The rain pirouetted across the roof of Drost Café, composing a mournful melody that mingled with the faint tendrils of steam rising from the dark, bitter brew.
Overhead, the sky above Zonner City hung heavy and grey, an unyielding vault, as though guarding secrets too dangerous to be revealed.
Within the quiet hush of Universe No. 7, four figures were gathered around a weathered wooden table.
Four cups stood half-drained, their warmth fading, while a scatter of laptops and dishevelled papers lay strewn across the surface, a testament to the battle they were waging in silence.
Zeice reclined against the back of his chair, his fingers drumming an unhurried rhythm upon the wood.
His gaze, cold and unyielding, burned into the glow of the laptop screen, an intensity that spoke of a mind unwilling to yield, no matter the cost.
"They have lingered in the shadows for far too long. If we do not act now, they will continue to trample over other writers, stealing ideas with impunity and… dismantling the very fabric of literature."
Zeanna drew her jacket closer, as though shielding herself from an unseen chill, and released a slow, measured breath.
"We must act, that much is certain. But recklessness will only hasten our downfall."
"These word mafias are no ordinary adversaries," she continued, her voice quieter but no less firm.
"They possess influence, money and connections that reach further than we can yet imagine. One misstep, and we shall become their next victims."
Rodney leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his expression dark with calculation.
"They play this game with ruthless precision. They steal the work of others, claim it as their own, and silence anyone bold enough to challenge them."
"If we are to defeat them..." his voice grew cold.
"... So we must be more cunning than they are."
A wry smile curled at the corner of Nicko's lips as he stirred the black liquid in his cup with deliberate slowness.
"I've never been one to shy away from a challenge. So..." he lifted his gaze to Zeice. "...How do we break them?"
Zeice leaned forward, his fingers splayed across the worn surface of the table, his voice as steady as it was resolute.
"We strike at their greatest weakness, the truth. We find proof that their words are stolen. Then, we release that truth into the world. Publicly. Irrevocably."
His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, "If we expose them for what they truly are, mere shadows feeding on the light of others. We can destroy their credibility before they have the chance to retaliate."
Zeanna met his gaze, her eyes searching his for any trace of doubt, "And if they retaliate?"
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Zeice's lips, "They will."
"They will stir the waters," he murmured, his voice laced with something dark and knowing.
"Clouding what was once clear until the surface is no longer calm, but thick with deception."
Without another word, he reached for the three half-empty cups before him, pouring their contents into his own.
The dark liquid swirled and rose, spilling over the rim in slow, deliberate rivulets that crept across the table's surface.
"And in the end," Zeice continued, his tone scarcely louder than the rain drumming against the windows. "They will create chaos, wherever, whenever, and however they please."
His words seemed to echo in the heavy silence that followed.
For a moment, none of them spoke. But to Zeanna, watching Zeice in the soft half-light of the café, the truth was as clear as the storm beyond the window.
Beneath his calm façade lay a fury forged by years of stolen words and broken trust, a fury that could no longer be contained.
Rodney's hand moved, tapping the table with calculated ease, "I can trace their transactions, uncover the names they've hidden behind. If we find their weakest links, we will know where to strike first."
Nicko's smile sharpened, his fingers stilling around his cup, "And I can ensure their secrets don't stay hidden. Once we have proof, the world will know. All we need is the right moment, to strike clean and fast."
Zeice drew in a breath, slow and deliberate, his gaze drifting to the rain-slicked window.
Beyond the glass, the city lay cloaked beneath the storm's shadow, as if the heavens themselves mourned a truth too long buried.
His head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable.
Yet in the reflection of the rain-streaked glass, there was no mistaking the quiet promise in his eyes, a storm of his own, waiting to be unleashed.
With a voice both gentle and profound, he shattered the oppressive silence that clung to the room.
"If we act in haste," Zeice began, his tone a measured calm that cut through the thick air. "We risk becoming a river broken by an unruly current, scattered and lost."
"In our impatience, we shall lose our way, dashing ourselves against the unseen rocks that lie beneath the surface."
"Those who move too swiftly often find their feet sinking into the treacherous softness of fragile sands."
Zeanna bowed her head slightly, allowing the weight of his words to settle within her, each syllable brushing against her thoughts like a chill carried by a distant wind.
Rodney, ever the one to test the limits of patience, folded his arms across his chest. Tension rippled through him, a taut wire ready to snap.
Nicko, by contrast, reclined in thoughtful silence.
His gaze, shadowed and pensive, drifted far beyond the room as if he sought the shape of their enemy within the depths of some unseen abyss.
Zeice's voice softened, though it lost none of its resolve.
Each word, precise and deliberate, hung in the air like the final strokes of a master craftsman.
"But we are not a reckless torrent, surging without thought. No, we are the rain, falling with intention. Patient. Quiet. Waiting for the earth to yield when the moment is ripe."
"Silence does not equate to inaction," he continued, his eyes narrowing with a quiet, simmering intensity.
"Within that silence, we prepare. We weave our plans with the precision of an artisan who knows that one misplaced stroke can unravel an entire masterpiece."
His gaze swept over his companions, fierce, unyielding, like the northern star shining cold and constant against a blackened sky.
"We must not allow our desire for justice to become our undoing. And we must never unsheath our blades before the wind shows its course."
"Time," he said, leaning back with an air of quiet command, "is the sharpest weapon we possess. And when the hour arrives…"
His voice dropped to a whisper, calm, certain, dangerous, "We shall strike without mercy."
Slowly, he lowered his hand from the rough wooden table, a gesture unassuming, yet final, allowing the gravity of his words to sink deep into the marrow of those who listened.
"We shall wait," he murmured, his tone as cold as the rain that pattered against the windowpane.
"Wait, as roots burrow unseen into the earth, growing stronger with every passing moment."
"Let those who rush blindly destroy themselves by their own folly."
"And when we move," his eyes burned with a quiet fire, "they shall never know what has come for them, until it is far too late."
For a fleeting moment, all of Zonner lay still.
Beyond the walls, the rain drummed an unrelenting rhythm against the earth, soft yet insistent, carrying on the wind a whispered promise.
A storm was coming. Not the kind that tore through the skies in a violent fury, but something far more deliberate. Far more inevitable.
Zeice stood by the window, his gaze fixed upon the silver threads of rain cascading from the heavens.
In the fading light, his eyes burned with a quiet, unyielding certainty, as though he could see beyond the veil of the present and into the murky contours of the future.
He folded his left hand over his wrist, fingers brushing against his pulse, as if to still the echoes of the universe thrumming just beneath his skin.
"So it is," he murmured, his voice a low tremor in the hush, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths.
"This plan will not end with a single strike, not like lightning that splits the sky in one furious instant."
His breath deepened as he turned to face his companions.
One by one, his eyes sought theirs, measured, searching, each glance a silent reckoning.
"We are not hunters who strike blindly, chasing prey with reckless abandon."
"No," he said, his voice quiet but sharpened with intent.
"We are the watchmen who wait, patiently, purposefully, behind the shroud of mist, laying traps invisible to those who think themselves beyond our reach."
Rodney stood opposite him, arms folded across his chest, a gesture of impatience barely restrained.
Yet his gaze did not waver. Each word Zeice spoke seemed to settle within him, like stones sinking to the depths of a still pond.
A faint smile, almost imperceptible, curved Zeice's lips.
It was not the smile of triumph, but of a man who knew the game was far from over.
"The greatest victories," he continued, his tone softer now, "are those sown in silence."
"Let them water the roots of their own deception, nurture their lies with their own hands. In time, the tree they feed will bear fruit, rotten, bitter, and heavy with their own ruin."
Zeanna, leaning against the edge of the table, tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.
Yet in the shadowed light, her hands curled into fists, as if she, too, felt the undercurrent shifting beneath their feet.
"And when the hour is right," Zeice pressed on, his voice a shade darker, "we will shake the branches."
"And they… they will watch in helpless silence as their poisoned harvest falls, one by one, never comprehending the hand that brought their ruin."
A silence stretched between them, taut and unbroken, until Nicko, who had thus far lingered in the quiet, spoke at last.
"But we will still be watching, won't we?" His voice was soft, uncertain. "Even when they think we're gone?"
Zeice's reply came swiftly, cutting through the dim air.
"Always."
"We are the shadow in their blind spots, the breath they cannot hear, the movement just beyond their sight. They will never know the storm that waits beneath the surface."
"And when we strike..." he paused, his words as deliberate as the rain falling against the earth.
"They will find that their fruit has long since turned to ash."
With a measured grace, Zeice drew his hand away from the table, as though severing some invisible thread.
His gaze drifted once more toward the window, where the sky hung heavy and dark, a canvas for the storm yet to break.
"Every step we take leaves a mark," he said quietly.
"And those foolish enough to follow it will find themselves stumbling, falling into a chasm they cannot escape."
"And when we move," he continued, his voice like distant thunder, "they will know, too late, that the storm has already come."
Beyond the shelter of their walls, the rain fell harder, its rhythm steady, ceaseless, a prelude to the tempest waiting on the horizon.
But within, a different stillness held. It was not the stillness of peace, but of something poised on the edge of inevitable descent.
The stillness before the earth breaks open. Before the lightning finds its mark.
"Patience," Zeice said at last, his words low and resolute.
"We move when the moment is right, when we know the ground beneath us will not falter. And when that time comes…" He let the silence stretch, heavy with unspoken promise. "There will be no escape."
One by one, they rose, no words exchanged, yet bound by the same weight, the same purpose.
Zeice turned a final glance to the world beyond, the rain-swept streets and shadowed sky, as though he could already see the path unfolding before them.
A path no storm could wash away.
And when the moment came, when their patience had run its course, nothing would stand in their way. Nothing at all.