Kai sat at his desk next to Avren.
Velnix had been taught to compress into a small orb of eyes, pulsing faintly above his shoulder. But once we hit the field, he would unravel into a cloak, a shadow that clung and stretched with me.
I leaned in, finally asking the question that'd been burning a hole in my throat.
"So… why did you need the M-88?"
Avren's stare snapped to me. For a second, it was like I'd stolen something from deep inside him. Then he grinned.
"Fine. I'll show you. Only because I know you won't tell, stray."
"God, I hate that name."
"Noted."
The rest of the day moved normal enough, but when Avren finally stood, no one blinked at me tagging along. Even with me at his side, it was like the whole office knew. Like they'd seen this routine a hundred times before.
Kai was about to find out.
Avren stalked through the city with purpose, his shadow stretching long against the glow of neon and smog. I lingered a step behind until he finally spoke, sensing the hesitation rolling off me.
"This guy we're watching? Killed two people today. I know because of the visions I get."
"Visions?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I'm no seer. Don't ask me to explain it. I'm just good at my job, and these flashes… they give me more than most. Even if I'm not a Resonant."
I didn't press further. I didn't have to. The way he said it made sense in its own broken logic.
We watched from across the street as his target pulled up, parking crooked. A man with sharp eyes, twitchy hands, and a knife hidden not-so-subtly at his side. Avren moved first, but before he could spring, the target spun—street smarts, paranoia, maybe instinct. The knife flashed, driving for Avren's throat.
It didn't matter. The man was disarmed in seconds and jabbed in the neck. His body folded like paper.
I helped Avren load the corpse into the back of his car. Flicker, buzzing at my side, muttered excited nonsense about "juicy souls" and "perfect cuts." I kind of wished I'd left him behind.
The drive ended at a warehouse. Or maybe it was abandoned—I couldn't really tell. The place stank of oil, dust, and silence. Avren pulled me through like it was routine.
That's when he showed me. The kill room.
Plastic sheets lined every wall, rippling faintly with the draft. The floor was sealed edge to edge with thick tarp, taped down in precise squares. Tools rested on a steel tray—blades, clamps, injectors, bleach. Everything ordered, sterile, cold. It was more than murder; it was ritual, designed to leave no trace.
I stood in the center, unsure if I should be horrified or impressed. My gut twisted both ways.
"I'm… going to leave," I said finally, voice low. "I won't tell anyone. But if you ever kill an innocent, I'll have Velnix flay you alive."
Avren chuckled, not offended in the slightest. "Yeah, it's gritty work. But I make sure serial killers don't get a taste in Zone Alpha. Concord won't act, so I do. Maybe other zones have people like me, maybe not. Doesn't matter. I need to do this."
He gestured at the body bag waiting in the corner. "This bastard killed, and worse. He won't again. But listen—I'm a fan. Sent you mail before, actually. So I respect you. If you ever need someone framed… or taken out… just say so. Doesn't always have to be killing. Inject them, deliver them to me—I'll handle the rest. Only if they fit the guidelines."
His grin lingered, unsettling but strangely sincere.
I agreed, quietly, and left.
Holy shit.
I didn't even… Damn.
By the time I got back to the apartment, my nerves still hummed. I dropped onto the couch. Neo sat across from me, scrolling his phone, while a live Azura Tower broadcast flickered on the TV.
The feed was rough, shaky from hidden cameras inside. Floor One looked like a cavern stitched with steel, lights burning dim over a bloodstained arena. A cloaked fighter moved with eerie precision, his spirit guardian cloaking him in shifting shadows that seemed to swallow blows before they landed. Commentators whispered excitedly over the footage, their voices buzzing through static.
Honestly, Azura Tower would've been traumatic if it wasn't for Matt. If it had been Little Tom's fight clips playing, I would've felt otherwise. But here, watching the cloaked guardian dismantle opponents with surgical ease—it was just background noise. Something violent, but familiar.
Something not dripping in plastic and bleach.