After a long walk through the city—navigating streets that grew progressively darker and more abandoned as we moved from the well-lit inner circle, through the mid-tier districts, and into areas where the street lamps flickered with the kind of inconsistency that suggested either poor maintenance or active sabotage—we finally arrived at the abandoned warehouse.
The same area where we'd spilled from the prison like underfunded assets dumped into a failing venture, blinking at freedom with all the innocence of someone who'd forgotten that catastrophe is rarely optional and often double-booked.
The warehouse itself was positioned at the edge of the city's midsection, perched on that uneasy fault line between decency and decay, where buildings lingered not out of purpose or pride, but out of sheer spite.
Its massive frame loomed in the darkness—metal that had once implied ambition now wore age and neglect like a poorly tailored suit, rust blooming across it's various surfaces like some kind of industrial disease.
The building exuded the kind of menace reserved for structures designed solely to survive, all angles and unyielding function, prioritizing structural integrity over aesthetics and somehow failing at both with remarkable consistency.
Julius checked his stopwatch then, the quiet click of the case snapping open cutting through the city's low hum like a gavel in a courtroom.
"Just on time," he announced with obvious satisfaction.
I nodded before quietly stepping through the entrance—immediately feeling the temperature drop, sharp and deliberate, as though the space itself had decided warmth to be an unapproved luxury.
From then, the warehouse swallowed us like it had been expecting the intrusion all along.
I took in the sight around me with eyes that had grown accustomed to darkness during my time in the prison, cataloging details that would've remained hidden to ordinary sight.
Above us, enormous cogs hung suspended from the rafters like mechanical moons caught mid-orbit, their iron teeth etched with the ghosts of long-forgotten industry—now frozen in eternal, brooding stillness, as though time itself had walked off the job centuries ago and never bothered to clock out.
Pipes ran along the walls and across the ceiling in patterns that suggested either careful planning or complete chaos depending on how you chose to interpret the maze of metal.
And below, gutted conveyor belts sprawled across the floor like the carcasses of ancient beasts, their rubber belts torn and dangling in ragged strips—mechanical entrails left to rot in dignified silence, all of it swallowed by shadows so thick they felt almost tangible.
The only light came from the street outside, seeping through gaps and windows, giving the entire space that particular shade of gloom where depth perception is optional and tripping becomes a matter of dramatic inevitability.
And there, standing in a shifting pool of shadows, I spotted him.
Atticus.
He wore fine tailored robes of grey now—nothing like the prison wear he'd been forced into during our time in that hellhole together—the fabric catching what little light existed and transforming it into something almost elegant.
His slicked-back silver hair gleamed like polished metal, which would have been impressive if it weren't already mildly irritating to behold, and his cracked round glasses sat low on his angular face as he spoke to a group of men I didn't recognize, gesturing with one hand while holding what appeared to be inventory papers in the other.
The new crew members, presumably. The ones recruited after I'd escaped to the Velvet Chambers and left the prison operation in capable hands.
My heart leapt into a precarious rhythm—the sort that suggested my cardiovascular system was staging a protest my brain hadn't yet authorized—and before I could summon anything resembling dignity, protocol, or composure, I was moving.
My bare feet slapped against the concrete with wet, resonant sounds that filled the cavernous space like a poorly tuned drum.
I caught Atticus's head pivot toward the noise, his expression sliding from professional focus, to puzzled suspicion, to the faintest flicker of recognition in the span of two rapid heartbeats.
And then, entirely ignoring decorum—or perhaps inventing a new, aggressively physical version of it—I flung myself at him.
Atticus caught me—reflexes snapping into place, arms rising to secure my waist—before his eyes widened in genuine surprise at the realization that the projectile hurtling toward him was, in fact, me.
Then I collided with him completely, folding myself around his torso in an embrace that teetered somewhere between affection and amateur wrestling, my face pressed into his shoulder while the rest of me shuddered with a relief I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"You're alive," I mumbled into the fabric of his robes, the words coming out muffled and slightly wet, because apparently my eyes had decided emotions were happening now whether I wanted them to or not.
"Of course I'm alive," Atticus interrupted, his voice carrying that calm composure he always managed even when being tackled by emotional disasters. His arms came around me properly then, returning the embrace with surprising strength. "What, did you think I'd just roll over and die because you weren't there to supervise? Have you no faith in my ability to survive without your particular brand of protective chaos hovering over my shoulder?"
I eased back just enough to meet his gaze, drinking in every detail of his features as if I were memorizing answers for a test I couldn't afford to fail.
The silver hair was the same, the angular features hadn't changed, but there was something different about him now—a quiet confidence, or perhaps the absence of the constant threat that had defined our days in the prison.
"I have complete faith," I said, my voice still thick with emotion I was trying desperately to wrestle back under control. "But I also know the universe has a terrible sense of humor and likes to take away the people I—the people who are important, just to prove it can. And you've been running an illegal operation under the nose of the very man we just overthrew. That seems like it would have consequences."
"The consequences have been remarkably manageable," Atticus replied with that slight smile that suggested he found my emotional honesty both touching and slightly amusing. "And I've always been rather good at staying three steps ahead of problems before they become fatal." He adjusted his glasses with one finger. "It's one of my many talents, along with organization, strategic planning, and apparently making you cry in public warehouses."
"I'm not crying," I protested, even though my face was definitely wet and my voice was doing that wobbling thing that suggested otherwise. "This is just... tactical moisture. For lubrication. Very practical."
"Of course," Atticus agreed solemnly, though I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes behind those cracked lenses. "Very professional tactical moisture you're producing there. I'm sure it has nothing to do with emotions, feelings, or any of those messy human experiences you pretend not to have."
"Exactly," I said as I finally released him, stepping back and attempting to reconstruct some semblance of dignity from the wreckage of my enthusiasm. "So," I continued, wiping at my face with the back of my hand, "you're doing well then? The operation is running smoothly? Nobody's tried to murder you recently?"
"The operation is thriving," Atticus confirmed, adjusting his glasses again in that gesture I'd seen a thousand times yet somehow desperately missed without realizing it. "And while there have been a few murder attempts, they were all quite halfhearted and easily deflected."
Brutus stepped forward then, his enormous frame throwing shadows across the room, before extending his hand toward Atticus with the sort of formal respect he normally reserved for people he actually tolerated.
Atticus shook it firmly, and then they were patting each other on the back in that particular way men did when they wanted to express affection but had been socialized to believe hugging a scandalous vulnerability.
"Good to see you, Atticus," Brutus rumbled, his gravelly voice carrying genuine warmth beneath its usual gruffness. "Place been treating you well?"
"Well enough," Atticus replied, still gripping Brutus's hand. "Though I have to say, having you around was considerably more reassuring. Your presence had a certain... calming effect on potential troublemakers. The sort of calm that comes from understanding that any misbehavior would result in their face being formally and repeatedly introduced to the nearest hard surface until the lesson fully settled."
"Effective strategy," Brutus agreed. "Worked most of the time."
I let my eyes wander across the warehouse while their greetings continued, taking in the operation with the kind of scrutiny only fresh perspective—or stubborn curiosity—could provide. Dozens of men moved through the shadows, hefting crates and exchanging laughter that ricocheted off the metal walls, producing a low, constant hum that spoke more of genuine camaraderie than forced labor.
At the far end, the rusty service elevator stood like a patient sentinel, its gate cracked open to reveal the darkness leading down to the prison forge.
"Where's Dregan?" I asked, scanning the crowd for the unmistakable presence of the most vulgar dwarf I'd ever had the dubious pleasure of knowing.
As if summoned by the mere mention of his name—as though the universe had been waiting patiently for its cue—the service elevator groaned and creaked its way up from the depths below.
The sounds it made implied imminent mechanical failure mixed with a profound resentment at being asked to function, and when it finally lurched to a halt with a screech that made the entire warehouse flinch in unison, the gate rattled open to reveal Dregan amid a cluster of men wrestling with what appeared to be an unreasonable number of crates.
Dregan stood with his back to us, unmistakable even in the dim light—wild orange hair, a beard that could have housed small wildlife—and was conducting the scene with both hands, bellowing orders in a register that blended unquestioned authority with such aggressive vulgarity it bordered on performance art.
"—and I swear to every god with functioning genitals, if you drop that crate I will personally shove it so far up your collective arses that you'll be tasting pine for a fucking week!" His voice carried across the warehouse with impressive volume for someone his size. "Move your lazy bollocks! My grandmother moved faster than this and she's been dead for thirty years! Actually, scratch that, she probably still moves faster than you pathetic sods—"
I felt mischief began to rise within me, effervescent and impatient, like champagne that had been handled far too enthusiastically and was now searching for a reason to make itself everyone's problem.
With the quiet assurance of someone who'd survived a long history of delightfully questionable choices, I glided up behind Dregan as he expounded his latest treatise on creative profanity.
Close enough now to breathe in the familiar haze that clung to him. Dark ale, rich tobacco, and a sharper note that hovered teasingly between industrial lubricant and a cologne daring enough to warrant several strongly worded warnings.
Then I reached out and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.