The Bureau's bell tolled again.
Sharper. Faster. Meaner.
Not a shift change.
A search.
Harun pulled his cloak tight.
The Mask pressed warm against his ribs under the stained black cloth and satchel strap.
It pulsed with his heartbeat.
As if it were breathing with him.
He cut into an alley by the market.
Glass crunched under his boots. Ash flicked up in his wake.
Stalls were long emptied, yet eyes seemed to watch from every canopy—blue glints in the haze.
Whispers clung like smoke. Low. Unclear. Heavy enough to raise gooseflesh.
A Bureau patrol blocked the far mouth of the alley.
Three grey coats. Rifles slung. Silver Empire marks bright over their hearts.
Boots in perfect rhythm.
One unrolled a paper.
"Dissident sighting," a guard muttered. "Square, east side. Male. Mid-twenties. Satchel. Suspected cult contact."
Harun's chest tightened.
They were reading him.
He slid deeper into shadow, back against soot-slick stone.
The Mask's pulse sped up—agitated, matching his fear.
Stay quiet, he told it. You're not mine. I'm not yours.
Bootsteps drew closer.
The sharp-eyed one scanned the black alley.
Harun ducked lower.
His satchel strap snagged on a wall hook.
Scrape.
"Wait," the lead guard said, hand lifting.
They halted in unison.
He stared straight into the dark.
Pointed.
"THERE!"
Harun's stomach fell.
He ran.
The alley spat him into a wider street.
Ash fell like slow snow.
He slipped—caught—ran again. Heart-punching.
The satchel hammered his side. The Mask grew hotter, whispering into bone.
Another patrol turned the corner.
More boots from the rear.
Guns rose.
I'm trapped.
Smoke bit his throat. His breath came harsh and fast.
The circle tightened. Rifle barrels levelled.
"Hands up! Satchel down, Harun!"
The Mask pulsed once, deep.
They advanced in crunching ash.
Harun's back hit stone—cold, hard, unforgiving.
"Satchel on the ground," the lead barked. His face was a slab. Eyes like knives. "Now. Slowly."
Harun swallowed. Hands hovered near the strap.
He saw the future: torn satchel, Mask revealed, treason declared—then fire.
The Bureau didn't arrest relic-bearers.
They burned them.
The Mask burned hotter.
Mocking.
"I said now!" The rifle barrel slammed into Harun's chest.
The satchel shifted.
The Mask shifted with it.
A pale curve slid free an inch and caught the ashlight.
The guard froze. Eyes widened. Then hardened.
"Relic," he hissed. Fear leaked into the world. "He's carrying a relic. Shoot him!"
The world narrowed to a black rifle circle.
Harun moved before he could think.
He tore the satchel open and ripped the Mask free.
Bone-white. Too warm.
His hand shook—then some deeper reflex slammed it to his face.
The Mask clamped down.
It didn't sit.
It bit.
Ice water jolted through his skull. Darkness for one breath—then the alley bloomed.
Threads.
Every twitch in the guards. Every breath. Every finger on every trigger.
Intentions weren't words, but he knew them.
Truths.
Lead guard: stance low—aiming for the heart.
Right flank: feet set wrong—shoot the leg.
Third: blink too long—hesitation coming.
Harun had no training. No weapon beyond a dull scalpel.
The Mask whispered in his own voice, cold and sure:
Truth: You can't fight them.
Truth: You can't run.
Truth: Choose who dies first—or you die.
The first shot cracked—Harun twisted; stone took the round.
Pain bit his shoulder, but he caught the lead's barrel and shoved it up.
The second blast tore the sky.
The hesitant one flinched.
Harun lunged—knee to chest—man down.
Clumsy, desperate—guided.
The third swung his rifle like a club.
Harun ducked—steel hissed over his head.
The scalpel punched the man's thigh. He screamed, crumpling. Blood hot on Harun's hand.
The Mask pulsed harder.
Truth: He isn't dead. He'll rise. Cut deeper. End him.
"No," Harun rasped, staggering back, shoulder burning. He ripped the scalpel free.
Boots scraped. Rifles snapped up.
Fear showed in trained eyes.
"Contain him," the lead hissed. "He isn't bonded yet. Shoot to maim. We need him alive."
Harun's vision swam. Ash curled like reaching hands.
The Mask burned and would not stop.
Truth: They'll drag you to the pyres.
Truth: They'll bind you in chains.
Truth: You're already condemned. Only the condemned can kill.
A shot—Harun's hand hit the barrel before it fired.
Bang into stone.
His elbow smashed a jaw—teeth, and red flew into ash.
The Mask drank his fear and kept whispering.
The hesitant guard scrambled up, shaking too hard to aim.
Weak stance. Left shoulder open.
Harun wrenched the rifle free and slammed the butt into the temple.
The man dropped out cold.
Two left.
One is bleeding from the thigh.
One snarling, determined.
Knives of thought cut through him:
Truth: They won't stop hunting you.
Truth: If you spare them, they'll call more.
Truth: This is survival. Kill.
Harun's stomach twisted. Rifle slick in his grip.
The lead lunged.
Harun swung.
Wood on skull.
The guard crumpled.
The last soldier stared—blood soaking his trousers, eyes wide at what stood before him.
He tried to speak. No sound.
Harun stood over him.
Rifle heavy. Breath ragged. Sweat and ash under the Mask.
The whisper came softly. Icy.
Truth: Mercy is a lie.
Harun's hands shook.
He let the rifle fall.
It hit ash with a dull, final thud—
—and the bell tolled a third time.