The warehouse groaned with the weight of years.
Its corrugated walls sweated rust, rivulets streaking down to the concrete floor where puddles collected beneath broken skylights. Outside, the sea pressed close, its salt carried on the damp night air. The low hum of cargo ships at anchor vibrated faintly through the metal bones of the building.
Arkellin pushed the heavy door shut behind him. The clang echoed through the empty space before fading into the sound of dripping water from a leak in the ceiling. He exhaled once, sharp, steady, then crossed the floor. His boots splashed through shallow puddles, leaving bloody prints that trailed behind him like a ledger of violence unpaid.
It was nearly four in the morning.
The overhead lamps buzzed weakly, pools of pale light spilling in patches, leaving long gulfs of shadow. In one of those pools sat a battered table and four mismatched chairs. Smoke curled in the light—a cigarette already burning in the corner.
They came as he had called them.
A woman with cropped hair and a scar slicing her eyebrow leaned back in her chair, the smoke curling from her lips. Her eyes tracked him without flinching. Beside her, an older man in grease-stained overalls twisted a wrench in restless hands. Two more figures emerged from the shadows at the edges of the warehouse—one lean, one heavyset—both with the same guarded look that spoke of debts not yet forgotten.
Arkellin said nothing at first. He dragged a chair from the far wall, the scrape of its legs loud against the wet floor, and set it opposite the others. He lowered himself slowly, his jacket creaking, torn leather still damp from the rain. His breath steamed faintly in the cold air, carrying the bitter tang of blood.
The silence stretched until even the drip from the ceiling felt too loud.
Then he spoke. His voice was low, calm, but it cut the distance between them like a knife.
"Kane."
The name dropped into the room like lead.
The woman with the cigarette stiffened. The mechanic's wrench stilled. The lean man's jaw tightened; the heavyset one swore under his breath.
Arkellin leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. His eyes were sharp, steady, burning beneath the mess of hair plastered to his brow.
"He pulled the trigger."
The mechanic's mouth opened, then closed again. The woman crushed her cigarette against the table, leaving a black scar on the wood. No one argued. They didn't need to. The name was enough.
Arkellin's fingers tapped once against the tabletop, slow, deliberate. "I want you to remember it. Every time you breathe, remember Kane made a choice. He aimed. He fired. And I'm still here."
He let the words hang. Their weight filled the warehouse, heavier than the stink of oil and seawater.
The heavyset man swallowed hard. "Boss… you want us to—"
"No." Arkellin cut him off with a small shake of his head. "Not yet. When Kane dies, it will be because I decide it. And he will know why."
His hand moved to his ribs, pressing against the half-healed wound. Pain flared there, but he welcomed it. Pain kept the memory fresh. Pain was proof he lived.
He let out a slow breath, then sat back, the chair creaking under his weight. His eyes flicked from face to face, cataloguing the tension in each of them. They were afraid. Not of the name Kane. Not of the betrayal. Afraid of him—of the man sitting before them, alive when he should not be, colder than they remembered.
Good. Fear bound tighter than loyalty.
The woman finally spoke, voice rough. "Then what's next?"
Arkellin lifted his gaze to the rafters, listening to the sea groan against the docks, to the hum of the world just beyond the walls. His mouth curled into the faintest edge of a smile, though his eyes stayed dark.
"What's next," he said, "is that we set the pace. No more waiting. No more bleeding."
The words weren't loud, but they filled the room like a new tide.
The room grew colder as the silence stretched.
Arkellin leaned back in his chair, hands clasped loosely in front of him, the faint creak of leather breaking the stillness. The bulb above him hummed, its glow harsh on one side of his face, shadow swallowing the other. The warehouse smelled of rust and sea-salt, of stale smoke ground into concrete.
One of the younger men shifted nervously, sliding a folder across the table. The paper was warped from damp, the ink smudged, but the name stamped on the cover was clear: Clock Corporation.
Arkellin's eyes narrowed.
The woman with the scar tapped the folder with a chipped fingernail. "Word's been running on the docks. They've been buying up shipping routes, muscle, even the city council's ear. Every move we thought belonged to the street gangs? It's theirs. Hidden hands. New money."
The mechanic grunted, wiping oil-stained fingers on his overalls. "Not just new money. Old blood, too. Some say the Clocks run deeper than the city itself."
Arkellin slid the folder open. Clippings, reports, photographs blurred by motion—men in suits shaking hands, convoys of black cars, security forces with mirrored shades. And then two photographs, glossier than the rest, almost gleaming even under the sick light.
Twin women. Young. Elegant. One in crimson silk at a podium, her smile practiced. The other laughing at some gala, champagne in hand.
Mira Aurelia Clock. Myra Aurelia Clock.
Arkellin's gaze lingered, not for desire, not for recognition—just calculation.
The scarred woman leaned forward. "Heiresses. Pretty faces, public shields. They don't touch the dirt. But their name? Their name opens doors in this city the rest of us can't even knock on."
Arkellin's lips curved faintly, but his eyes stayed flat. "Then they're not the problem. They're the distraction."
He closed the folder with a quiet thump.
"They're not my war." His voice was even, clipped. "But they'll change it."
The mechanic frowned, confused. "Change it how?"
Arkellin tilted his head back, staring up at the steel beams dripping condensation. His mind flickered with images—Kindrake's boardroom, Arkellin's alley, two lives twisted into one. The Clocks weren't his enemies. Not yet. But they were a fault line, a crack in the stone of the city's empire. And cracks could be widened.
His voice was steady when he finally spoke. "Step stones. Whether they know it or not, they're going to shift the ground under all of us."
The words sat heavy on the table. The cigarette smoke hung thicker, as if the air itself understood.
Arkellin reached for the folder again, his fingers brushing the image of the sisters. He didn't smile this time. He didn't have to. The tide had already turned the moment he'd opened his eyes in another man's skin.
The sea groaned outside the walls, steady and endless, like it knew what storms were waiting to be born.
The night outside was loosening its grip.
Through the dirty glass panes high in the warehouse walls, the first hint of dawn crept in—a faint gray that dulled the yellow light bulbs and threw the world into softer shadows. The sea's breath carried deeper into the building now, sharp with salt and oil, mixing with the smoke that still lingered from the crushed cigarette on the table.
Arkellin sat silent, the folder on Clock Corp closed before him, fingertips resting lightly on its damp cover. His people watched him, each waiting for orders, each afraid to break the quiet.
Then a vibration rattled the silence.
A phone—cheap, scratched, lying on the corner of the table. Not Arkellin's cracked device, but one belonging to the lean man standing near the shadows. He blinked, checked the screen, then froze. His throat bobbed as he looked toward Arkellin.
"It's… not from our channels," he said, voice dry. He held the phone out with both hands, as if it weighed more than steel.
Arkellin took it. The screen glowed pale in his bloodstained hands. The cracked glass distorted the logo at first, but it was unmistakable—black, silver, and gold, stylized like a ticking dial.
Clock Corp.
His eyes narrowed. He scrolled once. A single message pulsed on the screen.
You are cordially invited.
Details unfolded in stark text:
— Grand Aurelia Hotel.
— Tomorrow night.
— Private Gala.
— Attendance confirmed under name: Arkellin K. Andy.
The scarred woman swore under her breath. The mechanic leaned forward, squinting at the glow, his face pale in the light.
"They know you're alive," the woman said, voice edged.
Arkellin didn't answer. His gaze lingered on the invitation, on the weight of the words. The city hadn't just noticed his return—it was calling him into the open.
He let out a breath, slow, measured, steadying the storm inside him. His thumb traced the cracked line across the glass. Then, almost to himself, his voice dropped low, cold:
"Perfect."
He set the phone down. The reflection of the logo glimmered against the wet table, distorted by droplets of seawater leaking from the roof. His eyes stayed fixed on it, unblinking, as the gray of dawn pressed harder through the glass above.
The tide had shifted. The game was no longer his to hide from.
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