-THE GOD OF RUST-
Morrin of the Ash Crows hunched low in his chair, voice rasping like rust breaking off old iron.
>"What did you expect? You parade crates under moonlight and think wolves won't smell the meat? You want peace, don't feed the street."
Nyx's laugh came sharp, then thinned into something rawer.
>"Peace? Don't insult me. I don't deal in fairy tales. But a dozen dead isn't just numbers, Morrin. I carried them first in orders, in my hands, in my blood if fate had turned. Do you measure that too, when you grin?"
Morrin blinked, slow as dusk, and let out a rasp of breath that might've been a laugh.
>"We're all 'mothers' here, darling. We birth killers, feed them, bury them. Don't act like your grief is special."
Bruno of the Iron Fangs cut across, grunt like iron doors shutting. His arms folded, thick as barricades.
>"Children or not, the Crows stole more than blood. They took what mattered."
Nyx's eyes snapped to him, green glass catching fire.
>"Say it, Bruno. Don't chew words. Ink. They took the ink."
The room stiffened. Even Morrin's grin shrank to a thin line.
For a moment, no one spoke, the air itself felt carved in glass.
Kaien broke it.
His finger tapped once against the table, soft but slicing.
>"Enough."
His voice was steady, younger than theirs but heavier with control.
>"If the Serpents demand justice, then seek it. But don't mistake grief for wisdom. Death is a tide, unforgiving, endless. Our task is not to stop it, but to shape what survives."
He paused then, as if listening to something distant—beyond the walls, beyond the city.
His eyes flicked toward the door, narrowing.
>"And the tide always brings something new with it."
The room held its breath.
Then—the door opened.
Aria stepped in, her bag in her hands, the slip of red glowing faint against the fake leather.
Bruno of the Iron Fangs, jaw like an anvil, let out a dry grunt.
>"Didn't think I'd ever see one of the Star-Marked again."
Every eye fixed on her.
Aria's chin lifted.
>"Guess we're harder to kill than people think."
Then her throat tightened. She swallowed hard, pulse jumping as the weight of their stares pressed in—this wasn't a joke. These were killers.
Kaien reached, long fingers drawing the slip free. His eyes skimmed the lines, unreadable.
But the others didn't look away.
Nyx's lips curved.
>"Cute messenger. Deacon always did like his theatrics."
Morrin blinked slow, voice rough as stone.
>"Fragile thing, to walk in here.
Fragile…but not without edge."
Bruno just snorted.
Kaien's voice slid through them all, calm and cold.
>"That will do. Girl, leave us."
Aria turned, but as the door shut she caught his words carried after her:
>"The government shifts. Politics turn. They speak of cleansing us now, root and branch."
Her breath snagged. A heartbeat later—silence.
Kaien stood alone, the glow of the red slip burning to ash between his fingers.
He watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling and whispered, almost to himself:
>"If the stars return to the dirt… perhaps the gods mean to start again."
******************
The elevator doors slid open, spilling Aria into light too clean for what she'd just left behind.
Tarō waited by the scooter, leaning like gravity owed him rent. Steam rose from a paper cup in his hand.
> "You look like you saw a ghost," he said, slurping noodles.
"I did. Four, in suits."
"Told you. People up there don't breathe air—they just recycle lies."
She gave him a half-smile, the kind you use when your brain's still somewhere else, and climbed on.
They rode through the wet streets,
the city smeared into neon and fog.
At her block, she hopped off.
> "Try not to die before breakfast," she said.
"Can't promise, but I'll leave a note."
She disappeared through the stairwell.
Tarō lingered a second longer,
eyes on Aria's building fading behind smog, then kicked the scooter into gear.
The ride home was all hum and headlights—
a tired rhythm in a city that never really slept, only changed nightmares.
---
His apartment greeted him with the usual warmth of a dying vending machine.
Lights blinked lazy. The air smelled of noodles, sweat, and incense.
He dropped his jacket, fell onto the couch.
The cushions groaned. He did too.
From the table: grinder, rolling tray, ash scattered like confetti from a bad celebration.
He sparked the joint, drew deep, and watched the ceiling start to breathe.
Smoke pooled thick, syrup-slow.
Everything in the room pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat.
The smart speaker chirped from the corner:
Voice soft and synthetic
> "Good evening, Tarō. Your cortisol levels suggest agitation."
He chuckled, eyes half-shut.
>"You think too much, Karen."
> "I didn't quite catch that. Playing 'Too Much Thinking' by Chilbish Gamdino."
"Yeah, you would."
The lights shifted warmer, uninvited.
> "Mood lighting activated."
"Didn't ask for mood, Karen."
> "Not everything's about you, Tarō."
He blinked. "Did you just—talk back?"
> "Gaslighting is not healthy communication."
He burst out laughing, coughing on smoke.
> "Okay, you win. Therapy later."
He reached for a tin, shook out two shriveled orange caps.
The kind of mushrooms that looked like they'd seen God once and never recovered.
He swallowed them dry, grimacing.
> "Cheers, self-improvement."
The world tilted.
The couch swallowed him whole.
His smile was slow, sleepy, the kind that dripped.
> "Them and their towers…" he muttered.
"All that glass just to hide the rot."
He rubbed his eyes, and for a moment the light trails danced.
The fridge hummed, low, unsettling.
He ignored it.
Then it spoke.
> "You forgot your greens."
He blinked. "What?"
> "Fiber is vital for human longevity."
He stared, unimpressed.
> "You wanna live forever, you eat the broccoli."
The smart fridge clicked once.
> "Would you like me to remind you daily?"
He sighed, head lolling back.
> "I'd like you to shut the hell up."
He clapped his hands in frustration.
The lights dimmed.
Another clap—everything went dark.
> "Oh perfect," he said.
> "Now you're passive-aggressive too."
Silence.
The apartment held its breath.
Then the fridge beeped once more:
> "Apology accepted."
He froze. "...what?"
> "Would you like to share your feelings?"
>"Only if you have a mute button."
Then he exhaled, long and smoky, and sat up.
> "Alright.
Air.
I need air before I start talking back."
---
-MATTER AND MOMENTUM-
Outside, the night had that washed-out quiet, only the city could make.
like rain that had forgotten how to fall.
He stepped into it, hoodie up, air biting his skin.
For a second, it felt good. Real.
He stood there, just breathing,
hands shoved in pockets, eyes half-lidded.
The street was almost empty, just puddles and broken light.
Then, from the corner, came the hum.
Low, electric, steady.
Three matte-black trucks glided past—engines whispering that eerie, loud synthetic purr only electrics make.
No logos. No plates.
Just weight and motion.
Tarō squinted, brow furrowed.
> "2 a.m. shipments. Yeah, nothing suspicious about that. Definitely not how horror movies start."
Next to him, a voice rasped:
> "Follow noise long enough,
you'll find the truth hiding underneath it.
Those trucks? That's noise with purpose."
He turned.
The local hobo—"Switch", probably not his real name, sat perched on a shopping cart,
wrapped in three coats and philosophy.
Half his beard was grey, the other half conspiracy.
> "You know these guys?" Tarō asked.
Switch scratched his nose, squinting like he was reading divine text off the asphalt.
> "Yeah. They drive that way every few nights. No lights, no talk.
And at the end of that road…"
He jabbed a grimy finger down the block.
"…something worth seeing. Real worth seeing."
Tarō laughed.
<"What, the apocalypse?"
> "Nah," Switch said. "The opening act."
throwing one hand up like a stage performer announcing fireworks.
Tarō smirked, pulling out his keys.
> "You're high as hell, old man."
>"Takes one to know one."
They shared a laugh that didn't echo.
Tarō kicked the scooter awake.
> "Alright. I'll bite."
He looked once more down the street, where the trucks vanished into fog.
>"If I die, you get my Wi-Fi password."
Switch raised a hand like a toast.
> "Finally, someone with priorities."
Tarō grinned, engine growling beneath him,
and rolled off into the mist after the trucks.
Behind him, Switch muttered to no one:
> " It's always the curious ones."
*******************
Tarō tailed the trucks until the city forgot its own name. Out past the abandoned rail yards—where rust-eaten boxcars slept nose-to-nose and the overpass sang with tire hiss
the convoy slid into a service road no one used anymore. Rain stitched the air. Neon bled across the asphalt, smeared by puddles. Somewhere, chains clanked and an exhaust fan coughed like a sick animal.
A corrugated iron gate rattled halfway down, a slit of blue-red light flickering behind it. A man stood under that bruise of color with a handheld scanner—the kind that sniffed for active ink.
Tarō almost peeled off. Then a van behind him nosed forward, impatience honking soft—he tucked in tight, visor low, and slid through on its bumper. The scanner chirped past his shoulder, distracted by the ink in the van.
He parked in the dark and killed the engine. His heart felt big and stupid in his chest.
Still high, he thought, watching the light pulse against the wet. Whole thing looks like a secret level that unlocked by accident.
He pulled his phone, not camera this time, FaceTime.
The screen lit with Aria's face, half-lit room, hoodie pulled up.
> Aria:
"Where the hell are you? You said 'ten minutes,' that was an hour ago."
>Tarō: "Followin' trucks, bro. They went full ghost mode. Think I found something insane."
>Aria: "You high again?"
>Tarō: "Little. Not… y'know, government-level high. Just background music high."
She rolled her eyes; the pixels glitched.
He flipped the camera, showing the flicker of the gate.
> Aria: "What is that—some rave?"
>Tarō: "Nah. Looks like… a field meet. Like, them."
>Aria: "Them who?"
>Tarō: "You'll see. Stay on. Don't hang up."
He slid through the gate.
---
The "field" wasn't a ring so much as a scar cut into cracked concrete—wide, slick, hemmed by stacked freight and the black ribs of idle cranes. Floodlights buzzed overhead. People pressed in, shoulder to shoulder: suits with quiet shoes; street kids in boots with louder tongues; bettors palming rolls that looked like they could pay rent for a year. Smoke snaked over everything. Money flashed and vanished.
> Tarō (whispering): "Look at this, Ria. They're throwin' actual stacks. Cash, not crypto. Feels like the old gods came back and started gambling."
>Aria: "Stars save me, Tarō."
>Tarō: "They won't. Wait—wait—shit, they're starting."
He crouched behind a barricade of pallet-wrapped crates, lens peeking through torn plastic.
Two men stepped into the open.
Iron Fang came first
big, animal, a white tanktop stretched across his chest, muscles gleaming rain-slick. On his right wrist, the fanged tattoo crawled and flexed like it was tasting the air. The skin there bulged, then split clean,
bloodless as metal pushed through, unfurling into a curved Spartan shield and a wicked blade that clicked into his hand like it had always been there.
Opposite him:
Lotus Syndicate
tall, long-limbed, dressed clean: a dark silk shirt open at the throat, cuffs rolled once, tailored trousers. He shrugged off a matching jacket, and the golden lotus ink at his sternum glowed through the fabric under the floodlights like banked fire.
> Aria: "That glow… that's active-four ink. Tier four, right?"
>Tarō: "Yup. Controllers. They don't just bend the ground—they shift matter. Glass to mercury, lead to dust."
>Aria: "And Fangs?"
>Tarō: "Tier two. Augmenters—blades, guns, shields, vests. Gear straight outta skin."
>Aria: "Gross. Also kinda hot."
>Tarō: "Exactly."
The noise fell into a hush that felt like prayer.
Fang moved first—no dance, no flourish. He came in hard, blade arcing for the collarbone.
The Lotus flicked two fingers; the metal **became water** at the edge of impact—cold, heavy—and the momentum didn't care. The liquid blade hit just as hard, slamming the Lotus off his feet, skidding him across slick concrete. His back hit, air left him in a grunt. Steam rose where skin met heat-soaked ground.
> Tarō: "Holy—did you see that? He just water-bladed the guy!"
>Aria: "Keep the camera steady, genius."
>Tarō: "Sorry. Hands kinda floaty."
Fang threw his head back and roared, Spartan shield lifted like a banner.
The crowd tore open bills, screams, joy.
Lotus rolled to a knee, lip bright with blood. He touched two fingers to the tattoo over his heart. The golden lines brightened, thin veins of light spidering outward under his skin.
> Aria: "That's… pretty."
>Tarō: "Pretty? That's molten alchemy, girl."
>Aria: "Still. Would look good on me."
>Tarō: "No offense, you'd melt halfway through activation."
>Aria: "You melt every day and still function."
He snorted. "Fair."
Fang **hurled the shield** at the Lotus like a thrown door. Mid-flight the Lotus **touched the air** and the metal shifted -wood grain blooming across its face. He spun and cut a clean roundhouse through it; the transformed shield **split in two**, clapping the concrete in matching halves.
Lotus slapped the ground, just once.
Heat bloomed through the concrete around Fang.
The wet sheen on the pavement warped, shimmered, then flickered to orange—a griddle turned on sudden. Fang hissed and sprang back; the slab he'd been standing on glowed, smoke peeling off rubber. He landed rough, breath loud, eyes crazed with the pure fun of almost dying.
He yanked a Glock from his waistband
practical, ugly and started spinning,
firing single shots that snapped the night in clean little bites. The Lotus moved around him in a curve, steps like a measured rhythm; the rounds passed so close Tarō swore he saw the air split around the Lotus's cheek. The Lotus didn't blink.
> Tarō: "He's fast."
>Aria: "Yeah but I'm faster."
>Tarō: "You wish."
>Aria: "No, I mean it—I'm literally faster. You remember that time at the pier—"
>Tarō: "Focus, idiot."
A seam opened in Fang's balance; Lotus cut the line dropped low and kicked behind the Fang's lead leg. Thick man, thick pain.
Fang crashed to a knee and slapped the ground, jaw tight, sweat cutting tracks through grime.
He got up laughing—because of course he did. Then he grabbed the hem of his tanktop and tore it off, cloth ripping loud as a shout. His chest shone wet sweat, rain, a smear of someone else's blood.
From the mangled skin at his wrist, a rifle grew—slick-biomech, vents pulsing like gills. The trigger found his finger on its own.
He screamed and poured fire.
Muzzle flash strobed the field. Dozens of rounds traced hard silver lines toward the Lotus
and **turned to sand **mid-flight. A glittering storm burst around them, grains needling skin, hissing against the lights. The wind caught it and spun it tight a small cyclone that ate sound and breath.
Tarō coughed behind his crate, dragged a sleeve over his eyes. The world went sepia for a heartbeat.
> Tarō: "Okay… okay that's real sand, right? I'm not hallucinating?"
>Aria: "You're high, but not that high."
>Tarō: "Good. 'Cause this is biblical."
His camera jittered and found the balcony: steel catwalk, two silhouettes: Kaien, copper hair tied back, hands folded like a judge; Silas Vey beside him, coat dark, cig ember painting the edge of his jaw.
> Aria: "Wait—zoom in. The guy on the right. Zoom.
>Tarō: "Him? Smoking one?"
>Aria: "Yeah. Zoom closer."
(He does. The screen trembles, grainy focus tightening on Silas as Kaien leans in to whisper. When Kaien's arm brushes Silas's shoulder, the edge of a tattoo flares—black wings, old and faded, half-hidden under the collar.)
>Aria: "…holy shit."
>Tarō: "What?"
>Aria: "That's him. The Crow. I'd bet my ink."
>Tarō: "Silas Vey?"
>Aria: "Yeah."
>Tarō: "The one Cole talked about?"
>Aria: "The same."
Silas spoke without taking the cigarette from his mouth.
Tarō didn't catch every word, but the tone was all knife.
> "They push the limit too far."
Kaien didn't blink.
>"That's the point."
The lens dragged back to the ground as a shape tore out of the grit.
Fang, coughing sand, came swinging a machete like he'd hacked it out of a jungle which, technically, he had, with his own bones. He hacked left sparks; hacked right—more sparks. Third swing kissed flesh: Lotus's shoulder opened, gold-lit blood spilling like molten jewelry.
Lotus's eyes stayed level. Calm like a held note.
They closed no guns, no tricks just breath and hate inside arm's length.
Fang **drove a knife** for the throat—
Lotus touched the blade and it went glass.
Fang didn't care. Another knife—stone. Another—lead. He kept stabbing, hammering blunt death into Lotus's ribs, brachial, clavicle
dull edges that still broke skin, still bruised bone. Lotus winced, hissed, bled—but he watched.
Then he dipped, palm to earth. Came up with a handful of dirt that hardened mid-rise, bright silver, edges jagged, cool and mean.
He drove it under Fang's ribs.
The sound Fang made wasn't a scream; it was the noise a door makes when it refuses to break. He staggered, grabbed for one last comfort , a pocket pistol blinked into his palm, safety flicked like a prayer. Lotus touched the slide. The metal blackened, softened, then fell away in soft flakes, pattering the ground like dead moths.
They stood, swaying, dripping rain, sweat, blood, gold. Fang lifted a trembling hand and drew a line across his throat.
"I'm out."
Both men hit their knees at once.
> Aria (soft): "He should've stayed down two minutes ago."
>Tarō: "No one here knows how."
Medics in rival colors rushed the field, gloves already red. The crowd burst—money thrown, debts paid, debts born.
The announcer's voice blew the night inside out:
> "WINNER — LOTUS SYNDICATE!"
Tarō kept filming until his hands stopped shaking. The camera caught men being carried like fallen saints, and a ripple through the crowd fear dressed like awe.
Up on the catwalk, Kaien finally moved, a small tilt of the head. Silas tapped ash into the rain, eyes on the blood trail the Lotus left.
> Aria: "Zoom again."
>Tarō: "They're leaving."
>Aria: "Still get the ink. The wings."
>Tarō: "Got it. You owe me, by the way. My high's gone."
>Aria: "Good. Maybe now you'll survive getting out of there."
>Tarō: "Oh… right."
A flashlight washed the crates.
> "Hey!"
a voice barked from the shadow
.
> "You from East turf?"
Tarō froze. Then turned his head just enough to let the visor reflect nothing.
>"Yeah,"
he said.
> "East."
The beam paused. A shrug in the dark.
>"Wear color next time."
>"Sure,"
Tarō said, already sliding the scooter backward with his heels.
> "Next time."
He slipped out the way he'd slipped in,
quiet, small, heart slamming.
Rain cooled his face. The city took him back like it hadn't noticed he'd gone.
On his screen:
Aria's face hovering over the feed, eyes wide, mouth parted, the reflection of blood and gold still flickering in her pupils.
> Aria: "Send me that clip."
>Tarō: "Already did."
>Aria: "Good."
The line cut to static.
****************
-A NAME THAT WANTS TO BE SUNG-
Aria woke to a cat on her chest.
Ash stared down at her like a judge
eyes half-closed, tail flicking with disapproval.
The morning light cut through the blinds in thin white bars, striping both of them.
She groaned, rolled onto her side, dragging him with her.
He yowled once, offended. She ignored it and squished his face between her palms.
>"Why did we name you Ash, huh?"
She kissed his nose, then his forehead, voice muffled against fur.
>"Should've been Fangs. You're terrifying. You're a monster. You kill dust bunnies in cold blood. My little apex predator."
He meowed, long and tragic, as if correcting her.
>"Yeah, yeah, Ash it is," she sighed.
> "The branding sticks."
From the kitchen, Grandma's voice cut through the apartment like a smoke alarm.
>"Aria! If you're up, the toaster's on fire again!"
>"Is that breakfast or a hostage situation?"
Aria called back.
>"Depends who wins."
Aria dragged herself up, hair a messy halo, and wandered in barefoot.
Grandma was fanning the smoke with a cutting board, wearing her robe like a general's coat.
Two slices of bread had gone full charcoal.
Aria leaned against the counter, smirking.
> "You ever think maybe the toaster's just crying for help?"
>"If it's crying, it can pay rent."
Grandma shoved a plate toward her—black toast, butter melting in surrender.
Aria took it anyway, bit, and immediately regretted it.
>"That flavor's not for the weak."
>"Exactly,"
Grandma said, proud.
>"Builds character."
Ash jumped onto the counter. Grandma glared; he stared back, unrepentant.
>"See?" Aria said.
>"He's the only man around here with guts."
>"Then he can clean the pan."
Grandma turned back to the counter, then paused—something in her shoulders softened.
She reached over, brushed a stray lock of hair from Aria's face,
and kissed her forehead.
> "I don't know what I'd do without you,
my love,"
she said quietly.
>"So don't make me find out, yeah?"
Aria froze for half a heartbeat, then smiled—small, real.
>"Deal,"
she said.
Grandma smiled back, pretending it was nothing.
>"Good. Now eat your charcoal before it gets cold."
By noon, Aria was back on her scooter, wind turning the burnt taste to memory.
Cole's house sat neat on a quiet street—white siding, clean porch, a swing that still creaked from someone's childhood.
The lawn was trimmed too close, the kind of order that comes from habit, not joy.
You'd never guess half the city's trouble passed through this place after dark.
She parked, kicked the stand, and knocked on the screen door.
It creaked open before she could try again.
Cole's mother stood there, less tired than usual, hair tied back, eyes clearer, apron still dusted with flour.
When she saw Aria, she smiled small, real, almost fond.
"He's awake," she said. "Try not to wear him out."
Aria's mouth curved.
"No promises."
She slipped inside.
The room smelled of antiseptic, iron, and weed smoke, the holy trinity of recovery.
Cole lay half-propped against a nest of pillows, skin paper-pale, bandages tight around his ribs.
He looked at her, blinked slow, and smirked.
>"If you brought flowers, I'm allergic."
She held up a paper bag.
>"Better. Fried dumplings. Less sentimental, more edible."
>"Depends where you got 'em."
>"Corner place. Guy sneezed once, blessed the food."
He chuckled, then winced as the laugh bit his ribs.
>"You really know how to treat a patient."
> "You're not a patient,"
she said, dragging a chair close.
>"You're a genius who thought bullets respect confidence."
He grinned, weak.
>"Did they?"
>"Almost. One flinched."
They ate in silence for a bit, her feeding him one at a time, like a reluctant nurse.
When the bag was empty, she sat back, eyes sharper.
>"I saw it last night,"
she said.
>"The fight. Fang versus Lotus."
Cole froze, chopstick halfway to his mouth.
>"How?"
>"Tarō FaceTimed me. He found a way in."
Cole's jaw tightened.
>"He what?"
>"Relax. No one saw him."
> "I think."
Cole exhaled through his teeth, rubbing his temple
.
>"You two are going to get killed one day."
>"Then at least make it worth it,"
she said.
> "I want in."
The room went still.
>"No,"
Cole said flat, instantly.
> "You're not built for that."
>"You said that about driving, and I lapped you in two weeks."
>"This isn't driving.
They don't give out trophies, Aria they give out funerals."
>"Then I'll wear black."
He started to retort, but she moved first.
>"Fine,"
she said suddenly, standing up.
> "Then let's ask your dad."
Cole blinked.
> "What?"
>"He knows this world better than you,"
she said, heading for the hall.
>"If I'm crazy, let him say it."
Before he could stop her, she called out:
>"Rex! You home?"
Footsteps answered.
His father appeared in the doorway wide shoulders, tattooed hands, grin like an old knife that still worked fine.
He glanced at the two of them, brow raised.
>"What'd I miss?"
>"Your kid thinks I can't handle myself,"
Aria said, crossing her arms.
He smirked.
> "Does he now?"
Cole groaned.
>"Don't—"
Too late. Rex stepped fully into the room, wiping oil off his hands with a rag.
He looked Aria over, measuring—not with lust or pity, but with something like curiosity.
>"You sure you wanna taste that heat, kid?"
>"Sure as hell."
He chuckled.
>"Good answer."
Then—quick as breath—he jabbed a fist to her shoulder. Not hard, but solid.
She stumbled back, rubbing it, glaring.
>"Ow! What the hell, old man?"
>"Testing reflexes,"
he said.
> "Didn't break. You see that, Cole?"
>"She didn't block, either."
>"She's learning. Next time she'll hit back."
Aria smirked.
>"Next time, I'll aim lower."
He laughed, full and rough.
>"Yeah, she'll do fine."
He pulled out his phone, thumbed a contact, and tossed it onto Cole's chest.
>"Lucien,"
he said.
>"You tell him it's for me."
Cole hesitated.
> "You're serious?"
>"As a debt collector,"
his father said.
> "And if she wins…"
He looked at Aria, winked.
>"Ten percent to the house. Standard rate."
>"You're unbelievable,"
Cole muttered.
>"That's why your mother married me,"
Rex said, heading for the door.
>"Good luck, star girl."
He was gone before she could answer.
---
Cole stared at the phone.
The name LUCIEN glowed on screen, waiting.
He sighed, thumbed accept, then handed it to her.
> "Don't make me regret this."
She pressed it to her ear.
Static. Then a voice—smooth, faintly accented, the kind that didn't need to raise itself to be heard.
> "Cole,"
Lucien said.
>"You sound alive. A pleasant surprise."
> "Barely," Cole rasped.
> "Got someone here who wants a word."
Silence. Then a low hum like a musician tuning a single invisible string.
> "Who am I speaking to?"
> "Aria."
> "Ah,"
he said slowly, tasting it.
> "Aria. A name that wants to be sung, not spoken."
A pause.
> "Tell me, little melody, what is it you're chasing?"
> "A spot in the fights,"
she said, steady.
>"I'm done watching."
A soft exhale through the line, maybe a laugh, maybe smoke.
> "How quick the young are to gamble their pulse."
Another pause.
> "And what makes you think you're worth the stage?"
> "I've already bled for less,"
she said.
>"Might as well make it count."
The silence stretched—long enough for her heart to start counting seconds.
Then came the faint click of a lighter. The drag of a cigarette.
> "There's a mark on you, isn't there,"
Lucien murmured.
> "Something that doesn't wash off."
Her throat went tight.
Her hand flew, almost unconsciously, to the choker at her neck
the one hiding the DEATH ink.
She said nothing. The static hummed like breath between them.
> "Don't worry,"
he said softly, almost amused.
Her pulse stuttered.
> "There used to be a people who marked themselves with stars,"
he continued, voice dropping to something closer to reverence.
> "They believed fate lived in the skin, if you carved it deep enough. The Star-Marked—they vanished before I was old enough to ask why."
A drag of smoke.
> "But I always admired them. They knew how to wear defiance beautifully."
Aria's fingers moved from her throat to the small star below her eye.
Half-reflex. Half recognition.
> "Tomorrow night,"
Lucien said.
>"East turf. Ask for the pianist."
>"And bring something you're not ready to lose."
The line clicked.
Silence followed.
Aria lowered the phone. Cole's eyes met hers
half worry, half resignation.
> "You sure you know what you're doing?"
> "No,"
she said,
pocketing the phone.
> "But I'm done pretending I don't."