In a sterile sub-basement lab buried beneath the tallest Voss Biotech spire, Elias Voss stood motionless before a wall of holographic feeds. The man looked like he had been carved from obsidian and ice — sharp cheekbones, black hair streaked with premature silver, eyes the color of old blood. His smart-ring pulsed once, a slow crimson heartbeat.
He had not slept in thirty-seven hours.
On the screens: the last moments of the rift event. Sienna Rossi — or the thing wearing her skin — being yanked backward into impossible color. Jax Reed screaming her name. Then static. Then nothing.
And now Zora was gone too. His most perfect retrieval asset, swallowed by the same wound in reality.
Voss's voice was quiet, almost gentle. The kind of gentle that preceded violence.
"Mira."
From the shadows behind him stepped a short, athletic woman in matte-black tactical gear. Short messy black hair with a blood-red streak. Glowing crimson eyes cracked with faint blue energy lines that ran down her cheeks like tears. She moved like someone who had already decided how she would kill everyone in the room if necessary.
"Sir."
Voss didn't turn around. "You will go through. Recover intel. Confirm the fate of the missing asset. Locate the symbiote target if possible. Retrieve anything useful. And Mira…"
He finally looked at her. The smart-ring flared brighter.
"Bring me my weapon back. Or don't come back at all."
Mira's expression didn't change. She simply gave a single, crisp nod.
"Understood."
She stepped into the newly stabilized rift chamber. The portal screamed open — not the wild, iridescent chaos that had taken Sienna, but something colder, surgical, a precise wound cut by machines. Blue-white light sliced the air like a scalpel. Mira walked into it without hesitation.
The rift sealed behind her with a sound like a vault door locking.
Back in Elyria, the morning sun was already high over Glintspire.
Vesna moved through the bustling market square with the quiet efficiency of someone who had once helped run an entire caravan. She bartered hard for dried rations, wound-cleaning herbs, spare rope, and a new whetstone for her father's dagger. Her voice stayed low, practical, the same tone she used when she was trying not to think too hard about anything.
Zzyzx trailed a half-step behind her, pink-azure tendrils retracted but still faintly visible as shimmering veins along Vesna's arms and collarbone. She had discovered "shopping" and was currently fascinated by it.
"These are maps?" Zzyzx asked, poking at a rolled parchment with one curious tendril. "Flat lies. The world does not look like this. The world has depth and smell and things that try to eat you."
The vendor gave her a strange look. Vesna quickly paid and pulled her away.
Leshwai rode on Vesna's shoulder like a grumpy green scarf, occasionally snatching a piece of dried fruit from a passing cart and pretending total innocence when the owner glared. His tiny antlers glowed with quiet contentment every time Vesna absentmindedly reached up to scratch behind his ears.
On the surface, they looked like any other adventuring party preparing for a job.
Underneath, Vesna was wound so tight she felt like she might snap.
The guild parchment with her family crest was folded carefully inside her cloak. Every time she thought about it, her stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. Hope was dangerous. Hope had teeth.
Zzyzx leaned in close, voice soft inside Vesna's head even though her mouth never moved.
You're thinking so loud I can taste it. Family stuff?
Vesna didn't answer out loud. She just gave the tiniest nod.
We don't have to do this alone, Zzyzx murmured. Pack, remember?
Leshwai chirped in agreement and nuzzled her neck.
They were on their way out of Glintspire's main gate when Zzyzx went absolutely still against Vesna's skin.
Not the playful stillness of a predator spotting prey. Something older. Something that recognized, without understanding why, that reality was about to break in ways that had nothing to do with magic.
"Vesna," Zzyzx whispered inside her head, voice stripped of all teasing warmth. "Something's wrong. Something's—"
The air somewhere behind them in the square tore open.
Not with magic. With something colder. A surgical wound of blue-white light that smelled like ozone and burnt metal. The tear sealed behind a short, athletic figure in matte-black armor that looked manufactured rather than forged.
The stranger stood in Glintspire's market square, scanning the crowd with clinical precision. Her eyes glowed crimson, cracked with faint blue energy lines that ran down her cheeks like frozen tears.
She looked like a scalpel that had learned how to walk.
Mira's gaze swept the market.
The hunt had officially begun.