The silence after the slaughter was broken not by screams, not by the hiss of rain, but by something worse.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Slow, deliberate. Each sound echoed in the drowned reactor husk like it belonged to someone who had all the time in the world.
From the smoke and neon haze, he appeared.
Tall. Lean. His frame wrapped in a coat of scavenged synth-leather, stitched with scars from a hundred hunts. His boots gleamed, too clean for the underhive, polished like he'd just stepped out of the towers. A long-barreled rifle rested lazily across his shoulders as though it weighed nothing at all, humming faintly with restrained menace.
And that mask. Chrome, carved into a permanent grin—mocking, cruel, too still to be human. The grin glitched faintly with static, as if it wasn't just metal but a screen, flickering with silent amusement.
"The famous Crimson Exile," the hunter said, voice smooth, distorted through his mask, carrying both charm and venom. "The broadcast doesn't do you justice."
The Core inside me flared hot. Instinct coiled like a blade in my spine. This wasn't another scavenger mutt with rusty augments. This was something else. A predator.
Milo froze, half-hidden behind a console, his mismatched lenses spinning like a rat's eyes when the trap finally snaps. His voice trembled. "Oh no… oh no no no. That's him. That's Strix."
Even Sofia stiffened at my side, her posture adjusting, servo blades half-unfolded. "Target identified: Kade Strix. Independent bounty contractor. Confirmed kill ratio: ninety-eight percent. Known alias—'The Last Grin.'"
Gregor spat a wad of neon-stained blood onto the wet pavement, his chain-axe revving as he stepped forward. "Never heard of him."
Milo let out a broken laugh. "That's because no one who does ever lives long enough to talk about it."
Strix tilted his mask, amused. "Good. I do enjoy a fresh audience."
He moved.
No warning, no stance, no tension. Just a blur, his rifle snapping down from his shoulder in one liquid motion.
The shot cracked like lightning.
The bolt wasn't just fast—it bent midair, splitting into three smaller slugs, each curving in impossible arcs.
Gregor roared, swinging his chain-axe wide to intercept. One slug shattered against the spinning teeth, exploding in a shower of sparks. Another curved high, grazing across Clara's jagged wing, searing her metal feathers into molten shards. The last found me—cutting through the rain, curving straight toward my Core.
Sofia moved.
Her blades screeched, intercepting it a hair's breadth from my chest. Sparks sprayed across my face as she deflected the slug aside, its heat searing against my skin.
For the first time since crawling out of the Vault, I felt… hunted.
Strix lowered his rifle, his mask's grin flickering wider. "Good reflexes. Better than the rats. Let's see how long you last."
The Circle tensed like wolves around me.
Gregor stomped forward, hydraulic spine roaring. "I'll tear that mask off your skull, hunter!" His axe howled, sparks flying as he swung for Strix's head.
The bounty legend barely moved. A twist of his body, too smooth, too precise. His rifle barked once.
The slug didn't pierce straight—it spiraled. It drilled into Gregor's thigh plating, burrowing deep into the hydraulics.
Gregor roared, collapsing to one knee as neon oil sprayed from the ruptured joint. His axe slammed against the pavement, cracking it wide, his bellow echoing like a wounded beast.
Clara shrieked, her zealots rushing with glowing daggers. "Desecrator! Blasphemer!" They swarmed Strix in a frenzy, neon blades slashing in chaotic arcs.
He moved through them like smoke.
Every step was calculated, every pivot perfect. His rifle fired not in bursts, but in rhythm. One shot snapped through a zealot's jaw. Another carved through two throats at once. The third blew apart a chest, painting the puddles with more glowing blood.
He didn't waste bullets. Every kill was a sentence, punctuated with precision.
Clara screamed, wings flaring wide, plasma bolts raining like divine fire. But Strix didn't falter. He slid through the storm, firing between her volleys, each counter forcing her to dodge in fury.
Milo cursed, claws flying over sparking wires. "He's reading us! Every move, every feint—he's calculating it like a damn algorithm!"
Sofia was already in motion, her twin blades cutting arcs of white across the rain. Fast, surgical, efficient. But Strix's body bent at impossible angles, always just beyond her reach. His rifle cracked, forcing her to twist, forcing her to react.
It wasn't a fight. It was choreography.
He was the conductor, and we were his unwilling dancers.
The Core in my chest burned hotter, my monoblade screaming to be unleashed. But every instinct screamed the same thing—if I charged like Gregor, I'd be another corpse in his collection.
This wasn't the arena.
This was the hunt.
And for the first time, I understood: Strix wasn't chasing us for the bounty.
He was chasing us because he wanted to see if I could evolve.