10 February 2000
19:30
Sri Lanka, Unknown Warehouse
"We finally found you."
Christa Clark's words broke the silence like a crack in glass—soft, fragile, almost unreal in a place steeped in blood and iron. The air was cold, metallic, heavy with the stench of rust and antiseptic.
She set her clipboard down, fingers trembling more than she would ever allow herself to admit. Her gaze locked onto him—James William Lukyan, bound to the table.
He was barely human now—a ghost sculpted from pain. Skin stretched thin across bone, littered with scars and punctures. His lips were split and dry, but his eyes… his eyes still burned. Dimly, faintly—but alive.
Christa's composure faltered. Her throat tightened, words fighting to rise and die at once. What did they do to you? The thought screamed inside her, but she swallowed it down. Only one broken whisper escaped.
"You look—"
She bit off the rest, jaw clenching until she tasted blood. The boy she had known was gone. What sat before her was a man remade by agony.
James coughed, a jagged sound that tore through the stillness. His voice was sand and shards.
"Experiments… How did you find me?"
"Long story," she said quickly, her tone steadier than her soul. "But we never stopped looking."
He blinked slowly, every motion heavy, dragged by pain and chemicals. "I'm just… happy to see… a familiar face."
Her heart clenched. She reached out and pressed a trembling finger to his lips. "Don't speak," she whispered, voice turning firm, almost commanding. "Save your strength. You'll need it."
From her coat, she drew a vial, the light within it alive, molten gold. Even the air bent around it, as though the liquid carried its own gravity.
James's eyes widened. Recognition flickered, memory of what that light meant, of what it once stood for.
"You remember," Christa said softly. "Nod once for yes, twice for no."
He managed a single nod.
Relief cracked her façade for an instant before urgency reclaimed her face. "Then you know it will hurt."
She filled the syringe. The hiss of liquid drew the tension tighter than a wire.
James's pulse quickened, fear and hope colliding in his chest. When the needle pierced his arm, the world ignited.
Golden fire raced through his veins. His back arched, his scream ripped the air raw. It was agony beyond words—every shattered nerve reborn in flame, every cell screaming as if creation itself was rewriting him from the inside out.
Christa gripped his shoulders, grounding him through the storm. Her voice was the only constant.
"Hold on. Let it burn. Let it break you. Then it will heal."
And it did. Slowly. Terribly.
The fire bled into strength. Torn muscle knitted. Skin sealed. The gray from his cheeks flushed with new life. His chest heaved, breath after breath deeper, stronger.
Christa brushed damp hair from his brow, her touch fleeting but tender. "Don't thank me," she murmured when his lips parted. "Thank John. He saw you—in a vision. He told me it was time."
Her voice faltered then, just for a heartbeat. She knew what this moment cost her.
When the last buckle snapped free, the restraints fell away like dead serpents. James slumped forward, trembling but alive. His body screamed, but his spirit had risen with it.
"Up," Christa ordered, slipping an arm beneath his shoulder.
He staggered, legs uncertain, leaning on her as they crossed the blood-stained floor toward the far wall.
The grate was already loose—her work, stolen between moments of false duty. She tore it free, metal shrieking softly. A dark tunnel gaped beyond.
"You'll take this," she said, voice quick, eyes darting. "It leads outside. A car is waiting. Clothes. Money. Everything you'll need."
She shoved a set of keys and a scrap of paper into his palm. Her grip was fierce. "Call the number. He'll help you disappear. But, James…"
Her gaze hardened. "You must not go back to the Order."
The words hit harder than pain. "Why? They're my family—"
"They think you're dead," she cut in. "If you return, you'll bring ruin. They'll never believe you. And worse, others will find you. They'll chain you again."
"Then come with me," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Christa, please, we can make it together—"
"No." The word was a blade.
But her eyes betrayed her. Pain shimmered there, unguarded. "This is where I die," she whispered. "So you can begin."
James's breath hitched. "Don't say that—"
"You don't understand." She seized his shoulders, forcing his gaze to hers. "John's vision was clear. I stay. You escape. It's the only way you reach Scotland. The only way the future survives."
"What future?" he rasped.
Her lips trembled. "I can't tell you. Only this—you have a role, James. Bigger than any of us. If you die here, everything ends."
"Why me?" he whispered, broken. "Why always me?"
Her hand cupped his face, trembling. "Because it's always been you."
Then—boots.
Heavy, close. Voices shouting in the corridor.
Christa's face hardened to steel. She shoved him toward the vent. "Go!"
He hesitated, torn apart.
"Please," her voice cracked now, desperation bleeding through the command. "Live. That's how you save us. That's how you save her."
He froze. "Her? Who—"
Her silence was his answer. Her eyes—filled with sorrow and a truth she could not say.
The first beam of a flashlight sliced through the doorway.
Christa spun, snapping the clipboard in half across her knee. The jagged edges gleamed like crude blades.
"Go!" she shouted and charged.
The last he saw of her was motion—blurred, feral, alive. She struck like lightning: a slash across a guard's face, a kick to another's chest. The crack of bone echoed through the corridor. Gunfire erupted. She ducked, disarmed, twisted a man's wrist until his own weapon fired backward.
She fought like a woman who already knew the ending.
James forced himself into the vent. Tears blurred his sight. The grate slammed behind him, sealing her fate. Gunfire echoed, then screams, then silence.
He crawled through the narrow passage, every scrape of metal against his elbows a countdown. Red light flashed through the slats. Alarms wailed. Shadows chased him like ghosts.
Then, cold air.
He tumbled out into the night, snow-dusted concrete breaking his fall. The sky was vast and black above him, the air sharp with freedom.
A black car waited under a flickering streetlight.
He stumbled inside, slamming the door. A duffel lay on the seat, clothes, cash, everything she'd promised. The scrap of paper burned in his hand, a number written in trembling ink.
He gripped the steering wheel, chest heaving. The words scraped from his throat.
"James William Lukyan dies tonight."
He swallowed, tears cutting paths through grime. "William Luxon… that's my name now."
The engine roared to life, shattering the night.
Behind him, the warehouse shrank into darkness. Christa's final smile lingered in his mind, a ghost made of fire and sacrifice.