucien's eyes narrowed.
Yesterday's route.
The one he shredded.
The man continued walking with measured, unhurried steps.
"We can't afford delays. You know who we answer to."
A few of the thugs swallowed visibly.
The voice muttered:
"Someone above him. Figures."
Lucien leaned in slightly, listening.
Another lieutenant stepped up.
"Sir, we tightened perimeter watch. Nobody comes out this deep into the village. And whoever took out the Red Ridge group isn't—"
The boss cut him off sharply.
"Don't assume anything."
A beat.
"The Collector expects this batch before dawn."
Lucien didn't freeze.
Didn't flinch.
Just tilted his head.
"Mm," he murmured inside the mask. "So he's the one running shit around here."
The voice gave a low, unimpressed hum.
"Collector, huh. Fancy name for another asshole in the chain."
Lucien said nothing, watching every movement below.
A lower-ranked thug approached, voice trembling.
"Uh—sir, about the kids… a few passed out. They haven't eaten since yesterday."
The boss sighed—annoyed, not sympathetic.
"Then wake them. I don't care how."
Lucien felt a small ember of heat in his chest.
Not rage.
Not disgust.
Just a quiet, slow-burning certainty.
The boss moved toward the warehouse entrance.
"And seal the container. The Buyer will arrive in two hours. Keep everything ready. No mistakes."
Lucien murmured,
"Buyer, Collector… so it's a whole operation."
The voice snorted.
"Of course it is. A system like this always has layers."
Lucien shifted, crouching lower, shadows rippling faintly under him.Lucien stayed crouched on the rooftop, shadows curling around him like threads.
Below, the thugs scrambled as the boss disappeared into the warehouse.
The voice chuckled.
"So? What now? Wanna ruin their night?"
Lucien didn't move.
"…No," he said quietly.
The voice paused.
"…No?"
Lucien's eyes dropped to the men below, then to the metal container in the far corner—
the one filled with the tiny, trembling heartbeats he sensed earlier.
"This thing has too many layers to just mess it up tonight," he murmured.
He lowered himself to the roof's edge and began to crawl silently down the slanted metal, hands gripping rusted ridges. His body flowed downward like smoke, mask never making a sound.
He reached the edge of the wall, dropped down lightly, and circled to the back of the warehouse.
He moved behind the container—the cold steel box filled with weak, frightened pulses—tracking it perfectly with the shadow-sensing web he laid earlier.
The voice finally spoke, confused.
"What do you mean too many layers? You're right here. We could tear this place apart."
Lucien leaned his back against the container, head tilted upward.
"Suppose I keep all of them now," he said. "Kill every thug. Empty every cage."
He tapped the metal once with his knuckles.
"There's no point. Someone else will take their place by morning."
The voice scoffed.
"Then kill the next idiot."
Lucien shook his head slightly.
"No. Not idiots. The one who runs this."
The voice clicked its tongue.
"The Collector?"
"Yeah," Lucien said. "If I find him… and kill him… the structure breaks."
A beat.
"And someone else will fill that slot," the voice replied flatly.
Lucien smirked faintly behind the mask.
"Yeah. And I'll kill him too."
But his voice changed—lower, heavier.
"But… unfortunately, for that to happen, some sacrifices must be made."
He glanced at the cargo box behind him.
His hand brushed the metal once.
A quiet acknowledgment.
The voice stiffened.
"What sort of sacrifi—"
A pause.
Its tone shifted sharply.
"…you mean… Kicein, no.
You can't possibly—"
"Yes," Lucien said.
No emotion.
No hesitation.
"Unfortunately… yes."
The voice fell silent.
And Lucien kept looking at the container—
not with softness,
not with indecision,
but with the cold understanding of someone who has seen how systems truly collapse.
Lucien stood still for a moment, looking at the container like he was staring straight through the steel.
Then he raised his right hand to his mouth, bit down on his thumb, and tore the skin open with a clean, practiced motion.
Blood welled instantly.
He crouched and pressed the bleeding thumb to the metal, drawing a slow, deliberate curve.
Then another.
And another.
A sigil formed — a single kanji wrapped in a ring of sharp strokes:
封
(Seal.)
He finished the last stroke with a hard drag of his thumb, then stepped back.
Blood gleamed dark against the cold steel.
Lucien lifted his left hand and formed a tight, precise sign —
all fingers erect except the ring finger,
fist half-curled,
a gesture that would look meaningless to anyone else.
To him?
It was a trigger.
The symbol pulsed once.
Then twice.
And suddenly the entire mark ignited — glowing red and crimson, veins of light crawling across the container like living scars.
A quiet hum filled the air.
The voice exhaled.
"…Marker set, huh?"
Lucien lowered his hand, letting the last of the glow settle into the metal.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
His eyes stayed on the container — on the frightened heartbeats inside.
"A minor loss," he murmured,
"for a major victory."
He stepped into the shadows as the sigil faded from sight,
leaving nothing behind but cold steel
and a promise only he understood.
Lucien moved away from the cargo container, slipping between shadows like water passing through cracks. The night air thickened as he approached the SUVs—three of them parked in a neat row, engines ticking softly from the long drive.
Guards paced lazily around them, bored and careless.
Bad mistake.
Lucien pressed himself against the wall, breath steady, heartbeat slow. When a guard turned his back to light a cigarette, Lucien slid forward—silent, unseen.
He bit into his thumb again, reopening the wound without hesitation.
Blood welled.
He crouched beside the first SUV and quickly drew the same character —
封
(Seal.)
This time much smaller, hidden under the bumper.
The red strokes disappeared almost instantly into the black paint.
He lifted his left hand, forming the same sign—
all fingers erect except the ring finger.
A faint crimson pulse ran through the metal.
Only once.
Gone.
"One," Lucien whispered.
He moved to the second SUV, ducking under the chassis while a guard argued on his phone nearby.
Another bloody sigil.
Another crimson pulse.
"Two."
He approached the third SUV—the one the boss had arrived in.
Two guards stood close, talking in low voices.
Lucien waited.
Patient.
Still.
They eventually drifted apart for a moment—just a moment—
but it was enough.
Lucien slid in behind the vehicle like a shadow slipping under a door.
He drew the kanji again—slow, silent, precise.
Blood seeped into the grooves of the bumper.
He lifted his left hand—
The sign formed—
crimson flared—
the sigil sank into the metal—
"Three," he whispered.
The voice clicked its tongue.
"You just marked the entire convoy. Nice."
Lucien wiped the blood on his pants.
"Now I can track wherever they go," he murmured. "No matter what route they take."
He turned to leave, melting into the darkness between the walls.
But before he got more than a few steps—
Something shifted.
Bootsteps stopped.
A breath caught.
Lucien froze.
Down below, near the warehouse entrance, the boss paused mid-conversation. His head turned slightly—too slightly, too precise.
Like he sensed a ripple in the air.
"Sir?" a lieutenant asked.
The boss didn't answer at first.
He scanned the yard slowly… deliberately.
Eyes sharpening.
Searching.
The voice whispered:
"Careful… he felt something."
Lucien stayed perfectly still, shadow pressed against shadow.
Finally, the boss exhaled through his nose.
"…Thought I felt something," he muttered.
Then he turned and walked into the warehouse.
The door slammed shut.
Lucien stepped backward into the unlit side of the building.
The voice sighed in relief.
"That one's sharp… sharper than the rest."
Lucien's eyes stayed fixed on the door.
"…Good," he murmured.
Shadows curled around him as he disappeared into the dark.
"Let him be sharp.
He'll make the hunt interesting."
Lucien shot upward like a streak of black smoke, rising from the compound and cutting across the night sky. The shadows carried him toward the far treeline—
a tall, skeletal tree overlooking the entire village.
He landed softly on the highest branch, balanced, silent.
Only then did he reach up and unhook the mask.
A soft clack echoed as he pulled it free.
Black.
Gloss-dark.
With gold fangs and gold-tipped horns catching the moonlight.
The face beneath it finally surfaced—calm, unreadable, eyes sharp as a blade.
Lucien let the mask hang loosely from his fingers.
He pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lifted a lighter.
A small spark—
a low flame—
and the cigarette glowed orange.
Lucien inhaled slowly.
Exhaled even slower.
White smoke drifted past his face and disappeared into the night, mixing with the last wisps of black aura clinging to him.
Below, the warehouse yard buzzed with frantic movement.
Engines revved.
Men shouted orders.
Metal slammed.
The whole place was coming alive.
The voice broke the silence.
"…Waiting?"
Lucien didn't blink.
"Mm."
He tapped ash from the cigarette, eyes fixed on the warehouse.
"The convoy has to move."
Down below, the first SUV pulled into position.
The voice spoke again, more pointed.
"You're really letting them take the kids?"
Lucien exhaled smoke through his nose.
"We talked about this already."
Another cloud drifted into the night.
"If I break everything tonight," he said calmly,
"someone else replaces it tomorrow."
He rolled the cigarette slightly between his fingers.
"But if I break the head of the system…"
He let the sentence hang in the air.
The voice finished it for him, uneasy.
"…then everything collapses."
Lucien flicked ash off the tip.
"Exactly."
The second SUV started up.
The cargo container was dragged forward.
Men barked instructions.
Lucien watched all of it, expression cold and steady.
"No need to burn the anthill," he murmured.
"Just crush the queen."
He raised the cigarette again, inhaled deeply, and blew out a slow stream of smoke.
His eyes sharpened.
"Then the rest starve."
The third SUV rolled forward.
Lucien hooked the black-and-gold mask onto his belt, letting it dangle by his side.
"Time to follow," he whispered.
Down below, the convoy began to move into the darkness.
Lucien waited—
silent, perched, smoking—
like a hunter letting his prey wander just far enough
before the chase begins.
Lucien stayed on the branch until the very last taillight vanished down the broken road.
Only when the engine hum fully faded did he flick his cigarette away, the ember dying mid-air.
He slipped the black-and-gold mask back onto his face with a soft click.
Then he moved.
One push —
a burst of smoke —
and he sailed from tree to tree until he reached the edge of the village again.
His café racer sat exactly where he hid it.
But someone else was there.
A lone figure stood beside the bike, crouching, trying to peer at something on the seat.
No other heartbeats nearby.
No voices.
No backup.
Lucien checked the shadows.
Checked the rooflines.
Checked the broken houses around him.
Nothing.
Alone.
He dropped silently from the tree, landing behind a rusted fence.
One breath.
Then he stepped out, walking toward the man — slow, deliberate.
Gravel crunched under his boots.
The stranger froze, half-turned, hands still hovering over Lucien's bike.
Lucien didn't raise his voice.
Didn't speed up.
He just spoke — low, calm, and very, very close.
"…Move your hand."
The man stiffened, swallowing hard at the sound of a voice behind him.
Lucien kept approaching, the mask's gold fangs catching the moonlight.
The voice inside him chuckled softly.
"Well… this should be interesting."
Lucien kept walking toward him, boots tapping lightly on the cracked road.
The man straightened slowly, trying to look taller than he was.
"H-Hey, man… chill," he said, forcing a smile. "I wasn't stealing anything. Just—just checking the bike, you know? Cool ride. That's all."
Lucien tilted his head.
"…Checking?"
"Yeah, yeah! I just thought maybe someone left it. Or—or maybe it broke down, right?" He laughed nervously. "Didn't wanna touch anything, bro. Promise."
Lucien stopped two steps away.
"Don't lie."
The man swallowed.
"I—I'm not—"
"You're sweating."
The man wiped his forehead quickly.
"It's hot—"
"It's cold tonight."
The man's smile twitched.
"Look, man… I don't want trouble, alright? I'm just—just passing through. I didn't know it belonged to someone."
Lucien's voice dropped even lower.
"You didn't know it belonged to someone…
but you were opening the fuel cap?"
The man froze.
Caught.
His eyes darted left, right — like looking for an escape.
The voice inside Lucien hummed.
"He's gonna run. Three… two…"
The man inhaled fast, panicked.
"LOOK, MAN! I SAID SOR—"
He didn't finish.
Lucien moved once — no stance, no warning, just a blur of motion.
His left hand sliced across the man's face, palm flat, fingers rigid like a blade.
A wet crack snapped through the air.
The man's jaw separated cleanly —
a sideways slice that sent him collapsing to the dirt, choking on his own breath, hands clawing at the bottom half of his face now hanging loose.
Lucien didn't even look at him.
He wiped his fingertips on the man's shirt once.
"…Don't touch my bike," he said quietly.
The voice chuckled, amused.
"Efficient.
You didn't even stain the mask this time."
Lucien stepped over the twitching body and grabbed the café racer's handlebar.
"Let's go," he murmured. "Convoy's far by now."
The bike rolled out into the road, engine roaring to life.
Ameera walked out of the house, suitcase wheels rattling lightly on the concrete. Her parents were already waiting near the car, her father leaning against the door, her mother fussing with something in her handbag.
"You ready?" her father asked.
"Yeah," Ameera replied.
No smile.
No excitement.
Just a flat, practiced tone.
Her mother opened the back door.
"Come, sit. Traffic might be heavy on the way."
Ameera slid into the back seat, pulling the hoodie tighter around herself. The smell of the car—citrus freshener mixed with old leather—felt strangely suffocating tonight.
Her father loaded the suitcase into the trunk, shut it with a dull thud, and got into the driver's seat.
The engine started.
The headlights cut through the darkness.
They drove.
Silence filled the car immediately.
Her mother turned halfway.
"You didn't say goodbye to the Reins?"
Ameera stared out the window.
"I did."
"But you seemed upset," her mother added gently.
Ameera's jaw clenched for a moment.
"I wasn't," she lied.
Her father glanced at her through the mirror, reading more than she wanted him to.
"You sure?"
Ameera leaned her head against the window, watching houses blur by.
"Yeah," she muttered. "Just tired."
Her mother reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You know… if something bothered you today, you can tell us."
Ameera didn't look away from the window.
"It doesn't matter."
She said it flatly, like a statement carved into stone.
Her father didn't press further.
The car fell quiet again, just the hum of the engine and the faint buzz of the road under the tires.
Ameera closed her eyes briefly.
She kept her breathing steady.
Kept her face blank.
Kept the storm behind her ribs chained down tight.
She whispered to herself so softly her parents couldn't hear:
"It doesn't matter."
But her fingers curled into a fist on her lap.
And her heartbeat said otherwise.
The car rolled into the highway stretch toward the airport, headlights cutting through the night. Ameera kept her forehead against the cold window, eyes half-open, lost in thought.
Her father muttered, "Road looks clear tonight… good."
Ameera didn't answer.
Then—
A roar.
A sudden flare of headlights in the rearview.
Three black SUVs came tearing down the road behind them, engines screaming like they were trying to outrun a demon.
"WHAT the hell!?" her father snapped, jerking the wheel slightly as the first SUV shot past. "Are these people insane!?"
The second blasted by even closer, shaking their car.
Her mother gasped.
"Such reckless driving! Someone should—"
"IDIOTS!" her father yelled as the third SUV nearly clipped their side mirror. "Do they want to kill someone!?"
Ameera's eyes finally opened fully.
Her heart gave a sharp, unexpected jolt.
Those SUVs…
That formation…
Something felt wrong.
She straightened in her seat, staring after them.
"Mom… Dad… who are they?" she whispered.
Before either parent could answer—
Another sound rose behind them.
Different.
Harsher.
Sharper.
More alive.
A bike.
Fast.
Dangerously fast.
A flash of black tore past their right side.
Ameera's breath caught.
Her father cursed again.
"WHAT THE—!? Who the hell rides like that!? Is everyone drunk tonight!?"
But Ameera wasn't listening.
For the smallest fraction of a second—
She saw him.
A man bent low over a café racer, black hoodie flapping,
and at his side—
the shape of a black mask with gold fangs hanging from his belt, catching the streetlight as he passed.
Ameera's eyes widened.
Her heartbeat punched once, hard.
That bike—
Her father jolted in his seat.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? What is wrong with people tonight!?"
Her mother clutched the handle.
"Someone call the police—this is insane!"
But Ameera wasn't listening.
Her eyes snapped to the blur of the bike.
The silhouette.
The shape of the tank.
The way the frame gleamed under the streetlights.
Her breath froze.
"…Wait."
Her father kept yelling, but his voice sounded far away.
Ameera pressed her palm against the window, staring at the disappearing taillight.
"That's… no," she whispered.
Her pulse spiked hard, her stomach twisting.
She wasn't looking at the rider — the mask hid everything.
She wasn't looking at the clothes — she didn't recognize them.
But the bike—
That bike was burned into her memory.
The midnight-black café racer with the unique exhaust.
The gold trim on the right handlebar.
Rowen's ridiculous custom seat cover he bragged about for two months.
Ameera knew that bike anywhere.
"…That's Rowen's," she whispered.
Her father didn't hear her.
Her mother didn't understand.
But Ameera sat perfectly still, eyes locked on the fading tail-light, heart pounding in her ears.
Why the hell was someone wearing a black mask
riding Rowen's bike
in the middle of the night
chasing three armed SUVs?
Her nails dug into her palms.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
And she knew it now.
Tonight wasn't normal.
Nothing about the Reins was normal.
And that bike proved it.
Lucien followed the convoy at a steady distance, letting the café racer slip along the treeline with low, controlled bursts of speed. The SUVs cut through the night like they owned it—engines hard, formation tight. When the road narrowed, Lucien drifted into the brush; when the trees pressed in, smoke carried him across small gaps, landing him back on the bike without ever losing sight of the taillights.
He didn't rush.
Didn't breathe hard.
Didn't blink.
He hunted.
They finally turned off the main road into old farmland, moving toward a massive freight complex—sprawling, rusted, half-dead, but humming beneath the skin.
The voice clicked its tongue.
"…This isn't small-time anymore."
Lucien didn't respond.
He already saw it.
The floodlights.
The guard rotations.
The reinforced warehouse.
The SUVs rolled into formation, finalizing their crawl toward the compound center.
The voice hummed, amused.
"Not amateurs. Not even close."
Lucien killed the engine and coasted off the dirt track, guiding the café racer behind a collapsed cargo trailer. Its crushed metal frame formed a black hollow — perfect coverage. He parked silently, slipped out, and became a shadow.
He climbed onto the warehouse roof with a fluid movement, crouching low. Men moved below with discipline — no sloppiness, no panic, no drunken swagger.
"See?" the voice murmured.
"These guys answer to real operators."
Lucien's eyes tracked every guard, every container, every reinforced door.
He didn't nod.
He didn't agree out loud.
He simply watched.
Far from the compound, Ameera leaned her head against the cold window of her father's car as they drove toward the airport. The image of those black SUVs and the masked rider on Rowen's bike kept replaying in her mind, hitting the same nerve every time. The tighter she hugged her bag, the deeper the dread pressed into her ribs.
They reached the airport. Her parents stepped out with her, hugged her tightly, told her to call when she landed. Ameera managed a soft "okay," turned, and headed toward the terminal.
Her phone buzzed.
Marianne.
Ameera answered. "Hello?"
"Ameera, dear—why did you leave so suddenly?" Marianne asked, worry deep in her voice. "We didn't even get to say goodbye."
Ameera tightened her grip on her suitcase handle. "I wasn't feeling good. Thought I'd just go."
"Oh… are you alright now?"
"Yeah. Fine."
"And Lucien didn't even get to see you again," Marianne sighed.
Ameera's throat tightened for a moment. "I'll meet him when I come back."
They exchanged a few gentle words before hanging up.
The phone rang again.
Elaine.
Ameera answered, a bit more tired now. "Hey."
"Ameera! Why'd you run off? You scared me!"
"I wasn't feeling well," Ameera said again, voice flat.
Elaine huffed. "At least text next time."
Ameera swallowed once.
"Elaine," she said quietly.
"Is Rowen home?"
Elaine paused. "Huh? Why?"
"Just ask."
Elaine called for Reggie. Muffled voices. Then Elaine returned.
"He's in his room. Apparently knocked out cold. Why? What happened?"
Ameera stared at the airport lights.
"…I saw his bike."
A small silence fell.
"Where?" Elaine whispered.
"On the highway. Behind three black SUVs. They were flying."
Elaine didn't speak for several seconds.
"Ameera… just get on your flight," she said finally, voice tight. "We'll… figure it out here."
Ameera nodded even though no one saw. "Okay."
She ended the call and walked toward check-in, heart beating harder than it should.
Meanwhile, Lucien crouched on the roof of the freight warehouse, the black-and-gold mask catching faint lines of moonlight. Below, the convoy men moved with precision—closing the rear container, sweeping corners, moving crates with coded signals.
The voice spoke again, low.
"…This is a node. Not a random hideout. They're feeding something bigger."
Lucien's eyes locked on the reinforced central building.
"I know."
Smoke curled off his shoulders as he rose slightly.
"And wherever the network gathers…"
his fingers tightened on the steel beam beneath him,
"…the one controlling it is close."
He stepped backward, letting the darkness swallow him whole.
"That's enough for tonight."
He vanished into the shadows.