The penthouse at night was an aquarium. Rain streaked down the mana-glass in wavy veins, filtering the city's trauma into patterns of blue and white, as if the world outside could be reconfigured by a change in light. Inside, the living room's every surface shimmered in uneasy reflection, like a stage waiting for its actors to admit they were only pretending.
Hazel sat on the low couch, knees drawn up to her chest, a first-aid kit open beside her and a glass of cold water sweating on the table. She didn't need the water—her hands were already ice, saturated with the dregs of Ellen's healing magic, the residue prickling along every nerve. Shiori perched at the couch's edge, her left sleeve rolled up and a makeshift bandage smeared with pale blue ointment. Bruises had started to bloom on her arms, deep and ugly, and a thumbprint of purple marked the hollow of her collarbone.
"Hold still," Hazel said, the words more plea than order. She pressed her thumb against Shiori's shoulder, letting a thrum of dark mana sink into the joint. The bruise retreated, but left behind a halo of cold. Shiori hissed, then exhaled through her teeth.
"I've had worse," Shiori muttered.
Hazel didn't answer. She worked in silence, listening to the hum of the building and the faint rattle of glass from the next wind gust. On the windowsill, Mouse crouched, his arms wrapped around his knees, back pressed flat against the polar-cold glass. His nose twitched at every flash of drone light across the city, but he'd stopped flinching after the first hour.
"They're running in pairs now," Mouse said, voice pitched low to avoid echo. "Not just patrols—formation sweeps, like they're trying to herd ghosts."
Shiori watched Mouse, her eyes narrowed and calculating. She looked the least injured of the three, but her energy was off—pulse too fast, hands curled into fists even at rest. Hazel wondered how much of that was adrenaline, and how much was just Taira DNA, codified into generations of never letting the mask slip.
"My father would rather hand me over than lose face with the Lancasters," Shiori said. "I should have expected it."
Mouse made a face. "Family, right? Can't live with 'em, can't sell 'em to the highest bidder. Well, unless you're a Taira. Then you can do both."
Hazel smothered a laugh, surprised at how much she needed it. Shiori's mouth twitched, then settled into a small, honest smile.
"You saved me," Shiori said. The words came slow, as if she'd had to rehearse them. "Thank you. I mean it."
Mouse shrugged. "We didn't do much. The heavy lifting was all you."
Shiori hesitated, then reached for his hand—just a gentle, deliberate contact, her fingertips tracing a fresh scrape on his knuckle. "You were there. That's more than I'm used to."
Mouse froze, then blushed under the albino fur. "I—I've never met anyone who stood up to them like you did."
The silence hung, heavy. Then, abruptly, Mouse ducked his head and hugged her, arms tight and desperate, as if this might be the last time he got to hold onto something that wasn't trying to kill him. Shiori's breath caught. For a second she didn't move at all; then she relaxed, her body melting against his with a shudder that had nothing to do with pain.
Hazel looked away, focusing on the containment case on the dining table.
The Arcana Bridge was a prism of glass and steel, no larger than a child's skull, but the energy radiating from its runes was anything but subtle. Hazel edged closer, arms prickling with the memory of the last time she'd seen magic like this: raw, unrefined, a distillation of everything that made people both monstrous and beautiful.
She ran a finger along the edge, feeling the air vibrate. The interface was a mesh of micro-runes, each one branching into a new layer as she pressed. It was like tracing a nerve cluster, or the logic of a bomb.
Hazel glanced back at Mouse and Shiori. They'd broken apart, now sitting side-by-side, hands still close. She swallowed, turned back to the Bridge, and exhaled.
"Okay," she whispered. "Show me what you do."
The runes blinked, a cascade of color flickering through blue, then white, then blood-red. The crystal at the device's core throbbed once, then projected a ghostly spiral of light onto the table. It hovered, cycling through a set of patterns: fire, lightning, shadow, ice. Each sequence was perfect—no drift, no loss of power.
Hazel's heart pounded. She picked up a stylus and touched the interface. The device responded, pulsing, then replaying the patterns in exact sequence. She understood now. It wasn't just a channel. It was a recorder.
Mouse drifted over, curiosity outweighing his nerves. "What did you do?"
Hazel ran a hand through her hair, glasses slipping down her nose. "It's not just channeling mana for non-mages. It's recording and replicating spells through the AI core. There's a perfect mana crystal inside. It copies, then reproduces, any magic it sees."
Shiori's mouth dropped open, the mask of composure gone for an instant. "That's impossible. Even the best wands can only store one spell at a time. And you can't cross affinities—"
Hazel shook her head, voice trembling with awe. "This isn't a wand. It's a weapon. It could copy, reproduce, and perfect any magic it records. Regardless of affinity or user class."
Mouse whistled, low and sharp. "So you could train it on a mage, and then…?"
"Be them," Hazel finished. "Or better."
Shiori stared at the Bridge, her face a study in horror and envy. "No wonder they wanted it out of play. If this leaks, there's no reason for families or bloodlines anymore. Anyone could be a mage."
"Or anyone could be a monster," Mouse said, not quite joking.
Hazel set the stylus down, her hands shaking. "We have to tell Jane."
"Tell her what?" Mouse asked.
Hazel looked at him, then at Shiori, then back to the city outside. "That the Bridge isn't a toy. It's a time bomb."
They sat around the table, the three of them—two teens who'd never belonged anywhere, and a girl bred to rule a world she might never escape. The Bridge hummed, the only heartbeat in the room.
Shiori rested her chin on her knees, eyes unfocused. "What do you do with something like this?"
Mouse was quiet, unusually thoughtful. "You make a decision, I guess. You choose what kind of story gets written next."
Hazel nodded, the weight of it sinking in. "Yeah," she said. "I guess you do."
They listened to the rain, waiting for the adults to come home, each of them trying to remember what it was like before everything changed.
The Bridge kept pulsing, its light unblinking, as if it already knew.