Location: Off-Grid Neighborhood — Safe House — Exterior and Interior — Evening
The convoy arrived like a funeral procession.
Cars stretched down the dirt road in a ragged line—sedans, SUVs, a delivery truck that had been repurposed for the journey. Headlights cut through the dusk, illuminating clouds of dust that rose from the unpaved ground. The buildings ahead were dark, their windows blank, their walls cracked.
Roman stepped out of the first car.
His scarred face was pale. His eyes swept across the compound—the crumbling fence, the overgrown weeds, the faint glow of light from a basement window. His internal thoughts churned.
My suite, he thought. My marble floors. My chandeliers. My paintings stolen from museums.
And now I'm here. In this—this—
He couldn't finish the thought.
If this isn't falling from a pedestal, I don't know what is.
Mateo climbed out of the second car.
His boots splashed in a puddle. He looked up at the buildings—the peeling paint, the rusted gutters, the satellite dish hanging at a crooked angle.
"I can't believe it," he said.
His voice was loud.
"So this is where he told us to stay? This is the place that's supposed to be better than the Ashwick corridors?"
He spread his arms.
"I refuse. I absolutely—"
"Looky, looky."
A voice from the shadows.
Mateo's head snapped toward the sound.
Three figures emerged from the main building. They were young, their clothes loose, their faces sharp. One of them—tall, with a gold chain around his neck—grinned at Mei-Lin.
His eyes moved across her crimson dress.
"What do we have here?"
Mei-Lin's expression didn't change.
But her hand moved to her hip.
The other two figures—one with a shaved head, one with braids—stepped back.
"Relax, relax," the tall one said. "We're just messing with you."
He turned to Mateo.
"Hey, amigo. You look lost. You need directions?"
Mateo's jaw tightened.
"Careful," he said. "You don't want to start something you can't finish."
"Hey!" The shaved-headed figure's voice was sharp. "Not cool, buddy."
"Yeah," the one with braids added. "That's racist."
They stared at Mateo.
Mateo stared back.
Behind them, the rest of the convoy unloaded.
Men and women from the Muchachos, the Long Walk, the Kuvitich—dozens of them, carrying bags and boxes and suitcases. Their faces were pale. Their eyes were wide. They looked like refugees.
---
Gerry watched from the porch.
His arms were crossed. His expression was the face of someone who had just watched a train wreck and was still waiting for the explosion.
"I can't believe it," he said.
His voice was low.
"He said he was bringing in a few people. Maybe a dozen. Not—"
He gestured at the crowd.
"—not the entire Ferrano corridor."
He shook his head.
"I don't know if this is showing off or trying to court death. The rest of the turf factions—the ones who aren't under his thumb—they're going to notice. They're going to ask questions. They're going to—"
"You could say that."
Tyla stood beside her.
Her arms were crossed. Her eyes were fixed on the convoy—on the faces, the luggage, the slow, uncertain movement of people who had been told to leave their homes and had not been given a choice.
"But I'm sure Elijah knows what he's doing."
"You can't doubt him," she added.
Gerry's head turned.
His eyes met hers.
"The one who's... you know..."
He made a vague gesture.
"...coupled with the guy."
Tyla's expression shifted.
Her hand came up—not fast, not slow, just present. Her palm was open. Her fingers were spread.
Gerry flinched.
"Hey, hey—"
His hands rose.
"—I'm just messing with you."
Tyla's hand lowered.
But her eyes didn't.
"Are you sure you're Kimmy's child?"
Gerry's expression flickered.
"What?"
"That senior. She was the coolest on the block twenty years ago. One of the top ten in the Kage ranking."
"Kage," Gerry repeated.
His voice was flat.
"You know about the Kage?"
"I know a lot of things."
Gerry was silent.
"She left me," he said. "When I was small. Without saying goodbye."
"I'm sorry."
"It's alright."
His eyes moved to the convoy.
"I had other people. Other teachers. Other—"
He stopped.
"It's alright," he said again.
Tyla didn't push.
---
Elijah stood in the basement.
The room was cold, damp, lit by a single bulb that swung from a wire. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. A drain in the center, stained dark.
Wilfred Von Bron sat in a chair.
His hands were bound behind his back. His lips were bloodied. One eye was swollen shut. His glasses were gone.
Commy hung upside down from a pipe near the ceiling.
His wrists were bound. His ankles were bound. His face was purple, his eyes unfocused, his breath coming in short, wet gasps.
Lucian stood behind Commy.
His rings glowed—faint, patient, hungry.
He kicked.
His boot connected with Commy's stomach.
Commy coughed—blood spraying, body swinging, the chain creaking.
"Again," Elijah said.
"With pleasure."
Another kick.
Commy's body convulsed.
---
Elijah turned.
His hand found Wilfred's shoulder.
Not hard. Just present.
"So, Von Bron," he said.
His voice was soft. High. Sweet.
"Are you talking? Or are you still feeling stubborn?"
Wilfred's head lifted.
His one good eye found Elijah's face.
"You can soak me all you want," he said. "Beat me. Burn me. Break my fingers one by one."
He smiled.
"Sooner or later—you'll wet your pants. When the cavalry comes. When the people I work for show up at your door."
"Oh, I'm scared."
Elijah's hands rose.
His fingers fluttered against his chest. His eyes went wide. His lips formed a mock pout.
"Oh, please, Mr. Von Bron, don't hurt me. I'm just a poor dishwasher. I have a family. I have—"
He dropped the act.
"—nothing."
"You better deal with me now," Wilfred said. "Right now. Because when my people free me—"
He leaned forward.
The chains creaked.
"—you won't dare comprehend what I'm going to do to you."
Elijah's expression didn't change.
His hand moved.
His fingers traced a pattern in the air—a series of gestures, quick and precise. A coded signal. A language that Wilfred had not seen in years.
Wilfred's eyes went wide.
His throat moved.
"This... this is—"
"I remember," Elijah said. "I remember everything."
He smiled.
"And let me guess—you're related to those guys, aren't you?"
Wilfred's expression twisted.
"How could an asset of the Mysterium clan be here?"
His voice shook.
"How could you not be at your post? Receiving orders? Doing—"
"Enough," Elijah said.
His voice was still soft. Still high. Still sweet.
"Enough of your shitty questions, old man."
He stepped closer.
"You know what I want. The facility. The one where they mass-produce the Vein frames. The one where they forge the rings and the collars and the—"
"Why do you care?" Wilfred spat.
"Why do you care, punk?"
He laughed.
"You remind me of those cheeky fanatics. The ones who are always on my neck. Always trying to force their crazy ideas. Always—"
Elijah's hand moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just there.
The Xototl emerged from his sleeve.
Small. Pale. Translucent. Their legs moved in slow, rhythmic waves.
Wilfred's eyes locked onto them.
His breathing stopped.
"Puppetry," he whispered. "The art of the—"
"Not quite," Elijah said.
The centipedes crawled across his fingers.
"Mine are... different."
"You're of the—"
"No."
Elijah's voice was sharp.
"I'm not one of them. I'm not a puppet. I'm not a tool."
He leaned closer.
"I'm the one who doesn't follow orders. The one who makes his own."
The centipedes crawled onto Wilfred's arm.
His body stiffened.
His eyes went wide.
"No—no—"
"Yes," Elijah said.
He stepped back.
The centipedes disappeared under Wilfred's sleeve.
His body relaxed.
His eyes cleared.
"Now," Elijah said. "Let's try again. The facility. Where is it?"
Wilfred's mouth opened.
"It's—"
He stopped.
His eyes moved to Elijah's face.
"You're not going to kill me, are you?"
"Not if you cooperate."
"And if I don't?"
Elijah's lips curved.
"Then they will eat you from the inside out. Slowly. Over days. Maybe weeks."
He patted Wilfred's cheek.
"But I don't think that will be necessary. You're going to cooperate. Aren't you?"
Wilfred was silent.
Then he nodded.
---
The basement was quiet.
The bulb swung. The chain creaked. Commy's breathing was shallow.
Elijah stood in the center of the room.
His hands were behind his back. His face was calm.
"Good," he said. "Very good."
He turned.
"Lucian. Untie him. Clean him up. Make sure he's presentable."
"And Commy?"
"Let him hang. He needs to think about his choices."
Lucian nodded.
Elijah walked toward the stairs.
His footsteps were soft on the concrete.
"We have a lot to discuss, Mr. Von Bron. I hope you're ready to talk."
He climbed the stairs.
The door closed behind him.
---