Alaric left the Rusted Oak before sunrise, arm bandaged tight beneath a black shirt. The bullet graze still throbbed, but Vitality knitted muscle beneath the gauze—a steady, reassuring itch. Lia slept on, one hand fisted in his pillow as if anchoring him to her dreams. He traced a gentle line across her knuckles, then slipped out.
The freight-line mag-train rumbled overhead, sparks spitting like fireworks against dawn's gray. Alaric rode a maintenance ladder to the elevated track, boots clanging softly on metal. He needed distance from the boarding house—the next Syndicate ambush could crash through those thin walls at any hour. Better he greet it on his terms.
He reached an abandoned signal tower overlooking the yard. Cracked windows, rust flakes like red snow. Inside, monitors long dead lined one wall; the other held rusted lockers and a dusty console. Perfect vantage. He set both lockboxes on the console, pulling the warm one closer. Project Seraphim—genetic key one of three. His mother's code. The thought coiled in his gut.
He connected Tavros's pocket terminal to the lockbox port. The interface flashed crimson: "Biometric mismatch." He inhaled, placing his thumb on the reader. Same rejection. The box wanted Dr. H. Vale—or her living bloodline. Lia? The idea chilled him. Not yet.
Footsteps scraped metal outside. Alaric killed the screen, drew his combat knife, and flattened behind a locker. Voices drifted through the broken doorway—four this time, heavier steps, methodical spacing. Professionals.
"…tower's clear vantage. He'll be here," a woman murmured, voice calm as dry wind.
Alaric slid along the wall, ears tracking each bootfall. A man ducked inside first—stocky, ballistic vest, sub-machine pistol sweeping the room. Alaric waited for the muzzle to pass, then moved. One swift slice across tendons behind the knee; the man folded with a strangled grunt. Knife flipped, punched into kidney seam—lungs gurgled silence.
The second intruder spun at the sound. Alaric kicked the dying man's body forward, using it as a shield as a burst of suppressed rounds hammered meat instead of air. He dove right, bounced off a desk, rolled beneath flying bullets. Pain flared along his ribs—graze, superficial.
He popped up beside the shooter, wrenching the SMG barrel aside. Metal rattled; muzzle flash seared the ceiling. Alaric drove his knife through the man's wrist, twisting until bones cracked. Weapon clattered. He slammed a knee into the attacker's face—cartilage crunched—then finished him with a thrust to the throat.
Footsteps retreated outside; the remaining pair repositioned, disciplined. A grenade arced through the doorway—small, purple, low hiss.
Flash-toxin. Alaric snatched a chair and hurled it at the grenade mid-air—impact kicked the canister sideways; chemical mist burst harmlessly into the hall. A feminine silhouette darted across the gap, blade glinting. Fast.
He met her charge head-on. Steel rang in a shower of sparks. Her short sword pressed his knife, strength impressive. She feinted, reversed grip, stabbed low. Alaric twisted, felt metal kiss fabric, not skin. He answered with an elbow to her jaw, following with a slash that scored armor plates. She back-flipped, graceful as the Shroud, resetting stance.
The final attacker—a lank man in tactical cloak—lobbed a concussion dart. Alaric dove sideways; the dart burst against concrete, shockwave rattling teeth. Dizziness spun his vision. The sword woman lunged again; he parried, but slower. She nicked his forearm—red warmth spread—but he slid inside her guard, slammed his head into her visor. Crack. She reeled.
Adrenaline roared; the world narrowed to edge and breath. Alaric stepped past her falter, grabbed her cloak, spun her bodily into the lank man's line of fire. His dart launcher discharged—needle buried in her back. She convulsed, collapsing.
The cloaked man cursed, drew a combat knife. Alaric flung his bloodied blade end over end; it buried in the man's chest, hilt quivering. The attacker staggered, shock wide in his eyes, then toppled beside his comrades.
Silence settled, broken only by Alaric's rasping breaths and the drip of rain through holes in the roof. Four against one—and he still stood.
[Quest Progress: Predator's Instinct (2/3)]Reward Pending
He retrieved his knife, wiped it on a dead vest, and searched pockets. No dog tags, only coded chips set to self-erase. Professionals, indeed. He pocketed their cred-chits anyway.
Rain hammered harder now, drumming the tin roof. Alaric's arm bled steadily; Vitality dulled pain but couldn't close a fresh artery on command. He tore a strip from a fallen cloak to bind the wound. Fingers slick with blood tugged tight, breath hissing.
The warm lockbox glowed faint amber, as if sensing spilled lives. He studied the cold decoy, then pried its shell apart with a pry-bar. The interior held only wiring and a transmitter—a beacon. Kieran's failsafe; if the box reached the buyer unopened, the fixer would still profit by tracking who claimed it.
Alaric crushed the transmitter under his boot. Sparks died.
Sirens wailed faintly. He stashed both lockboxes and descended the tower ladder, boots slipping on wet rungs. The alley below steamed in the rain. He blended into morning crowds once more, wound throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
At Zenith High, Lia spotted him near the fence, her eyes immediately narrowing to the bandaged arm. She hurried over, clutching books to her chest. "You promised careful."
"Ambush," he said. "I won."
Her relief radiated as anger: "They keep hurting you." She touched the bandage like it offended her. He caught her wrist, squeezed softly. The gesture lingered longer than sibling comfort—a silent tether neither spoke of.
Elio jogged up, waving a holo-tablet. "Lia! Robotics club demo— oh." His gaze flicked to Alaric's wound. "Rough day?"
"Construction mishap," Lia lied smoothly, stepping closer to Alaric as if shielding him. Elio nodded, oblivious, and launched into talk of servo algorithms. Lia listened but her fingers twined possessively around Alaric's sleeve.
He walked her to class, senses on full burn. No sedan today, no corporate scouts—just teenage chatter and drone buzz. He left her with a promise to pick her up at bell.
Back at the Rusted Oak he sterilized his arm, adrenaline ebbing. [Stat Point Earned] flashed—quest's partial reward? He debated. Agility or Strength? Vitality already E+. Mobility saved him more than brute force.
He invested in Agility.
[Agility Upgraded: E+ → D]A rush of lightness flooded his limbs—joints like oiled gears, reflexes sparking.
Good. Next time the Shroud appeared, he might match her dance.
A knock rattled the door. Landlord Griggs slid a note under the jamb, gruff voice fading down the hall: "For the kid in 6B."
Alaric unfolded it: "Midnight. Rooftop of Slate Tower. Bring the key." No signature—only a pressed white chrysanthemum.
His pulse quickened. The Shroud wasn't finished.
Night would fall, and with it—the final ambush, the third trial, and answers buried in Seraphim's code.
Alaric smiled, knife resting comfortably at his side. "Your move."