The apartment was quiet.
Sam lay in bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Asia was asleep on the couch in the other room. Tiche had left earlier—"for appearances," she said—and hadn't returned.
That part bothered him. She didn't usually leave unless something needed handling. And she usually came back quick.
Still… the day had been long. Too long.
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting shut. Then—
Click.
Not loud. Not obvious. But definitely not part of the apartment either.
He sat up slowly, blinking toward the window.
And then the wall exploded.
Someone came through it—not the door, not the window, but through the plaster like it was paper. Sam didn't even have time to register the flash of movement before he felt it—pain, sharp and immediate. A hot line carved across his ribs.
That did it.
His Exoskeleton slammed into place as the blade sliced him. Not deep, thanks to his reflexive twist—but enough to hurt. His system recognized the force and activated.
Energy crackled. Armor shimmered into being across his limbs and torso, sealing around him in glowing blue-white plates.
The intruder landed in a crouch across the room, blade glowing, a wild grin twitching across his face.
"Nice dodge," the man said. "But not fast enough."
Sam's claws sparked to life, electricity coiling across his fingers like talons.
"Who the hell are you?"
The man tilted his head like a deranged bird. "Name's Freed. You've got something that belongs to us."
His blade—whatever it was—pulsed with a hostile heat that made Sam's skin crawl, even through the armor.
Freed's gaze flicked to the living room. "The nun. I'm here to collect."
Sam's eyes narrowed. "You're not taking anyone."
Freed lunged, his footwork erratic but fast—uncomfortably fast.
Sam dropped low on instinct, claws intercepting the strike just before it hit.
CLANG—zzt!
Steel and energy clashed. The impact rang through Sam's bones. Sparks flew, electricity surged, and one of his claws skidded along Freed's sword edge, lighting the room in a flash.
Freed laughed—high-pitched, giddy.
"You're not bad! Not human either—not really. You reek of holy, but there's something else… something wrong."
Freed's pupils were blown wide. His smile twitched.
"You're one hell of a cocktail."
Sam didn't answer. Instead, he shifted low, twisted, and slammed a kick into Freed's hip, launching him back into the kitchen wall.
The impact dented the cabinet door.
Freed flipped, landed in a crouch beside the couch—just feet from Asia. Sam's heart skipped.
Still asleep.
That didn't make sense.
"Why isn't she—" Sam muttered, eye flicking to her unmoving form.
Freed grinned wider. "She's out. That holy gear of hers is real handy. She'll wake up eventually. Just maybe not before I leave."
Sam grit his teeth. No time to question.
Freed lunged again.
Their weapons met mid-swing. Sparks flew. Sam parried, Freed twisted. The tempo blurred.
Each blow came fast, wild, from odd angles—too fast to read. The apartment groaned with every clash. One swing shattered the table lamp. Another dented the fridge door. A third split the wall between kitchen and hallway.
Sam caught a swipe with his gauntlet, twisted, and retaliated with a downward slash. Sparks screamed. The floor cracked beneath them.
They whirled past the couch again.
Asia—still motionless, untouched.
Freed laughed, spinning back.
"You've got juice. Bet it tastes good."
Sam didn't answer. He roared and drove him through the sliding door.
CRASH.
Glass exploded. Freed skidded across the balcony, hit the railing, and flipped over.
Sam followed a second later, his boots crunching across broken glass.
The street met him hard. His knees groaned under the impact—but the armor held.
Freed was already upright, blood on his cheek. He licked it clean, eyes manic.
"Ooooh, this is fun! You're not Church. Not Fallen. What are you, huh?!"
Sam didn't answer. His breath came steady, but his energy trickled.
His right claw sparked.
Lightning Breath? No. Too much collateral.
Instead, he opened his mouth and released a tight burst.
ZAP!
A flash of lightning lashed out—small, fast, precise.
Freed jerked back, coat singed. Laughing.
"Oh-ho! Got tricks!"
Another zap. And another.
Sam stepped forward between each one, corralling him like a wolf with static.
Freed rolled, sprung forward—erratic motion again. Too fast to track cleanly.
Claws met sword.
CRACK.
The sound peeled through the night. Sam grunted—there it was again.
That weapon. That pressure.
It wasn't just hitting. It was resonating.
His Holy Hero Energy shifted inside, uneasy. The blade wanted something from him.
Freed laughed. "You don't even know what you are, do you?"
Sam growled, dragging his claws away with effort. "I don't need to. I just need you gone."
The street around them smoked—scorched pavement, crumpled mailbox, heat rippling through the air.
Freed ducked beneath another swipe and jabbed upward—sword cutting across Sam's forearm plate. The armor cracked.
The blade bit deep.
Sam grunted, feeling the slow sting of compromised plating. It hissed as the armor began to mend.
Too slow.
He twisted and drove a knee into Freed's side.
CRACK.
A rib. Maybe two.
Freed spat blood—and laughed.
"Ohhh yeah! That's the good shit!" he wheezed. "No more holding back!"
Sam didn't engage. He inhaled, then fired a tight burst of lightning.
ZAP.
A camera-flash spear of energy hit Freed square in the shoulder.
Smoke curled off his jacket. He flinched, but didn't fall.
Sam dropped low, claws hissing, sparks curling across concrete as he circled left—keeping him boxed near a shattered lamppost.
But he was burning energy fast. Too fast.
He clenched his jaw, activated Energy Regeneration.
The pull wasn't sharp this time—smoother. A subtle drain through his core.
Enhanced Stamina dulled the edge, spread the weight.
Not infinite. But enough.
His armor sealed just as Freed charged.
"Don't go quiet now, cutie! You were doing so well!"
Sam blocked with his left claw, slammed his right upward.
CRACK.
Freed's head snapped back. Blood flew.
Sam advanced—one step.
Two.
Three.
Then—
That sword again.
He could feel it rising. That same holy resonance. Not attacking—but recognizing.
It was like his Holy Hero Energy knew the weapon.
Sam's brow twitched.
Why does this feel familiar?
Freed stumbled up, grinning through blood. "You're fun," he hissed. "You smell holy—but dirty too."
Sam didn't move. Didn't speak.
Then he lunged.
Claws surged with lightning, energy flaring.
Freed met him. Their weapons crashed again—claws against light.
The ground shook beneath them. Windows shattered a building away. A car alarm howled in protest.
Every impact cost something now.
Sam blocked. Slashed. Moved.
But he was slowing.
That sword? It kept biting. Even glancing hits chipped at the Exoskeleton.
He couldn't hold this pace.
A cut nicked his jaw. Another slipped under his ribs.
He snarled, grabbed the blade mid-swing—and froze.
That flicker again.
Not lightning.
Not base energy.
Holy.
The warmth behind his ribs surged—not peaceful, not passive. It answered.
Sam didn't hesitate. He pulled it in—channeled it into his right gauntlet.
The Exoskeleton hissed.
Silver-gold light bloomed along the limb—warm, divine, soft and terrible all at once.
Freed's expression faltered.
"What the f—?"
Sam grabbed the blade.
Direct contact. Full force. His gauntlet didn't melt—it sang.
The light sword flickered, its aura dimming.
With a grunt, Sam tore it from Freed's grasp.
The blade clattered across the road, light scattering like broken glass.
Freed blinked.
Then—
CRACK.
Sam headbutted him.
Thunder. Pure and simple.
Freed flew. Concrete cracked. Blood smeared the pavement.
Sam stood, panting, the gold light fading from his gauntlet like smoke.
Gone. Just like that.
Back to blue-white.
He flexed his fingers once.
Then advanced.
Freed was wheezing now. Still grinning—but faltering.
"You're not normal," he coughed. "Not even close…"
No answer.
Sam stepped closer.
Freed raised his hands in mock surrender—then slipped a dagger from his coat. Not another Excalibur. Just backup.
"I think I've had enough warm-up for one night."
He looked around.
Too twitchy.
Too aware.
He's going to run.
Sam brought his claws up. "You're not getting another shot at her."
Freed's grin twitched. "Oh? You're not even worried about what's coming?"
Sam froze. Just slightly.
Something was coming.
Fast.
Freed took the hesitation.
He bolted—vaulting off a ruined mailbox, leaping onto a ledge, disappearing into the night.
Sam didn't chase.
He stood still, panting. Muscles screaming. Energy sparking unevenly under his skin.
Then—
The wind shifted.
Behind him.
He turned toward the rooftops.
A shape dropped. Black cloak. Knifelike gaze. Tiche.
She landed without sound, eyes flicking from the wreckage to the couch—Asia, still sleeping, untouched behind the fractured door.
"You let him go," she said.
Sam exhaled, letting the claws dissolve. "No. He ran."
She didn't argue. Just passed him by, steps silent.
"…You okay?" he asked.
She paused.
"You're injured," she said. "But stable."
"…Not what I asked."
This time, she looked at him. Her eyes softened—just a hair.
"I'm fine."
Then, after a breath:
"You held your own."
Sam gave a weak snort. "Barely."
"Barely is enough."
Behind them, the wind stirred again.
But this time, it wasn't danger.
Just the quiet aftermath of a fight neither of them expected tonight.