The city's heartbeat was slower on the rooftops, the world below muffled by distance and wind. Elian crouched at the edge, the two stone fragments cradled in his hands, their spirals now forming a single, unbroken symbol. He could feel the mark on his spine pulsing in time with the stones—a subtle, electric thrum that made his skin crawl and his mind sharpen. Mina and Marcus sat nearby, catching their breath, the adrenaline of the escape fading into exhaustion.
Below, Hell's Kitchen sprawled in a patchwork of neon and shadow. The Hand's men were out there, searching, their presence a pressure that never fully lifted. Elian watched the streets, his mind working through the next steps. They had two fragments now, but the pattern was clear: each piece brought more danger, and the Hand's pursuit would only grow more ruthless.
Mina broke the silence first, her voice low. "We can't keep running forever. Sooner or later, they'll catch up."
Marcus, still grinning from their success at the auction, shrugged. "Then we make sure we're always one step ahead."
Elian looked at them both, feeling the weight of leadership settle on his shoulders. He hadn't asked for it, but it was his now—earned through survival, through pain, through the trust they'd built together. "We need to find the next fragment before they do. And we need to figure out what these actually do."
He turned the stones over in his hands, feeling the way they seemed to hum together when pressed close. There was a pattern to the symbols, a logic he couldn't quite grasp. He closed his eyes, focusing on the mark, letting its strange energy guide his thoughts.
A flash of memory—stone chambers, chanting voices, the spiral symbol glowing in firelight. The sense of something ancient, hungry, waiting.
He opened his eyes, breathless. "The fragments are keys. Together, they unlock something—maybe a door, maybe a weapon. But it's not just about power. It's about control."
Mina nodded, her eyes hard. "Control over what?"
Elian shook his head. "I don't know. But the Hand thinks it's worth killing for."
They made their way down from the rooftop, slipping through the city's veins like ghosts. Elian led them to a diner on the edge of the district—a place he knew from his days on the street. The owner, an old woman named Mrs. Rizzo, let them in through the back, her eyes kind but wary.
She poured them coffee and set out plates of greasy meat and eggs. "You kids look like you've been through hell," she muttered.
Marcus grinned. "We took the scenic route."
Elian thanked her quietly, his hunger gnawing at him. He ate quickly, savoring the taste of real food. Mina ate in silence, her eyes scanning the windows.
Mrs. Rizzo watched them, her gaze lingering on Elian. "You're in trouble," she said softly. "The kind that doesn't go away."
Elian met her eyes, the weight of his secret heavy on his tongue. "We're trying to fix it."
She nodded, her face grave. "Be careful. This city eats its own."
After breakfast, they retreated to a booth in the corner, spreading out the notebook and the fragments. Mina compared the symbols, tracing lines between them. "There's a pattern here. Look—each spiral points to a different part of the city. The first was the catacombs, the second the theater. The next… it's near the meatpacking district."
Marcus groaned. "More meat. Great."
Elian smiled. "It's as good a lead as any. We move at dusk."
They spent the day resting, patching wounds, and planning. Elian felt the mark on his spine settle into a low, steady ache—a warning and a promise. He tried to meditate, focusing on the sensations, searching for any hint of what the fragments might unlock.
He saw flashes—doors opening, shadows moving, a sense of hunger and need. The city itself seemed to pulse with anticipation, as if waiting for something to be unleashed.
As dusk fell, they made their way to the meatpacking district. The air was thick with the scent of blood and salt, the streets slick with runoff from the factories. Elian led them through alleys and side streets, following the pull of the mark.
They found the building easily—a squat, windowless structure at the end of a dead-end street. The spiral symbol was carved into the door, half-hidden by grime.
Mina checked the street, then nodded. "All clear."
Elian pressed the two fragments to the symbol. The mark on his spine burned, and the door clicked open.
Inside, the air was cold and damp. The room was filled with hooks and chains, slabs of meat hanging from the ceiling. At the far end stood an altar, identical to the one in the catacombs.
Marcus whistled. "Creepy."
Elian approached the altar, the fragments humming in his hands. He placed them in the carved depression at the altar's center. The symbols glowed, and the mark on his spine blazed with heat.
The altar slid aside, revealing a staircase leading down.
Mina drew her knife. "Ready?"
Elian nodded, leading the way.
The stairs descended into darkness, the air growing colder with each step. At the bottom, they found another chamber—smaller than the last, but filled with relics and bones.
At the center was a third fragment, resting on a pedestal.
Elian reached for it, the mark on his spine screaming in protest. He gritted his teeth, pressing on.
As his fingers closed around the stone, the chamber trembled. Shadows flickered at the edges of the room, and a low, guttural growl echoed through the darkness.
Mina stepped closer, her voice tight. "We're not alone."
Marcus scanned the room, his face pale. "What is that?"
Elian turned, the three fragments clutched in his hands. "We need to go. Now."
They raced up the stairs, the growl growing louder. At the top, the altar slammed shut behind them, cutting off the sound.
They stumbled into the street, gasping for breath.
Back at the diner, Mrs. Rizzo let them in without a word. They collapsed into a booth, the three fragments glowing softly on the table.
Elian felt the mark on his spine settle, the pain fading to a dull ache.
Mina leaned against him, her eyes closed. "We did it."
Marcus grinned, exhaustion and relief in his voice. "Three down."
Elian nodded, but his mind was already turning to the next step. The fragments were coming together, the pattern growing clearer. But the danger was growing, too.
He looked at his friends, their faces drawn but determined. They were in this together—whatever came next.