Nick Xevoz's POV
The moment I realized I was surrounded, my focus narrowed to the driver.
I leaned forward and hooked my arm around his neck, pulling him back against the seat. My voice came out low, strained. "Start the car," I said, tightening my grip, "or I'll break your neck."
Nothing.
No gasp. No panic. Not even a tremor.
I squeezed harder, feeling tendons shift under my forearm. Any normal person would have struggled, clawed, begged. He didn't react at all. His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, dull and empty, like a mannequin behind the wheel.
My stomach sank.
I loosened my hold and looked outside.
Men were already there—dozens of them. A line blocking the road ahead, another sealing the rear. They stood too evenly spaced, too still. If they were normal humans, I could have forced a way out. Broken bones, fast strikes, chaos. I measured the distance automatically, old instincts rising.
Then I noticed them.
At the front stood a woman in a tailored suit, heels planted firmly on cracked asphalt. Her eyes were wrong—completely black, dotted with tiny white specks, like a star-filled sky staring back at me. At her belt hung several metallic needles, each nearly a foot long, polished to a surgical shine.
Beside her was a man who looked ordinary at first glance. Average height, average build. Then he took a step forward, and another pair of arms unfolded from his sides as if they had been waiting there all along.
I glanced at the rearview mirror. A man with a sword stood among the others. His face was unremarkable, almost forgettable—but the pressure rolling off him made my skin prickle. His aura felt sharp, violent, like standing too close to an exposed wire.
The woman in the suit tilted her head slightly. "Don't waste your strength on him," she said calmly. "He's only my puppet."
My eyes flicked back to the driver. So that explained it.
"We came here to talk," she continued. "If you're willing."
I forced my breathing to slow, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. "What do you want?" I asked.
"Our boss wants a word with you," she said. "Step out of the car to show respect. Or we'll drag you out."
I clenched my fists. Every part of me screamed to fight, to run—but I knew better. I opened the door and stepped out.
The air felt heavier outside.
"Where's your boss?" I asked.
The crowd parted.
A middle-aged man walked forward, broad-shouldered and solid, his face carved with old scars that spoke of battles survived, not avoided. He stopped a few feet from me and studied me like a weapon laid out on a table.
"Young man," he said, his voice rough but controlled, "did you kill Robert Heaton?"
The name hit me like a punch.
Images flooded back—horns scraping concrete, hooves cracking asphalt, the weight of that massive Minotaur's body as it fell. The blood. The heat. The heart.
Before I could answer, the man lifted a hand.
Two of his men dragged someone out of the taxi.
My chest tightened.
It was the woman I had saved last night.
She looked worse now. Her face was swollen, purple, and yellow bruises blooming across her skin. Her clothes were still torn from last night, stained and filthy. She hadn't made it home. She never stood a chance.
The boss turned to her. "Is he the one who saved you?"
She nodded frantically, tears streaming down her face. "Yes. It's him. Please—please let me go. You got what you wanted from me."
The boss waved his hand.
The men holding her released their grip.
"You may go," he said.
She didn't wait. She ran, stumbling at first, then sprinting down the road.
I watched her back retreat, a cold weight settling in my stomach. Even though she wasn't sure—it was dark, chaotic—she chose me. To save herself.
The woman in the suit sighed softly. She pulled a slim rod from her sleeve and flicked her wrist.
A needle sang through the air.
Before I could shout, she flicked again. The needle curved mid-flight and drove straight through the back of the woman's head, bursting out her forehead before snapping back into the suited woman's hand.
The body collapsed instantly.
Blood spread across the road.
"We leave no loose ends," the woman said flatly.
The boss nodded, then turned back to me. "Two options," he said. "Join us. Take the position Robert left behind. Or die."
My hands shook, fury burning through the shock. "I'd rather die," I said, my voice tight, "than become one of you. Heartless monsters."
He laughed, deep and amused. "Big words," he said, "for someone who ripped Robert's head off… and took his heart."
The boss's laughter faded, leaving the air thick and uncomfortable. His men didn't move. None of them did. They watched me the way predators watch something already wounded.
I swallowed and forced my voice steady. "How did you even find me?" I asked. "I didn't leave a trail. I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't even know what I was last night."
The woman in the suit glanced at me, her star-filled eyes unreadable. The man with extra arms flexed them slowly, metal scraping against metal somewhere inside his joints.
The boss didn't answer right away. He studied my face, as if weighing how much truth I could handle.
"You're asking the wrong question," he finally said.
I clenched my jaw. "Then answer the right one."
A corner of his mouth twitched. "The moment Robert Heaton went silent, people noticed. When his territory lost its heartbeat, alarms rang."
"So you tracked Robert," I said. "Not me."
He shook his head. "We tracked outcomes. Broken bodies. Burned concrete. A missing heart." His gaze sharpened. "And witnesses."
My eyes flicked, involuntarily, to the dark stain on the road where the woman had fallen.
"You used her," I said quietly.
He replied without hesitation. "Fear makes people cooperative."
My fists tightened. "That still doesn't explain how you found me so fast."
He took a step closer. I felt that pressure again, like standing too close to something massive and violent. "We have our ways," he said simply.
"That's not an answer," I snapped.
He smiled, thin and patient. "It's the only one you'll get."
The woman in the suit tapped one of the needles against her palm, a soft, rhythmic click. "You leave traces, even when you think you don't," she added. "Normal people mightn't find it, but I can."
My stomach twisted. First night. Like there would be more.
"So this was always going to happen," I said. "Even if I ran away."
"Yes," the boss replied. "You can escape but you can't hide from us."
Silence fell again. The kind that presses in on your ears.
I looked at the men surrounding me. At the woman with the needles. At the sword wielder whose aura made my skin crawl. At the driver still sitting lifelessly in the taxi.
They weren't bluffing.
The boss met my eyes. "Last chance," he said. "Choose."