The soft hum of the fluorescent lights of the clinic recovery suite was overhead as detective Quive stood before the wall-mounted vanity mirror, his shirt unbuttoned, staring in silent disbelief at his own reflection.
The milky glaze of the corneal damage was entirely gone. His right eye was clear, dark, and tracking with uncanny focus. Even more unsettling was the entry mark near his temple—the deep, jagged scar left by the high-caliber round that should have buried him six feet under had faded into a faint, silver thread across his hairline.
Beside the window, Rose and Scarlet sat in a pair of leather guest chairs. This time, the playful demeanor Rose usually projected was absent. Scarlet leaned forward, her posture rigid alongside her dark eyes locked onto Quive with a quiet, authoritative presence.
For the first time since their arrival, she exerted her full authority as the team leader, completely taking the floor.
Without a word of greeting, Scarlet reached into her leather shoulder bag, pulled out a thick brown case file, and flicked her wrist, sending the folder sailing through the air toward him.
The motion was fast, but Quive's reflexes were faster. Before the file could even clear the edge of the bed, his hand shot out—his fingers snapping shut around the Manila cover, catching it cleanly in mid-air without crumpling a single page.
A low appreciative hum cane from rose as she leaned back with a faint smile. "Look at that. You're definitely taking a step closer to breaking out of the shell a regular human standards "
Quive didn't respond felling his throat dry, his mind was still racing as he processed the terrifying, intoxicating speed of his own nervous system. He smoothed his fingers over the thick paper, opened the folder, and began scanning the dense black-ops logs and financial charts inside.
"Let's skip the pleasantries, Detective," Scarlet said, her voice unyielding with room for debate. "You owe your life and that pristine vision to Dr. Maru's miracles, but we aren't here to play guardian angels."
Quive kept his eyes on the file, his voice deep and guarded. "I assumed Grishile didn't hand out medical miracles out of charity."
"Obviously they don't," Scarlet replied cleanly. "Which brings us to Vince Duchy. As detailed in that briefing, Grishile's executive board held a closed session regarding the regional distribution grid. Detroit is cutting off secondary contractors who can't keep their perimeters clean. And it's now well known they Vince has been skimming assets, overstepping his operational boundaries, and drawing unnecessary noise to this sector."
She paused, crossing her legs as her cold gaze fixed directly on Quive's face. "I have authorization straight from the director's office. Clearance level seven. My orders are to secure a face-to-face sit-down with the powerhouse backing your play here—the primary stakeholder supporting your department from behind the curtain."
Quive slowly closed the file, meeting Scarlet's eyes with a hard, defensive stare. "The figure you're talking about doesn't do impromptu meetings with out-of-town black-ops teams, Scarlet. Especially not when those teams leave four tons of crushed steel in the middle of a public avenue."
"I am not asking for a favor, Detective," Scarlet scoffed. "My post gives me full administrative clearance to audit any regional asset, protected or otherwise. Whereas, you are going to arrange that meeting, and you are going to be in the room when it happens."
"And if I refuse?" Quive countered, a bitter edge entering his voice. "If I tell you that stepping into that room without proper protocol puts a target on my back as much as yours?"
"Then we mark you as a non-compliant asset," Rose chimed in smoothly, tilting her head with a deceptive lightness. "And non-compliant assets don't get secondary doses of Dr. Maru's stabilizer when the cellular decay kicks in. You want to keep that sight and that quick reaction time? You keep us in the loop."
Quive clenched his jaw, his newly healed eye twitching slightly as he weighed the immediate lethality of Grishile against the political fallout of exposing his benefactor. After a long, tense silence, he let out a low, gravelly breath.
"Fine," Quive muttered, shoving the case file onto the bedside table. "I'll route the request through the secure frequency. But when you step into that room, you play by their rules. You don't pull sidearms, and you don't throw Grishile rank around like a sledgehammer, if not you might end up erased."
"We'll manage," Scarlet said, a small, cold victory settling into her expression.
Before the silence could stretch, Rose leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as her eyes glinted with sudden, sharp curiosity.
"Now that official business is settled... answer me something, Quive," Rose asked, her tone dropping into a dangerous, playful query. "How exactly did a seasoned detective like you manage to take a bullet to the head while trying to contain a single teenager exposed to an incomplete serum batch? That shouldn't have even made your top five worst days on the force."
Quive took a long, deep breath, his chest expanding as he reached back into the bloody fog of his memory.
Suddenly, the image snapped into sharp, vivid focus—the rain-slicked pavement, the flickering streetlamp, and standing under the downpour, a man clad in an oily, bright yellow raincoat, his face twisted into a grotesque sneer as he leveled a heavy steel revolver directly at Quive's head.
A sudden, dry laugh escaped Quive's throat—a raspy, unhinged sound that echoed against the tiled walls like a madman finding dark humor in his own execution.
"It wasn't a teenager," Quive said, wiping his eye as his laughter faded into a helpless, hard grimace. "It was Bill Curt."
Scarlet's eyes narrowed slightly, while Rose tilted her head, her curiosity piqued.
"Bill Curt is the cancer rotting out the entire lower district," Quive continued, leaning against the vanity counter. "He's the one behind the spat of unnatural incidents and off-the-books extractions across Ohio. Vince Duchy has been trying to find a clean excuse to sever ties and put him in the ground for months, but his hands are tied. Bill signed a multi-tier freelance commission contract with the regional board—he operates under protected independent status."
Rose let out a long, weary sigh, twirling a strand of her dark hair around her index finger. "Bill Curt... always making a mess out of simple math. Don't waste your energy or get your pressure up over him, Detective. Operations like his have a way of catching fire from the inside. Between his reckless habits and the local forces circling his perimeter, someone around here will deal with him naturally very soon. He won't be a problem much longer."
Scarlet stood up from her chair, smoothing down the front of her tailored dark jacket as she reclaimed complete control of the room.
"In the meantime, your priority remains absolute, Quive," Scarlet instructed, her voice dropping into an imperative, authoritative register. "Bill cannot know we are in the city, nor can he know you are operating with Grishile clearance. You keep our identity and our presence entirely dark from his network."
Quive gave a silent nod, understanding the lethal stakes.
"Now," Scarlet added, pulling a small, encrypted satellite phone from her pocket and checking the time. "Let's open that secure line and fix a firm date for our sit-down with the powerhouse behind Vince. I want that meeting locked on the calendar before the sun comes up."