It was close to midnight when Kiro's stomach finally made the decision for him.
"I'm getting food," he said, pulling on his jacket.
Ara glanced up from the map she'd been sketching. "At this hour?"
"They leave the mess hall open for night training crews. Besides…" He tapped the side of his helmet. "I eat faster than I sleep."
She sighed but grabbed her own jacket. "If you get jumped, I'm not dragging your body back."
The Academy's halls were nearly silent, torchlight flickering against cold stone. Their footsteps echoed in the emptiness — until Kiro caught something else.
A faint hiss.Leather on stone.Too deliberate for a rat, too quiet for a guard.
He slowed, letting Ara move a step ahead. In his mind, the golden threads came into view — most dim and far away. But three glowed brighter. Closer. Following.
They reached the mess hall without incident. Or rather, without visible incident. The long tables sat in shadow, a few trays abandoned by whoever had been here last.
Ara headed toward the serving counter. "I'll grab—"
"Don't." Kiro's voice was low, sharp.
Her eyes narrowed. "Threads?"
He gave a slight nod.
A chair scraped somewhere in the dark.
Then another.
Figures stepped from the shadows — three of them, hoods low over their faces, moving with the kind of balance that screamed training. Each carried a different weapon: a hooked blade, a short spear, and a length of weighted chain.
The one with the blade spoke first. "Orders were to make it quick. Won't hurt much."
Ara's shadow peeled away from her feet, splitting into two distorted forms. "I don't like their odds."
The chain lashed out first, whistling toward Kiro's head. He caught the golden thread connecting him to its wielder, tugged — and the man's arm jerked mid-swing, the weight smashing into his own ribs.
Ara's shadows went for the spear, forcing him back toward the counter.
The blade wielder, though, came straight for Kiro. Fast. Silent.
Kiro ducked the first strike, felt the second graze his jacket. He didn't have time to pull deeply on the man's thread; doing so risked locking eyes and revealing more than he wanted Ara to see.
Instead, he used a whisper-thought: Drop it.
The man's fingers loosened just enough for Kiro to slam a knee into his gut and send the weapon skittering across the floor.
"Friends of yours?" Ara called, driving her shadow-forms into the spearman's knees.
"Fans, maybe," Kiro said, kicking the blade wielder toward a table.
The chain-man recovered, spinning the weapon in a tight circle — until Kiro pushed a sudden command into his mind: Turn left.
The man obeyed instantly… right into Ara's knife.
The spearman cursed and bolted for the door. Kiro let him run, noting the thread's direction in his mind. It led up, toward the higher floors.
The blade wielder groaned from where Kiro had left him on the table. "You… have no idea… what you've stepped into."
Kiro leaned closer. "Then educate me."
The man's hood slipped back, revealing a tattoo — a jagged crown over a closed eye.
Ara's expression darkened. "Black Crown Syndicate."
Before they could ask more, the man bit down hard on something in his mouth. Foam bubbled from his lips, and his body went slack.
Ara swore. "Poison tooth. They're not afraid to die for it."
Kiro stood, scanning the remaining threads. The spearman's was gone now — either out of range or cut.
"We need to tell someone," Ara said.
"We will," Kiro replied. "But not yet. Whoever sent them will be watching to see if we panic."
Her eyes narrowed. "You sound like you've done this before."
Kiro didn't answer. He was too busy picturing the cloaked figure from the arena stands… and wondering if they'd just moved from observing to hunting.