Arthur materialized outside Phoenix Group at 1:45 AM, invisible beneath Death's Cloak. The building loomed silent, unaware of what was coming.
He didn't have to wait long.
At 1:58, the intruder appeared.
She dropped from the neighboring rooftop without a sound—no dramatic entrance, no flashy tech. Just pure precision.
She wore form-fitting tactical gear that seemed to drink in shadows. Her face was hidden beneath a hood and mask combination that left only her eyes visible—dark, alert, constantly scanning.
At exactly 2:00 AM, she struck.
The main power line fizzled and died in a brief shower of sparks. Backup generators, already sabotaged, never even hummed. Phoenix Group was plunged into blind, suffocating darkness.
Impressive, Arthur thought, silently matching her pace as she slipped inside.
—
The first guard never saw her coming.
She slipped past his flashlight beam like smoke, hooked his arm mid-reach, and drove two fingers into his neck. He crumpled without a sound.
The second guard managed half a warning into his radio—"Intruder in—" before she flipped over his tackle, twisted midair, and clipped him at the base of the skull. He hit the ground like a dropped sack of grain.
By the time reinforcements scrambled in, she was ready.
What followed was ten minutes of elegant violence. Arthur, floating above them, watched in quiet fascination.
She dismantled his security team like she was rehearsing a routine. One guard's arm became a lever to throw another. A knife sliced at her throat—she sidestepped, caught the wrist, and pinned the blade through the attacker's sleeve into the wall.
A brute of a guard lunged to grapple her. She let him get close, used his momentum to pivot him headfirst into a filing cabinet. As he sagged, dazed, she patted his cheek almost fondly before sending him to dreamland.
No wasted motion. No hesitation. Every movement was deliberate, efficient, almost… artistic.
She wasn't here to kill. Just to get past.
In the archives, she was all business. Her gloved fingers flicked through folders with purpose—not random searching, but hunting for something specific. Technology investments. Shell companies. Financial threads that might connect to something larger.
Minutes later, she emerged empty-handed. Whatever she sought, she didn't find it.
Arthur followed her as she vanished into the night.
—
The air outside was cool and damp as she dropped into an alley behind the Phoenix building. She landed silently, crouched low, and scanned the street before straightening.
"You're leaving without saying hello?" Arthur's voice came from the shadows.
She froze mid-step. Slowly, deliberately, her head turned. Her hand hovered near her thigh holster.
"I wasn't aware I had company," she said coolly, her accent faintly European, hard to place.
"You do now." Arthur stepped forward, letting the dim streetlight catch his face.
No more words. She struck.
A straight punch, lightning-fast. Arthur parried, redirecting her momentum, stepping inside her guard. She twisted like a dancer, knee rising toward his ribs. He blocked with his forearm, absorbed the impact, and pushed her back.
"You're good," she noted, circling him.
"You too," Arthur replied, calm and unhurried.
She lunged again—a blur of jabs, elbows, and sweeps. Arthur had never formally studied martial arts, but his instincts, honed by countless spars with the masters of Kamar-Taj, allowed him to match her.
He blocked, evaded, and countered with a precise low kick that she deflected with her shin.
She's matching me? The realization sent a thrill through him. Since the ritual, he'd operated at what he considered peak human capacity—faster, stronger, more durable than any natural athlete. Yet here she was, keeping pace blow for blow.
—
The alleyway became their arena.
Arthur ducked beneath a roundhouse kick that would have decapitated a lesser man, catching her leg mid-motion. He pivoted to slam her against the brick wall, but she twisted in his grip, using his own momentum to break free and land in a textbook-perfect three-point stance.
"Who are you?" Arthur demanded between exchanges.
No answer. Only measured breathing and eyes that never broke focus.
She came harder this time—spinning heel kick into a sweep. Arthur leapt, but she rose with him, elbow slicing toward his temple. He twisted, took the blow on his shoulder, rolled, deflected her knife-hand strike aimed at his throat.
"Not bad," he admitted.
She didn't waste breath on a reply. Her next combination was brutal—a series of rapid elbow strikes, each one aimed at his pressure points. Arthur blocked the first two, but the third slipped through, jamming into his ribs. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth and countered with a knee to her stomach.
She gasped but didn't retreat. Instead, she trapped his leg between hers and twisted, trying to take him down. Arthur braced, resisting the throw, but she used the leverage to flip him onto his back.
He hit the ground hard, but before she could press the advantage, he swept her legs out from under her. She landed beside him, and for a brief moment, they were both on the ground, breathing hard.
They rolled apart instantly. For a heartbeat, they lay mirrored—both assessing, both calculating next moves.
Then they moved as one.
Her free hand struck at his elbow joint. He released her to avoid the break, and she used the space to drive both feet into his chest.
Arthur flew back, hit the alley wall, and pushed off it to avoid her flying knee. The brick cracked where his head had been.
"Enhanced," she said, not a question.
"Could say the same about you," Arthur shot back, tasting copper at the back of his throat.
They circled again, both breathing heavier now. Her style shifted constantly—fluid to sharp, deceptive and dangerous. Arthur, for the first time in years, felt a thrill.
He was enjoying this too much to end it with magic.
But the finale came abruptly.
She overextended on a high kick—just slightly, probably testing his reaction. Arthur saw the opening and took it. He slipped inside her guard, trapped her extended leg with one arm while driving his shoulder into her center mass.
She went down. Before she could recover, he had her pinned—knee on her back, her arm locked behind her at an angle that promised pain if she struggled.
With a free hand, Arthur tied her hands up with a rope he conjured.
"Maybe you could escape these," he murmured, "but be warned—I won't be nearly as pleasant if you try."
Only then did he sit her against the wall and peel away the mask.
The face revealed was younger than he expected—perhaps his own age. European features, though the exact ethnicity eluded him. Sweat-damp strands of dark hair clung to sharp cheekbones.
She blinked up at him, eyes dark and defiant. Her features were sharp but not delicate—a strength in her expression that reminded Arthur more of a soldier than a model.
She was beautiful, yes, but in the current setting, it barely registered. Arthur had seen beauty before. Fleur Delacour had been ethereal. This girl was among the top in his ranking but not enough to catch him off guard.
"Talk," Arthur said. His tone was soft, but there was no mistaking the command in it. "Why did you break into my building?"
She stared back, lips pressed thin.
"Corporate espionage? Hired by competitors?"
Silence.
Arthur cocked his head. "Black Widow?"
"What?" Genuine confusion flashed across her features.
"So not Red Room," Arthur mused. "Good. I'd hate to have attracted that attention already."
When she remained silent, he sighed. "I have other means of getting answers. I'd prefer not to use them." His fingers twitched subtly—a threat of Legilimency she couldn't possibly understand.
Something in his tone must have registered. "The Hand," she spat, as if the words were poison.
Arthur asked, "You belong to the Hand?"
"Never. I came to see if Phoenix Group had ties to them. If the group was just a front for their operations."
Arthur tilted his head. "Why the suspicion?"
"The CEO, Daniel Wang, has had dealings with them in the past. I also heard that Hand operatives were warned off your company."
Arthur barked a laugh. "Daniel was forced into that world with no way out. Now he works for me willingly."
Recognition flashed in her eyes. "Arthur Hayes. The mysterious owner of the Phoenix Group."
"The one and only."
"Do you serve the Hand?" she demanded.
Arthur's smile held no warmth. "Quite the opposite. We have a deadly feud, but since they have no way to deal with me, they decided to keep away."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe what you want," Arthur shrugged. "If I were Hand, would you still be breathing?"
Her jaw worked silently before she conceded the point. "Okay, I believe you. I came to gather evidence. It's my mission to destroy them."
"Mission?" Arthur's eyebrow arched. "That's ambitious for a one-woman war. The Hand has survived centuries for a reason."
She glared. "I am no ordinary woman."
"Yes, I can see that. Can you tell me how you became so strong?"
Silence.
"Even if you don't tell me, I can figure it out. You look human and there are no signs of any mutation. So nothing like that. Relationship with Hand, which means relations with their abilities. You're a chi user, aren't you?"
Silence, but she did not look happy.
"Looks like I am right. Trained like them, but not one of them," he mused, piecing it together. "That only leaves one real possibility. The Chaste."
That got a reaction. "How do you know about The Chaste? You lied. You are with The Hand."
"I know many things," Arthur said mildly. "Am I correct?"
She shook her head sharply. "No."
"But—"
"My father was Chaste," she admitted, her voice wavering for a fraction of a second before hardening again. "He died fighting The Hand. His last wish was for me to take his mantle."
Arthur's grip on the bindings loosened slightly. "So you're Chaste by inheritance?"
"No," she said, her voice ringing with fierce independence. "I belong to no one. I fight The Hand because they are monsters who destroyed my family. That is all."
For a long moment, Arthur just studied her. A warrior forged in the fires of revenge, fighting an impossible war alone. It was a story he understood all too well.
He undid the bindings and offered her a hand up. She ignored it, rolling to her feet on her own.
She asked, "So what now? You call the police?"
"Now you leave." Arthur stepped aside, clearing her path. "Don't come back to Phoenix Group. There's nothing there for you."
"You're letting me go like this?" she asked cautiously.
"You didn't hurt anyone permanently. You didn't take anything. You're not my enemy." Arthur adjusted his coat. "And frankly, I'm curious to see how long you can keep this crusade going."
"You're really letting me go? No catch?"
"Yes. But if you want my advice, you are no match for the Hand. You are just one chi practitioner against many. You stand no chance."
"I don't care," she said, lifting her chin. "I'll see them burn or die trying."
"A pointless death," Arthur observed.
"I will succeed," she said, a promise and a threat in one.
Arthur just smiled. "I'm sure you believe that."
She studied him for a long moment before turning toward the alley's mouth.
As she disappeared into the night, Arthur slipped his hands back into his pockets.
I never asked her name, he realized.
The thought lingered longer than it should have. In the span of an hour, he'd met someone who could match him physically, who understood the weight of revenge. Someone interesting.
His parents' words echoed uninvited: Make friends.
Arthur shook his head sharply. Not important.
She was a variable the stories he knew had never mentioned. A fighter of her caliber, not famous in any timeline he remembered? It meant only one thing. She failed. She was destined to be another casualty in a forgotten war, another ghost swallowed by the Hand's darkness.
But Arthur was not going to do anything. Yes she was beautiful but his emotionless self did not care about anything. This was her mission and hers alone. Unless Hand came at him again, he would leave them alone.
Forgetting the girl, Arthur considered his next move. He couldn't go home yet; his past self would be there. He stepped out of the alley and began to roam the sleeping city, a ghost with time to kill.