Janvis reached into her leather handbag and pulled out her wallet, slipping a crisp twenty-dollar bill from the fold. "Here," she said softly, handing it over. "Get yourself something warm."
The elderly man took the bill, his weathered fingers brushing against hers as he gave a deep, appreciative nod. "Bless you, miss. Most people won't even look a man in the eye these days."
He slid the bill into his pocket, then casually pulled a silver coin from his sleeve. With a quick flick of his thumb, the coin spun into the air with a faint metallic ring before landing cleanly in his right palm. He instantly slapped his left hand over it, sealing the coin out of sight.
"A quick game for good measure," the old man said, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "What's facing upward, miss? Heads or tails?"
Janvis opened her mouth to brush him off, but her gaze locked onto his folded hands. A strange, profound stillness washed over her mind— sensation similar to standing at the bottom of a deep pool. The ambient noise of the street faded into dead silence.
As she stared at his knuckles, the skin on her left eyelid twitched faintly. Deep within her eye, the microscopic, iridescent catalyst reacted to the neural spike. Her pupil dilated, and her iris shifted—a subtle, shimmering ring of pearlescent light rippling through the dark pigment of her eye.
The flesh and bone of the old man's hands seemed to thin into translucent grey shadows. Through his palms, the fine details of the silver coin became strikingly clear: the raised, sharp relief of a profile, illuminated as if light were passing straight through his skin.
"Heads," Janvis said, her voice hollow and distant.
The old man chuckled softly, lifting his top hand oblivious to what had just happened and reveal the silver coin sitting heads-up in his palm. He slid the coin back into his coat pocket and looked up at her, his eyes carrying a sudden, unnatural depth.
"Good luck and goodwill will save you... just once," he murmured quietly.
Before Janvis could process the phrase, the old man turned on his heel and walked away, his stooped silhouette vanishing around the corner of the apartment complex.
A chill ran down Janvis's spine, snapping her out of the trance-like state. She gasped, taking a quick step back as the ambient sound of city traffic roared back into her ears. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, and her head throbbed with a witty, centered pressure behind her left eye.
"What... what was that?" she whispered to herself, her fingers touching her temple.
Panic surging beneath her usual composure, Janvis rushed up the steps, unlocked the main building doors, and practically sprinted up the stairs to her third-floor apartment. Fumbling with her keys, she shoved her door open, stepped inside, and threw the heavy deadbolt.
She walked straight to the bathroom mirror, gripping the edges of the porcelain sink as she leaned in close. She stared at her reflection, pulling her left eyelid down to inspect her iris. It looked entirely normal—dark, sharp, and steady. There was no glow, no shimmer, no visual distortion.
"Must be stress," she muttered, letting out a shaky breath and splashing cold water over her face. "Paper work and reports combined with the precinct... MACE... the crash... I'm losing my edge."
She dried her face with a hand towel, her body feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly heavy. The exhaustion from the day's back-to-back crises seemed to settle straight into her bones.
Glancing at the wall clock, she saw the hands pointing just past five in the afternoon. The evening sun was still casting long amber rays across her living room floor, but Janvis didn't care. She walked into her bedroom, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed onto the bed, pulling the duvet over her shoulders. Within seconds, her eyes heavy and her mind numb, she drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
**********
Back at Huntington Centre, the polished marble floors of the main lobby reflected the soft overhead lighting as Ryan walked through the automated glass doors. His hands were thrust deep into his jacket pockets still trying ti process the whole exchange from the encounter with the two female black ops.
Before he could reach the elevators, a tall, broad-shouldered figure appeared, blocking his way.
Damon having combed his hair and in a Crisp suit stood tall, exuded .
"You're late, Ryan," Damon stared down at him.
Ryan stopped, his posture stiffening immediately. "I had a situation down in the lower district. You know damn well what happened down there."
Damon didn't so much as blink. He was fully aware of the MACE interception and the chaos on the avenue from the texts some of the vampires had sent, but out here in the public eye, he couldn't be bothered to be considerate.
"What I know is that this company runs on strict operational ethics and schedule compliance. Personal detours, unresolved incidents, or emotional wanderings don't excuse a breach of contract."
Ryan's right hand clenched into a tight fist inside his pocket, as her couldn't understand why Damon was acting out almost as if they were not in same team. A hot spike of irritation flashed through his eyes. "Contract? People are getting hunted out there, Mr Damon."
Damon leaned in just an inch, his voice dropping to a dry whisper. "Clench your fist all you like, kid. But remember your deposition. Remember this well, I am not bound to be considerate of your plight if it doesn't align with our interest. Keep your head straight and bring yourself back to reality. You aren't a lone ranger."
Ryan stared at him for a long, agonizing second, his chest heaving before slowly relaxing his fingers.
Without another word, he brushed past Damon's shoulder, heading straight for the high-speed elevator.
Upstairs in the private suite, the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and damp steam.
Holly stood near the edge of the master bathroom, her upper body bare save for the heavy, crisp white bandages wrapped tightly around her right forearm, extending up her shoulder and binding across her chest.
She had just stepped out of the shower, her dark hair wet and dripping onto the tiled floor.
Fiona sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, her hands tightly folded in her lap, watching Holly adjust the medical tape over her ribs.
Holly gave a brutal recap of the encounter—detailing Scarlet's anti-transmutation rounds, Rose's cunning words filled with manipulation of Ryan, and how easily MACE had disrupted the police radio in team without suffering a single causality or exposure.
As the details settled into the room, Fiona felt a suffocating knot form in her stomach. She shifted uncomfortably whilst her eyes darted toward the heavy mahogany doors of the suite. The reality of her situation was crashing down with terrifying clarity.
These weren't just quirky, gifted people she was staying with like she thought—they were walking targets locked in a shadowy, merciless war against black-ops operatives, twisted flesh-surgeons, and supernatural predators.
Sitting in this luxurious hotel room didn't make her safe; it just put her in the center of the crosshairs.
"They aren't going to stop, but you're not on their radar Fiona," Holly said quietly, pulling a fresh shirt over her bandaged torso with a wince. " You need not be bothered much about it"
"Any idea about when they're leaving or better what they're up to, it's not like we've had any leaks until now" Claire asked her face filled with concern.
"No idea, buy from the looks of it we weren't the main targets...at least not until they have what they came for."
Meanwhile, on the suite's private top-floor balcony, Molly stood alone against the cool stone railing.
She breathed in the high-altitude air, her eyes fixed on the sprawling city skyline below. Having spent far too long cooped up indoors, terrified of the lethal burn of direct sunlight, being outside felt like an impossible luxury. She held her left hand up to the light, where a dull silver daylight ring sat securely on her finger—a temporary grace providing her protection, though the subtle, latent hum of the charm served as a constant reminder that her freedom was still borrowed time.