"Fuck! Answer your phone, Oline!"
Arion's fist crashed into the wall with a dull thud, the plaster cracking under the force. Sharp pain shot through his knuckles, but he barely felt it. He stared at the cracks spreading through the plaster, rage and helplessness turning over too fast to pin down.
"Arion!"
He whipped around, his face a raw mask of fear, anger, and flat-out denial. His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else for a split second.
"We have patrols moving through every route to your mother's house," Treya said firmly, her voice cutting through the haze like a lifeline. "Drones have eyes on the skies. Believe me—we're doing everything in our power to find her."
She watched him closely, seeing the words hit home.
His disbelief twisted into something darker, a hollow ache that left him cold and exposed—an emotional weight heavy enough to make his knees threaten to give.
"N-no… th-this can't be happening."
Before she could reach out, offer some scrap of comfort, another voice shattered the moment—a rough, tired rasp laced with stress that sliced right through his fragile composure.
"Where is she?! My Oline—where is she?!"
Arion's head snapped toward the door, his body lagging a beat behind, feet rooted as if stepping closer might make this nightmare irreversible. His throat tightened, a knot he couldn't swallow past.
Then her radio crackled to life, static buzzing like an unwelcome intruder.
"Station to Treya"—CHZZ.
"This is a 10-29"—CHZZ.
Treya pivoted sharply, her thumb jamming down on the radio's side button with practiced ease.
"Yeah, Ruez, go ahead."—CHZZ.
"We have a potential match on suspect, requesting backup to confirm"—CHZZ.
"Send co-ords to my Forcer," Treya replied without missing a beat. "My squad will be there in five. Over and out."—CHZZ.
She released the button with a click and hooked the radio back onto her belt, the motion automatic, drilled in from years on the job.
She took a long steady exhale.
Then she turned back to Arion, her hand landing on his shoulder with a steady weight, grounding him just enough to keep him from unraveling right there.
"Arion," she said softly, the sharp edge of authority gone from her tone, replaced by something warmer, more personal. "I know we've had our history… but I still care about you and your mother. I'm here if you need me."
Something flickered across her face—too quick to name, but old enough to make her look away for a beat. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself against the pull, forcing her focus back to the now.
"Now go be with your mum," she said, her voice firm but kind. "She needs her son."
Treya yanked the door wide open, the hinges creaking under the force.
"We've got a 10-29," she barked to her squad outside. "Move. Forcer."
Her team filed out one by one, boots thudding against the floor in quick succession, the sound echoing down the hall as they passed Arion.
He stood frozen, still processing the whirlwind of words and emotions crashing over him like a wave.
Treya paused at the threshold, her frame silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor. She glanced back at him, her eyes lingering a moment too long, searching his face for something—maybe the man she once knew, maybe just reassurance that he'd hold it together.
Then she turned and strode out of the corridor, the double doors swinging twice until they shut behind her.
…
Arion stood there in the sudden quiet, his hands trembling at his sides, fingers curling into fists to stop the shake. The corridor felt too narrow, the air too thick, pressing in on him from all sides.
He drew a shaky breath, forcing his lungs to expand, and stepped inside the room.
"Mum, are you—"
The words lodged in his throat like a stone, refusing to budge.
She sat hunched on the hospital bed, shoulders drawn inward so tightly she looked smaller than he remembered. Her gaze was fixed on nothing—a blank spot on the wall, empty and distant, like life itself had drained out from behind her eyes.
The room smelled of antiseptic and stale worry, the beeps of machines a monotonous backdrop that only amplified the silence between them.
Only when she sensed movement, the subtle shift in the air as he approached, did she look up.
"Arion?"
Her face was drawn and raw, eyes red-rimmed and swollen from hours of tears that hadn't stopped coming.
One hand still clutched the blanket in a tight fist, as if she had forgotten she was doing it.
Her thumb kept rubbing the same frayed corner over and over, as though some part of her needed the motion to keep from coming apart.
She looked smaller somehow, fragile in a way that twisted his gut.
"They called you?"
"Yeah," he said, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. "Treya told me."
"They're going to find her, Mum."
He eased down beside her on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulled her close. Her frame felt lighter than it should, bones sharp beneath his arm, the kind of lightness that frightened him more than dead weight would have.
"Everything's going to be okay," he murmured into her hair, and hated how false it sounded the moment it left his mouth. "I taught her how to defend herself."
His hand moved in slow, soothing circles across her shoulder, the motion mechanical, born from habit more than hope.
"She's strong," he added, voice cracking just a fraction. "Like you."
She didn't respond right away, her stare drifting past him again, lost in the fog of her own thoughts. The room's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting harsh shadows that made her look even more exhausted.
"D-did they call your father?" she asked quietly, her voice thin and uncertain. "He should've finished work by now…"
Something inside Arion cracked wide open, a fresh wave of pain flooding through the gap.
"N-no, Mum," he said gently, careful not to let his voice break. "He's not around anymore. Remember?" The last word scraped his throat on the way out.
Silence settled heavy in the room, thick enough to choke on.
"Oh—right." Her voice wavered, trembling on the edge of another sob. "I-I'm sorry, Arion. I've just been so busy lately and—and…"
Her words trailed off, dissolving into nothing as exhaustion finally overtook her. Her eyelids fluttered shut, body going slack against him as she slipped into an uneasy sleep, her breathing ragged but steady.
Arion sat there in the dim light, her head resting against his shoulder, feeling every ounce of her trust in the way she let herself go slack against him.
He stared at the wall, mind racing through a thousand what-ifs, each one darker than the last.
His teeth clenched, jaw aching from the tension.
It's happening more often…
The thought gnawed at him, a quiet fear he'd been pushing down for months. Her memory slipping, the confusion creeping in more frequently—it wasn't just the stress of today. It was something deeper, something he couldn't fight with fists or words.
He stayed like that for what felt like hours, the hospital's distant hum the only company. Nurses passed in the hall outside, voices muffled, lives moving on while his stood still.
…
Sometime later, when her breathing had evened out into true sleep, he gently eased her back onto the bed. He adjusted the thin blanket over her, tucking it in with careful hands, making sure she'd be comfortable through the night.
A hospital stay was safest now. She needed rest, monitoring, and people around her who would know what to do if things turned worse.
Arion lingered by the bedside for a few moments longer, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Her soft breathing brought him at least a sliver of relief, a fragile peace in the chaos, even if he knew it wouldn't last.
He turned and slipped out, easing the door shut behind him with a quiet click, the latch catching softly.
"Sorry, Mum," he whispered to the empty corridor. "I'm gonna have to break our promise."
The thought of turning his back on her now felt rotten. The thought of doing nothing felt worse.
Silence wrapped around him, broken only by the echo of his footsteps as he walked down the corridor, each step heavier than the last.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
A figure sat in his car and lit a cigarette, drawing deeply as it clamped between his lips. The ember glowed fierce orange against the gloom inside, while acrid smoke curled upward in lazy tendrils before seeping out through the slit in the window.
His car sat abandoned in a shadowed alley down the road, engine ticking as it cooled.
After a moment, the figure opened the driver's door, shutting it with a harsh click. His hands went back and reached for the hood of his under-jacket, pulling it low over his head, casting his features into impenetrable shadow.
He scanned the street out of habit—empty, save for the occasional puddle rippling under the downpour.
Rain fell, trickling onto his leather coat as he lingered. With a final, slow exhale—smoke billowing out in a grey plume that dissolved into the rain—he plucked the cigarette from his mouth, pinched it between thumb and forefinger, and flicked it away in a sharp arc.
The glowing stub sailed through the downpour, hissing as it struck a puddle and extinguished with a faint sizzle, the motion fluid and deliberate, his hand retreating back into the folds of his coat as he made his way down the alley.
The figure now stood beneath the flickering neon sign of a worn-out bar in the city's red-light district, rain sluicing down in sheets that blurred the world into streaks of light and shadow.
Jerry's Pitstop.
Normally, the place would've pulsed with life—rowdy laughter spilling out, bass thumping from cracked speakers, the kind of bad decisions that kept the night alive.
Now it sat, half-dead under the weight of council declarations that had gutted these kinds of establishments.
He wasn't surprised when the door didn't budge under his push. Locked tight.
He knocked. Hard. Knuckles rapping against the weathered wood, the sound sharp and insistent.
Muffled voices drifted from inside. A pause stretched, then locks clicked and tumbled.
A narrow gap opened, just wide enough for a wary eye to peer out.
"Can you read, mate? We aren't open anymore!"
The man stared for a beat, letting the silence build, before lifting his gaze to meet the eye.
"Jerry," he said flatly. "It's me."
"…Do I know you?"
The man pulled his hood back, rain dripping from the edges.
"Arion."
The door creaked wider, revealing Jerry's face—older, lined with the wear of years and bad habits.
"Arion?" Jerry blinked, recognition dawning slow. "Wait—Arion? I haven't seen you in years!"
"Not since you swore you were done with this side of town."
"Mmh," Arion replied, voice low and edged with impatience. "I need information. Like old times. Preferably… indoors."
"Oh—yeah, yeah." Jerry waved him in hastily, glancing over his shoulder. "Come on."
He stepped aside, holding the door open just enough for Arion to slip through.
When Arion entered, the dim interior hit him like a memory—stale smoke, spilled beer, the faint tang of desperation clinging to the air.
Two other people occupied the space: one a taller, burly man, middle-aged and rough around the edges, built like he'd seen too many fights and won just enough to keep going. The other was a woman in a revealing dress, cigarette glowing cherry-red between her fingers, a half-empty glass dangling loose in her hand.
Jerry followed Arion's stare, shifting uncomfortably.
"Don't mind them," he said quickly, too casual, his eyes flicking to the pair and away again. "Guests."
The woman smiled lazily, smoke curling from her lips as she waved a languid hand.
"So," Jerry said, rubbing his hands together nervously. "What d'you need?"
"Ford," Arion said without preamble. "Where is he?"
Jerry's face changed before he could hide it. Even the woman with the cigarette stopped smiling.
The air in the room shifted, tension coiling tight like a spring.
"Uh…"
An awkward pause hung, thick and telling.
The other two guests stopped talking at once, their attention snapping toward the exchange like dogs catching the scent of blood.
"Ford? You gotta be more specific, mate, I'm not sure—"
"You know exactly who I mean," Arion cut in, his voice dropping low, laced with warning. "You've got connections. You can drop the act."
Jerry swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly.
"Look, mate," he said carefully, hands up in a placating gesture. "You've been gone a long time. Things don't work like they used to."
Arion stepped closer, closing the distance in one deliberate stride, his presence filling the space.
"Fuck your rules," he said quietly, the words carrying a dangerous calm. "Tell me where he is. Now."
He glared down at him, rage simmering just beneath the surface.
"I don't have time. Oh, payment, is it? How about this—you keep your nice smile and straight white teeth. That's a fair bargain. Right, mate?"
Jerry tried to flash a smile, but it came out strained, forced.
"Arion, I owe you a few, I do. But you can't come in ere' demanding this and that, mate. I'll look past the threat this time—"
Whatever was left of Arion's patience gave way.
THUMP!—CRCKK.
His fist drove forward in a tight arc, knuckles connecting with Jerry's jaw in a sharp, resounding crack. The impact snapped Jerry's head sideways, sending him staggering back, hand clutching his face as pain exploded across his features.
"Mhhf! Mys' jaw—yous bruk' it!"
"Where. Is. Ford." Arion said, stepping toward Jerry one measured pace at a time.
"Don't keep wasting my time. Oxygen is wasted on your every breath."
Arion loomed over him, his shadow swallowing Jerry where he sprawled on the grimy floor, the dim light casting harsh angles across his face.
Movement flickered at the edge of Arion's vision.
Something shifted behind him—just enough to register, far too late.
One moment, strong hands gripped Arion's leather coat, fingers digging in deep, yanking him off-balance.
The next, his vision spiraled as he was hurled sideways, body slamming into the pool table with a thunderous crash. Wood groaned under the impact, balls scattering in chaotic clatters, glass clinking as bottles teetered on the edge.
He flipped over to the other side, landing hard on the floor, back hitting the wall as the air knocked clean out of his lungs in a sharp grunt. Pain radiated up his side, but he pushed through it, regaining his composure with a ragged breath.
"Jerry, you 'right?"
"Kenny! Don jush stan there, get im!"
Arion grabbed the edge of the table, fingers curling tight around the felt-covered rim, and hauled himself up with a low groan, muscles protesting but obeying.
His side barked under the movement, but he ignored it.
His eyes locked onto a pool cue resting against the table's edge, its polished wood catching the faint light.
Perfect.
Kenny came storming around the pool table, boots pounding the floor as he charged toward where Arion stood—arms already swinging wide, a heavy haymaker aimed straight for his face, the kind of punch that could end a fight in one go.
Arion slipped off the line of the punch, clean and exact.
The cue snapped up into his hands in a quick snatch, fingers wrapping firm around the tapered wood. As the swing came down, he met it head-on, using the cue as an anchor—redirecting the force with a smooth twist, stealing the momentum and bleeding it away along a forced arc that sent the punch sliding harmlessly past him.
Kenny's weight betrayed him, pulling him off-balance as the missed strike carried him forward.
Arion countered without hesitation.
The thicker butt end of the cue whipped across in a vicious horizontal arc, cracking straight into Kenny's face with a meaty thud. The impact jarred through Arion's arms, but he stayed right on top of it.
A pommel strike followed—short and brutal—snapping the cue's end forward into the bridge of the nose.
Crack.
The bone fractured under the blow, a wet snap that echoed in the room, blood spraying in a fine mist.
Kenny reeled back, staggering a step, pain flashing across his features, but he shook it off and followed up with a desperate right hook, arm swinging wild from the side.
Arion switched grips in a blur, flipping the cue so the tapered tip became the striking point, wood spinning smoothly in his palms.
A thrust drove the cue forward like a spear, jabbing deep into the bicep, right into the thick meat of the muscle. The impact was surgical—fibres tore with a muffled rip, and the arm went slack mid-motion.
Before Kenny could even register the full agony, before the scream could build in his throat, Arion pivoted on his heel, weight shifting seamlessly.
The final swing came horizontal and merciless, the cue whipping through the air with a low whoosh.
It shattered across Kenny's skull in an explosive crack, wood splintering into jagged fragments that scattered across the floor like shrapnel.
The body dropped hard, knees buckling first, then the full collapse—unmoving, a heap on the grimy tiles.
For a moment, nobody moved. Blood dripped steadily from Kenny's nose onto the grimy floor.
Tonk.
What remained of the broken cue clattered to the ground, rolling to a stop against a table leg.
Arion turned back to Jerry, his breathing steady, eyes cold.
Jerry's stained teeth were bared, plastered with blood that trickled down his chin.
He was smiling—a twisted, bloody grin that didn't reach his eyes.
CRACK.
White exploded in Arion's vision as something hard cracked into the back of his skull. The room lurched sideways into a blur.