The morning air bit at their faces as they descended from the hotel rooftop, the fire escape groaning under their weight with each careful step. Rhett's legs still felt unsteady, the lingering effects of the nightmare making every movement feel slightly disconnected, like he was piloting his body from a distance. Henrik moved with practiced silence despite his injuries, each footfall calculated to minimize noise against the rusted metal grating.
They hit the alley behind the hotel, where broken glass crunched softly under their boots and the smell of rotting garbage mixed with the ever-present scent of smoke and ash. The city stretched before them like a wounded animal, all jagged edges and exposed bones. Street lamps flickered sporadically, their light casting dancing shadows that made every pile of debris look like a potential threat. In the distance, a dog barked—one of the few sounds of life in this graveyard of civilization.
"Stay close," Henrik whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of the city—the creak of settling buildings, the rustle of wind through broken windows, the occasional clatter of debris shifting in the breeze. "We move building to building. No open streets unless absolutely necessary."
Rhett nodded, trying to push down the anxiety that was building in his chest. The nightmare images kept trying to surface—skeleton-Lucille's empty sockets, his own corpse-face grinning back at him—but he forced them down. He needed to focus. Henrik was counting on him not to screw this up.
They passed through the streets adjacent to where the harbor was, where they had fought against Daimon and the hitdevil. The concrete still bore scorch marks from Henrik's grenades, and Rhett could see dark stains that might have been blood—or something worse. He wondered where the lanky, intimidating Daimon had gone, whether he was practically defenseless without his quirk and had already faced his death alone somewhere in this urban wasteland.
Or had gone to the arena. Back to that 'Grand' person the squatter had mentioned in hushed, fearful tones.
So many things were happening in this civil conflict consuming the entire country. He was just realizing how much he had pushed it out of his mind, focusing on his own selfish goals—finding Casey, saving Lucille, surviving another day. But the weight of it all pressed down on him now, the knowledge that while he chased his personal demons, the world was tearing itself apart.
He at least hoped he wouldn't get caught in any of it.
"Wonder if the hitdevil is still stuck under the sea?" Rhett asked, trying to redirect his attention from the existential dread.
"You saw how it was yesterday," Henrik replied, his steps shaky, hinting he was hiding way more pain than he let on. His breathing was more labored than it should be for someone just walking. "It was only focused on hunting me down and nothing else. Not even Daimon was able to change its course. Unless something else goes to free it, we're safe, for now."
His voice lowered to a whisper. "Besides, things that can't die barely stay trapped for long."
They moved through the urban decay like ghosts, ducking between abandoned cars—some still containing the corpses of their final passengers—and using storefront alcoves for cover. The city had a different quality in the early morning, more desolate somehow, as if the darkness had been hiding just how thoroughly it had been broken. Windows stared down at them like dead eyes, and every shadow could hide a threat. Somewhere in the distance, a bird cried out.
The pharmacy they passed had been picked clean months ago, its security grate torn away like paper. A children's playground sat empty, its swings creaking in the wind, the cheerful primary colors now faded and rust-stained. These glimpses of normal life made the desolation feel more profound, more personal.
"There," Henrik pointed ahead, his arm trembling slightly from the effort.
What had once been Brookside's main police precinct squatted in the middle of what used to be a civic plaza, its brutalist architecture made even more intimidating by the military fortifications that had been added. The building itself was a concrete fortress, designed to withstand riots and sieges. Now it served as a mercenary stronghold, its windows barricaded with steel plates and sandbags stacked around the perimeter like ancient castle walls.
Rhett could see the glint of metal from weapon emplacements positioned on the roof and at strategic points around the building. Razor wire crowned the barriers, and what looked like improvised claymore mines were scattered across the approaches. A faded sign still read "Brookside Police Department," but someone had spray-painted "VELEZ'S WOLVES" over it in military stencil letters.
"Makes sense," Henrik muttered, noticing Rhett's gaze. "Police station already had armories, holding cells, communications equipment. Perfect for a mercenary company that needs to project authority."
The plaza around the precinct had been cleared of debris, creating killing fields with no cover. A few burned-out cars had been positioned strategically—not as obstacles, but as channeling devices to force any attackers into predetermined paths. This wasn't just a fortification; it was a carefully planned military installation.
"How exactly are we supposed to get in there?" Rhett asked, his voice tight with barely controlled panic.
"Simple," Henrik said, though his tone suggested it was anything but. "There's a service entrance on the east side, where the old evidence lockup connects to the main building. It's mostly hidden by the maintenance shed they built up against the wall. Guard rotation changes every two hours—I watched them yesterday morning from that office building." He pointed to a partially collapsed structure about three blocks away. "They get sloppy during the changeover. We'll have maybe a three-minute window."
"And if we don't make it in three minutes?"
"Then we die," Henrik said matter-of-factly. "But you'll come back, so really, I'll die."
The casual way he said it made Rhett's stomach clench. Henrik was betting his life on Rhett's ability not to fuck this up, and they both knew what a questionable gamble that was.
They spent the next hour working their way closer, using the rubble of collapsed buildings and the maze of abandoned vehicles to mask their approach. The closer they got, the more Rhett could see the details of the installation—the way the guards moved in precise patterns, the blind spots in their patrol routes, the subtle signs of a military operation running on discipline and paranoia rather than endless resources.
The guards themselves looked professional—not the ragtag scavengers Rhett had expected, but actual soldiers in matching tactical gear. Some wore patches that read "Brooklyn National Guard," others had "VELEZ'S WOLVES" emblazoned on their shoulders. Veterans, most likely, who'd stuck together when the government collapsed and formed their own unit.
"Now," Henrik whispered, and they broke from cover.
The dash to the fence felt like it took forever, even though it was probably only thirty seconds. Rhett's heart hammered against his ribs as they reached the chain-link barrier. Henrik's forearm blade was already working on creating a hole large enough for them to squeeze through, the metal parting with tiny pinging sounds that seemed impossibly loud in the morning quiet.
Henrik slipped through first, his movements fluid despite his injuries. Rhett followed, catching his shirt on the sharp edges and tearing it further. The fabric was already in tatters from their previous encounters, but somehow it kept getting worse.
The service entrance was exactly where Henrik had said it would be, hidden behind a corrugated metal shed that had been built against the original police station's east wall. The door was heavy steel, institutional gray with multiple locks and reinforcement bars. But Henrik produced a set of lockpicks from somewhere inside his merged anatomy and went to work with practiced efficiency.
"Where do you even learn this stuff?" Rhett whispered.
"You pick up a thing or two in the slums," Henrik replied, his voice strained with concentration.
The first lock clicked open. Then the second. Henrik was sweating now, his hands shaking slightly, but his technique remained steady. Professional.
The final lock clicked open, and they slipped inside.
The interior of the armory was exactly what Rhett had expected—rows of weapons racks, ammunition crates stacked floor to ceiling, and the kind of organized efficiency that spoke of military discipline. But this wasn't just a storage room; it was a working arsenal. Maintenance stations lined one wall, with partially disassembled weapons and cleaning supplies. A workbench held what looked like improvised explosives—probably Henrik's handiwork from his previous life as a hero.
Emergency lighting cast everything in a harsh red glow, and the air tasted of gun oil and metal polish. The smell reminded Rhett of his foster father's workshop, back when the world still made sense.
"There," Henrik pointed to a section of the wall lined with assault rifles—military-grade hardware that looked well-maintained and ready for combat. "Grab what you can carry. I need to find medical supplies and—"
The lights flicked on, flooding the space with harsh white illumination that made them both freeze like deer in headlights.
"Well, well," a voice said from behind them. "Knew I should have double-checked the armory. My instincts never lie."
They turned slowly to find a man standing in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that filled a room. He wore military fatigues that actually fit him properly, pressed and clean despite the chaos outside. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his green eyes held the kind of intelligence that made Rhett immediately uncomfortable. This wasn't some random guard they could overpower.
The man's uniform bore the insignia of a sergeant, but he carried himself with the authority of someone much higher in rank. His sidearm was holstered but easily accessible, and his stance suggested he knew exactly how to use it.
"Shit," Henrik said, and something in his voice told Rhett he was already calculating angles of attack. He knew the risks of intruding into this place, and he was preparing for a fight, even though there was likely no chance he could win.
"Who the hell do you think you are to waltz into my armory?" the man—presumably Velez—replied, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Are you villains or just stupid-ass kids who don't know any better?"
"We're not looking for trouble," Rhett said, stepping forward slightly. "We just need some supplies and—"
Velez's deep green eyes shifted to him, and Rhett felt the full weight of that attention. The sergeant's eyes widened slightly, and his expression shifted from annoyed authority to something much more dangerous.
And even scared.
"You," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I know you."
Rhett's blood turned to ice. "Well I don't, and we don't have to fight, right? You can just let us go and we won't bring you any more trouble—"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP, IMMORTAL!" Velez yelled, spittle flying from his lips. The sound of his voice carried through the building, and Rhett could hear the footfalls of other soldiers responding to the alarm in their sergeant's tone. "You killed a third of my men with that ambush! Don't you pretend like you're some innocent kid now!"
"What?" Rhett muttered, feeling slightly dizzy. The same disorienting sensation he'd experienced when Marina told him about planning to go to Otoku with Casey—something he had no memory of. "What are you talking about?"
"Immortal. The Unkillable." Velez continued, his hand moving toward his sidearm. "The one who would stop at nothing to save and protect the people he loves..."
His eyes narrowed and he glared at Rhett, not with murderous intent per se, but with the grim determination of a soldier who'd seen too much death. His lips curled into something that might have been a smile if it weren't so savage.
"...neither will I."
"Run," Henrik said quietly. "Run now."
Velez's hand closed around his weapon, and the world exploded into motion.
Henrik had already fused with a rifle he'd grabbed from the rack, the weapon's stock melding with his torso in a grotesque display of his merger quirk. With a violent twist of his body, he let loose a desperate shot that went wide, the bullet sparking off the concrete wall behind Velez.
The sergeant moved with professional efficiency, closing the distance in two quick steps and delivering a devastating punch to Henrik's injured side. Henrik doubled over, gasping.
"Move!" Henrik grabbed Rhett's arm and yanked him toward a side exit, even as alarms began blaring throughout the facility. The sound was deafening, a mechanical scream that seemed to come from every direction at once.
They burst through the emergency exit into the pale morning light, and Rhett could hear the soldiers shouting orders behind them. Professional voices, coordinated and disciplined.
"Sarge Velez, is that...?" One of them said, his voice shaky with recognition and fear. "That's the Immortal, isn't it?"
"I'll handle him," Velez replied, his voice taking on an almost paternal tone as he addressed his men. "Guard the base. We've lost too many good soldiers to that monster. I'll end this."
"And the other one?" Another guard asked.
Velez's voice turned cold. "Any accomplice of the Immortal dies with him."
"This way!" Henrik pulled him toward the gap in the perimeter fence where they had entered, but they could hear the roar of an engine behind them—not the whine of a standard motorcycle, but the deep growl of heavy machinery.
Rhett risked a glance back and saw Velez emerging from a side garage, swinging his leg over what looked like a military-grade combat bike. The machine was a beast of reinforced steel and advanced technology, built for urban warfare rather than transportation. Heavy-duty weapons mounts lined each side of the vehicle, and a blue energy shield flickered to life in front of the rider—some kind of protective barrier that could deflect small arms fire.
"Told you this was a bad idea!" Rhett yelled as the war machine revved behind them.
"I got what I needed," Henrik grunted, magazines of ammunition now fused to his skin like exposed organs, the rifle barrel protruding from his shoulder at an unnatural angle.
Still, he knew there was no way they were going to outrun military hardware on foot. They reached the fence and squeezed through, but the sound of the combat bike was getting closer with each second. Henrik was limping badly now, his shoulder wound bleeding through his shirt, and Rhett knew they couldn't maintain this pace much longer.
It would only be a matter of time before that mechanical predator would catch up with them. They needed a distraction. Rhett wouldn't last in a direct confrontation with Velez, even with his regeneration—the sergeant clearly knew about his abilities and had come prepared. His element of surprise was gone before the battle had even started.
"Think, Rhett, think!" he screamed internally as his head pounded with adrenaline. What was his purpose here? Just to blindly follow behind Henrik like a lost dog? He needed to be resourceful, needed to form some kind of plan to give them an edge...
The answer to his problem came almost immediately. As Rhett took another desperate stride, he arched his torso backward to gauge how close Velez had gotten to them.
And right between his eyes, a muzzle flash appeared.
The bullet had been aimed at Henrik's center mass—a kill shot that would have ended the chase immediately. But Rhett's momentum had carried him into the trajectory, placing him directly in the path of death intended for his companion.
Time seemed to slow. He could see the bullet rotating along its axis, spinning closer and closer until it would punch through his skull and scatter his brains across the broken pavement.
"Hah. I think I have a plan."
And it involved the only thing he was truly good at.
Dying.