The safehouse was silent except for the steady hum of rain.
Drops slid down the balcony glass, streaking the neon blur of Aurelia's skyline into warped colors—red taillights, green signage, blue reflections from a tower far across the district. The city never slept, but here in this forgotten corner, time felt heavy, cloaked in shadows.
Arkellin sat in the battered leather chair, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray at his elbow. The smoke spiraled upward, mingling with the scent of damp concrete that drifted in through the half-open balcony door. His jacket lay abandoned across the chair's arm, sleeves rolled past his elbows, scars faintly silver under the desk lamp's amber glow.
On the table before him sat a laptop—sleek, impossibly slim, black metal with no brand, no markings. A relic out of place in this timeline. Kindrake's inheritance.
The screen lit with a low hum, casting his face in pale light. Lines of code scrolled, programs far beyond what this world's corporations could dream of. Arkellin's fingers moved with calm precision, each keystroke echoing in the quiet room.
He pulled up Clock Corp's audit data, the files Mira had once waved in front of the board. On the surface, the numbers were clean, polished, but Arkellin dug deeper, slicing past encryption like it was wet paper.
Transactions flickered across the screen—logistics payments, patent filings, subsidiary accounts. He narrowed his eyes. Something was off.
He adjusted his cigarette, exhaled smoke slowly, and tapped another command. The program cross-checked timestamps against internal memos. Inconsistencies bled out like wounds—payments signed off hours before meetings were held, memos that referenced projects not yet greenlit.
"Sloppy," he murmured, voice low, gravelly.
The program highlighted a string of approvals. One name repeated in the metadata, initials tagged to digital signatures.
D.R.
Arkellin leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. Rain pattered harder against the glass, a steady percussion. He reached for the ashtray, tapped the cigarette once, then let it die. His gaze lingered on the screen, on those two letters pulsing like a heartbeat.
D.R.
Director Raymond.
A man who had smiled too easily in the boardroom. A man whose pen tapped too long during Mira's rebuttals.
Arkellin closed the laptop, the sound sharp in the silence. He set it aside, sliding it next to the pistol that had never left the table.
Phone. Laptop. Gun. Tools of war in three different eras, all within reach.
He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the rain-smeared skyline. His voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the storm outside.
"Inside the walls, then."
The hum of the city answered back, distant, unknowing.
And Arkellin already knew what tomorrow would bring.
Morning sunlight cut through the glass façade of Clock Corp's tower, striking the obsidian table in sharp streaks. The air inside the boardroom carried the faint scent of polish and stale coffee—leftover cups from directors who had gathered too early, too tense.
They spoke in murmurs, trading speculation over headlines that still refused to die. Their words carried the dry rasp of men and women who had spent the night half-asleep, minds busy with gossip instead of strategy.
The double doors opened.
Arkellin stepped in first, his black suit pressed, shirt collar open just enough to expose the line of his throat. He moved without haste, without pause, as if the room already belonged to him. Conversations thinned instantly, whispers cutting short. His shoes struck the marble floor with a rhythm that filled the silence.
Behind him, Myra appeared like fire at his shoulder. Her dress today was emerald green, shimmering under the morning sun, slit high enough to draw eyes whether people wanted to look or not. A deliberate contrast to Mira, who was already seated at the head of the table, blouse crisp white, hair coiled into a severe knot, a vision of control carved in ice.
Arkellin slid into his seat, deliberately calm. Myra leaned just a little too close as she took hers, her perfume—jasmine layered with spice—drifting across the table. Mira's pen tapped once against her notes, the sound sharp, before she stilled her hand.
"Let's begin," Mira said, her voice steady, clipped. She didn't look at Myra, didn't glance at Arkellin, but her words carried a warning edge.
A director cleared his throat and launched into a report, pages shuffling. Figures, projections, safe numbers meant to calm nerves. But Arkellin's gaze was already sweeping the room—measuring faces, the dart of eyes, the weight of silence that clung too heavily to some and not at all to others.
He let the report drone on until the rhythm faltered. Then, with a single quiet sentence, he cut through.
"These numbers don't match last quarter's filings."
Heads turned.
The director presenting hesitated, fumbling with his notes. "They… they were adjusted for—"
"Adjusted," Arkellin echoed, voice calm, low, the kind of tone that made the word feel like an accusation.
Myra smiled into her glass of water, swirling it idly. "Oh dear," she said, loud enough to cut the tension with mock sweetness. "Someone hasn't done their homework."
A few directors shifted uncomfortably. Mira shot her sister a sharp glance but kept her tone professional. "We'll address the discrepancies. Please continue."
But the rhythm was already broken. The air had shifted, and everyone in the room knew Arkellin had seen something.
He leaned back, expression unreadable, fingers laced lightly on the table. Around him, directors whispered to themselves in silence—pencil taps, shallow breaths, the shuffle of papers. Myra's smile widened as if she were the only one enjoying the game.
Mira kept her eyes on the agenda, but the faint tension in her shoulders betrayed her.
The boardroom was heating—not with voices raised, but with pressure building, silent, coiled, waiting for someone to snap.
The break was called, and directors scattered toward the lounge adjoining the boardroom—some to refill their coffee, others to huddle in whispers.
Arkellin lingered by the glass wall, gaze fixed on the skyline beyond Aurelia's towers. The reflection of his own figure stared back at him, unmoving, calm as stone.
"Mister Andy."
Mira's voice cut through the low hum. She stood a few feet away, crisp white blouse still immaculate, though her hand gripped a folder a fraction too tight. She gestured subtly toward the quieter corner of the lounge, away from the staff who pretended to focus on their trays of coffee and pastries.
Arkellin followed without a word.
The lounge smelled of fresh espresso and new carpet, the machine hissing in the background. Mira set her folder down on the counter, turning to him with eyes sharp, colder than her voice.
"If you're going to make enemies in that room," she said quietly, each word deliberate, "you tell me first. I can't defend shadows."
Her pen—always her weapon—rested between her fingers, tapping once against the folder before stilling.
Arkellin didn't flinch. "I'm not asking for defense." His tone was even, calm. "I'm asking for truth."
Mira's breath caught almost imperceptibly, her jaw tightening. For a heartbeat, something softer flickered in her eyes before the ice returned.
Then—heels clicked.
"My, my…"
Myra swept in, emerald dress swaying, a glass of wine she'd stolen from the catering tray dangling between her fingers. She didn't wait for permission; she slid into their space with the ease of someone born to disrupt.
"Oh, sister. Whispering already?" Her eyes sparkled as she looked between them. She brushed against Arkellin's arm deliberately, leaving the faintest smear of perfume and static. "What's the topic—business? Or something juicier?"
Mira straightened, her pen lowering to the folder with a snap. "This is not the time, Myra."
"Isn't it?" Myra tilted her head, her smile playful, daring. She let her hand linger on Arkellin's sleeve, tracing the seam as if it were silk. "Half the board already thinks he's ours. Why not make it official?"
Staff at the far end of the lounge pretended to adjust cups, but their eyes flicked up, unable to look away. The air thickened with the clash of perfume—Mira's subtle jasmine, Myra's spiced sweetness.
Arkellin didn't move, didn't give either of them the satisfaction. He stood still, gravity in human form, while fire and ice collided around him.
Mira's lips pressed into a line, words clipped. "You're reckless."
Myra only smiled wider, sipping her wine. "And you're jealous."
The silence that followed was louder than the hiss of the coffee machine, heavier than the hum of the city outside.
And Arkellin, cool and silent, let them orbit—knowing the real storm was yet to break.
By the time the board reconvened that afternoon, the air in the room was heavier than the morning's sun. Curtains had been half drawn, the light dimmer now, but no one was fooled. The storm hadn't passed—it had only grown closer.
Directors filed back to their seats with muted voices, eyes avoiding each other as though guilt itself might be contagious. Mira sat tall at the head of the table, her blouse still pristine, but her pen gripped tighter than before. Myra slipped into her chair with feline ease, a smirk playing on her lips, emerald satin catching the muted light.
Arkellin remained silent as the agenda resumed, numbers and charts displayed once more across the glass wall. His gaze was steady, hands folded on the table, but there was a stillness to him that unsettled the room.
Finally, he moved.
Without raising his voice, he set a slim folder on the center of the table. The thud of paper against obsidian broke the rhythm of the presentation.
"These numbers," Arkellin said, tone quiet, almost casual. "They've been touched."
Every head turned.
He opened the folder with deliberate calm, sliding a single page into the light. His laptop had distilled it into something simple—irrefutable. Transaction dates mismatched with board schedules, memos signed before meetings were held, approvals that should have been impossible.
Arkellin's eyes swept the directors. "The leak isn't speculation. It's real. And it started from this room."
Silence crashed down like glass shattering.
The director at the far left coughed nervously, others shifted in their seats. Myra leaned back, smiling as if watching a performance. Mira's eyes flicked from the page to Arkellin, her pen frozen mid-tap.
Arkellin turned the last page, laying it flat for all to see. A name stared up from the paper, damning in its clarity.
Director Raymond.
The room held its breath.
Raymond's chair scraped backward, his voice caught between outrage and fear. "This is absurd! Anyone could have—"
Arkellin cut him off with nothing more than a look. Cool, steady, final.
No one else spoke. Not yet.
Mira's breath hitched, quiet, but sharp enough for Arkellin to notice. Myra's smirk deepened, lips curving like she'd been waiting for this exact explosion.
And around the table, every other director shifted as if the ground beneath them had cracked open.
The storm was no longer coming. It was here.