6:00 AM | Adrian's Safehouse, Metro City
The knock came at exactly six o'clock in the morning.
Three sharp raps against the wood. Not hurried. Not tentative. Just precise. Clinical. The kind of knock that spoke of someone who measured everything, even the force behind their knuckles hitting a door.
Adrian groaned from somewhere deep in his chest and rolled over, eyes still glued shut with sleep. His phone screen glowed accusingly at him from the nightstand, the blue light harsh in the darkness: 6:00:00 AM.
Of course. Aveline didn't do late. Aveline didn't do anything that wasn't calculated down to the second, measured down to the millimeter, and planned three moves ahead.
He dragged himself out of bed, his back protesting with a dull ache, his neck stiff from sleeping at odd angles on a pillow that had probably seen better days, and pulled on yesterday's shirt. It was wrinkled beyond redemption and smelled faintly of old coffee and exhaustion.
His hair stuck up at angles that would've made a scarecrow jealous. He didn't bother with a mirror. There was no point. She'd seen worse. Hell, she probably didn't even notice things like that.
When he finally opened the door, Aveline stood on the threshold like a statue carved from black marble and discipline.
She wore a black turtleneck, sleek, practical, no logos or embellishments, the kind of thing that cost more than it looked. Tactical pants with too many pockets, each one probably containing something lethal or useful or both.
Boots so polished they could reflect clouds and morning light. Her dark hair was pulled back into a perfect bob, not a strand out of place, secured with military precision. Her face was neutral as concrete, her posture so straight it looked uncomfortable.
"Your shift concluded," she said flatly, her voice devoid of warmth or inflection. "Mine begins."
Adrian blinked at her through bleary eyes, his brain still half-asleep, processing her words like they were in a foreign language. "...Morning to you too."
She didn't respond. Didn't smile. Didn't even acknowledge the sarcasm. She just stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her gaze sweeping the room with the efficiency of a security camera, windows, exits, shadows, every detail cataloged, assessed, filed away in whatever mental database she maintained.
Adrian rubbed his face, trying to scrub away the fog of sleep. "Give me ten minutes. Shower. Coffee."
Aveline moved to the couch and sat down, posture rigid, hands folded in her lap, back perfectly straight like she was sitting for a portrait or waiting for an inspection. She looked like she was made of right angles and military discipline.
"Acceptable," she said.
Adrian disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Water hissed to life behind the bathroom door, the sound cutting through the early morning silence.
For the first time in weeks, Adrian got hot water. No one else had used it yet. No one else had drained the ancient tank. The heat hit his shoulders like a hammer, scalding away the exhaustion that had settled into his bones over the past few days.
He stood there longer than necessary, letting steam fill his lungs, letting the water wash away the weight of recent memories that clung to him like smoke.
Dursley's corpse behind the door. Eyes wide with shock. Throat slit cleanly. Blood pooling on cheap linoleum.
Marcus's photo in the evidence file. Smiling. Alive. Before everything went wrong.
Yuki's quiet terror over dinner. The way her hands shook when she reached for her tea. The way she flinched at sudden sounds.
Adrian closed his eyes and let the water run over his face, washing away everything but the present moment.
One day at a time. That's all you can do. One day at a time.
When he finally emerged, fresh clothes, damp hair combed back, marginally human, Aveline sat exactly where he'd left her. She hadn't moved. Hadn't checked her phone. Hadn't shifted position even slightly. She looked like she'd been paused, frozen in time, waiting for someone to press play.
"You sleep okay?" Adrian asked, moving to the kitchen to pour himself coffee from the pot he'd set on a timer last night.
"Sleep duration: six point two hours," Aveline replied without looking at him, her voice carrying the same flat inflection she used for everything. "REM cycles: optimal. So,yes."
Adrian glanced at her over his mug, steam rising between them. "...Right."
She wasn't being robotic on purpose. This was just how she talked. Clinical. Factual. Like she was reading off a diagnostic report instead of describing how she slept. Like human experiences were data points to be measured and categorized rather than felt.
He wondered if she'd ever used the word "fine" in her life. Probably not. Too imprecise. Too vague. Not enough information density.
Adrian reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small device. It was black, compact, simple, just a single button encased in hard plastic, about the size of a lighter.
"Panic button," he said, holding it out to her across the small space between them. "You keep this on you at all times. If there's trouble, any trouble at all, you press it. I'll get the signal immediately. Response time should be under ten minutes depending on traffic."
Aveline took the device, examining it with the same detached interest one might use to inspect a grocery receipt or a bus token. She turned it over in her hands, studying the button, the casing, the weight distribution. Her fingers traced the edges with clinical precision, mapping every detail.
Then she pocketed it without a word.
She extended her wrist. Strapped there was a sleek device, metal, compact, efficient-looking, the kind of thing that cost government money and came with clearance requirements.
"Responder unit," she said, her tone matter-of-fact, like she was describing a kitchen appliance. "Synchronized to panic button frequency. Vibrates and emits audible alarm when activated. Response time: eight minutes maximum from NPU headquarters. Seven minutes if traffic permits. Six if I violate speed regulations."
She unclipped it with practiced efficiency and handed it to Adrian.
He fastened it to his own wrist. The metal was cold against his skin, foreign and heavy, a constant reminder that things could go wrong at any moment.
"Let's hope we don't need it," he said quietly.
"Hope is statistically irrelevant," Aveline replied, her voice carrying the same neutrality as always. "Preparation determines outcomes. Hope does not."
Adrian looked at her for a long moment, studying her face, searching for humor, for sarcasm, for any sign that she understood how that sounded. Found nothing. She meant it completely.
He almost smiled. "Of course."
INSTRUCTIONS
Aveline stood, smoothing her shirt in a gesture so subtle it was almost imperceptible, a micro-adjustment, restoring perfect order to her appearance.
"Yuki remains indoors at all times," he said, his voice clipped and precise, delivering instructions like a briefing. "No external visibility through windows. Doors locked at all times. Biometric security active. Perimeter monitoring continuous."
"I know," Aveline said, nodding. "We'll be fine."
"If hostile contact occurs," Adrian continued as if she hadn't spoken, as if she needed to complete the full briefing regardless of his understanding, "press panic button immediately. Do not attempt direct engagement. Do not prioritize property over survival. Evacuation protocol supersedes all other considerations. Understand?"
"Got it."
Adrian moved toward the door, her movements economical and precise. Paused with her hand on the knob. Didn't turn around.
"Don't die," she said, her voice flat and clinical, devoid of concern but somehow carrying weight anyway. "Replacement partner requisitions involve excessive paperwork. Processing time: four to six weeks. Operational delays are unacceptable and tedious."
Adrian blinked. Then he laughed, short, surprised, caught off guard by what might have been humor or might have been pure efficiency disguised as concern.
"I'll do my best."
He left.
The door clicked shut behind her with finality.
Adrian stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, behind him.
That's her version of "be careful."
I think.
He wasn't entirely sure. With Aveline, it was hard to tell where tactics ended and humanity began, or if there was any humanity left at all beneath the layers of training and protocol.
8:30 AM | The Drive to NPU Headquarters
The Lamborghini Vision GT carved through morning traffic like a blade through silk, smooth, effortless, impossibly fast. The engine purred with barely restrained power, responsive to the slightest touch, a machine built for speed and precision.
Adrian's hands rested lightly on the wheel, his mind elsewhere as the city blurred past in shades of gray and steel. Buildings stacked like dominoes waiting to fall. Streets clogged with commuters moving like blood cells through arteries. The sky dull and overcast, threatening rain that would probably never come.
His thoughts drifted despite his attempts to stay present.
Yuki's smile over dinner last night. Small. Tentative. The first real smile she'd given in days, breaking through the shell of fear she'd built around herself.
Aveline's cold efficiency. The way she calculated everything, every movement, every word, every breath measured and purposeful. The way she never seemed to feel anything at all.
How briefly normal had felt last night. And how temporary it was. How fragile.
The radio played something low and instrumental, strings and piano, barely audible over the hum of the engine, filling the silence without demanding attention. Adrian didn't change it. He didn't have the energy to care.
Two weeks. Maybe three. Then Nexo distributes VX-1.089 to law enforcement agencies across the country. And cops start dying. Good people who think they're getting an edge, an advantage, a way to keep themselves and their partners safe. And instead they get a death sentence.
He tightened his grip on the wheel until his knuckles went white.
Not on my watch. Not if I can stop it.
NPU Headquarters - Elias's Office
When Adrian walked into Elias's office, his friend looked like he hadn't slept in days, maybe weeks. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises that wouldn't fade. His desk was buried under case files, manila folders stacked haphazardly, documents spilling onto the floor in paper avalanches, empty coffee cups forming a small graveyard near his keyboard that spoke of too many late nights and not enough rest.
Elias looked up as Adrian entered. "You look like hell."
Adrian dropped into the chair across from him with a heavy sigh. "Back at you."
Elias snorted, bitter, exhausted, the sound of someone running on fumes and determination, and slid a thick folder across the desk. The label read: TANAKA, YUKI - SWORN TESTIMONY - CLASSIFIED.
"Read it yet?" Elias asked, his voice rough with fatigue.
"Skimmed," Adrian admitted, leaning back in the chair. "Didn't go deep. Couldn't bring myself to."
"You should." Elias's expression was grim, shadows pooling in the hollows of his face. "It's worse than you think."
Adrian opened the file with reluctant hands.
SWORN TESTIMONY - YUKI TANAKA
At first, the words blurred together, clinical language, scientific jargon, percentages that didn't feel real, that couldn't possibly be real. It read like a lab report or an academic paper. Cold. Detached. Sterile.
Then the details sharpened.
VX-1.089: Experimental enhancement serum. Intended to increase muscle density by 40%, improve reaction time by 35%, enhance cognitive processing speed by 25%.
Actual results: 99.7% fatality rate within 72 hours of injection.
Survivors: 0.3% of test population. Transformation: irreversible. Physical mutation including yellowish-green skin discoloration, extreme muscle distortion, loss of higher cognitive function, violent behavioral patterns resembling rabies.
Test subjects: primarily expendable personnel. Janitors. Disposal workers. Low-level contractors. Individuals without family connections or legal advocacy. People no one would miss.
Disposal method: La Sangre Nera contractors. Bodies incinerated at temperatures exceeding 1500°C. No records maintained. No death certificates filed. Complete erasure.
Distribution timeline: Two to three weeks maximum. Buyers: multiple law enforcement agencies across 12 states. Marketing claim: "Performance enhancement serum with military-grade efficacy." Failure rate: undisclosed.
Buyer awareness: None. Agencies believe they are purchasing functional enhancement product with minimal side effects. Standard risk disclosure documents falsified.
Adrian's hands trembled slightly as he read, the words swimming before his eyes.
They weren't just selling poison.
They were selling it to cops who thought they were getting an edge. An advantage. A way to protect themselves and their partners and the people they'd sworn to serve. A way to come home alive at the end of their shifts.
And 99.7% of them would die screaming within three days. Transforming into something inhuman. Something monstrous. Something that had to be put down like a rabid animal.
He closed the folder carefully, setting it on the desk like it might explode. His jaw was tight enough to crack teeth.
"They're selling it to cops," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Who think they're getting enhancement serum," Elias finished, his voice hollow and tired. "Not a death sentence. Not a transformation into something out of a nightmare. Just an edge. Just a way to be better at their jobs."
"Two weeks?"
"Maybe three if we're lucky. But luck hasn't exactly been on our side lately." Elias rubbed his face with both hands, the gesture speaking of exhaustion that went bone-deep. "We're out of time, Adrian. This train is already moving. We're just trying to throw ourselves on the tracks before it reaches the station."
Adrian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. "We submit what we have. Now. Today."
Elias shook his head, fatigue making the movement slow. "We're missing physical samples. We don't have a vial of VX-1.089. We don't have autopsy reports on the failed subjects. We have testimony and circumstantial evidence. A good defense attorney will tear this apart in minutes."
"Then we submit partial evidence and buy time for the rest," Adrian countered, his voice gaining strength, conviction building. "We force them to respond. We put them on notice. We make them move."
"They might reject incomplete filing outright. Send it back. Tell us to come back when we have real evidence."
"Or they might grant an extension for evidence gathering," Adrian said. "Give us subpoena power. Give us warrants. Give us the tools we need to nail this shut. Either way, the clock's ticking. If we wait for perfect evidence, cops die. Innocent people die. If we submit now, we force their hand. We make them respond. We buy time."
Elias stared at him for a long moment, weighing options in his tired mind. Then nodded slowly, decision made.
"I'll file it today," he said. "Response time: twenty-four to seventy-two hours depending on how backed up they are."
"Then we wait."
A long silence stretched between them, heavy, thick with unspoken fears and impossible odds.
"How's Yuki holding up?" Elias asked finally, his voice softer now, concern breaking through the professional mask.
"Better than expected," Adrian said, managing a small smile despite everything. "Scared. Obviously. But... resilient. She does yoga. Reads romance novels. Tries to pretend things are normal even when they're not."
Elias smiled faintly, the expression tired but genuine. "Better coping mechanism than most. Better than drinking or pills or breaking down completely."
"Yeah."
Pause. Uncomfortable silence building.
"And Aveline?" Elias asked, his expression darkening slightly, concern shifting to something else, wariness maybe, or warning.
Adrian laughed, bitter, tired, almost helpless. "Efficient. Terrifyingly so. Like watching a machine operate. Everything calculated. Everything measured. Nothing wasted."
"You're trusting her."
"I'm understanding her," Adrian corrected carefully. "Different thing. I understand how she operates. I understand her parameters. I don't trust her, not the way you trust a friend or a partner. But I trust her to do what she thinks is tactically optimal. And right now, that aligns with keeping Yuki alive."
Elias's expression remained dark, shadows deepening around his eyes. "Just remember what I said, Adrian. Psychopaths don't love. They don't care. They don't form attachments the way we do. They own. They possess. They control. And if she decides you're hers, if she decides Yuki is hers, that's not protection. That's obsession. That's possession. And possession doesn't care about what you want. It only cares about keeping what it owns."
"I know." Adrian cut him off, voice firm. "I know. Trust me, I know. But right now, she's the most competent protection Yuki has. And I'll take competent over warm any day of the week. Warm doesn't stop bullets. Competent does."
Elias didn't look convinced.
But he didn't argue.
He'd said his piece. Given his warning. The rest was Adrian's choice.
8:47 AM - THE ALARM
They were mid-sentence when it happened.
BZZZT. BZZZT. BZZZT.
Adrian's wrist exploded with sound and vibration, loud, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Both men froze.
Adrian stared at the responder strapped to his wrist. Red light flashing in rapid pulses. Loud alarm blaring like a fire drill. The sound cut through the office like a siren, like an air raid warning, like every nightmare scenario compressed into electronic noise.
Panic button activated.
His blood turned to ice in his veins.
"No—"
Elias was already standing, chair scraping back, hand reaching for his own weapon out of pure instinct. "GO."
Adrian didn't need to be told twice.
He bolted from the office, phone already in his hand, fingers fumbling to dial as he ran, boots pounding on tile floors, people scattering out of his way as he sprinted for the exit.
Please be okay. Please be okay. Please just be a false alarm. Please—
8:32 AM | FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER - Adrian's Safehouse
Yuki had woken at seven-thirty.
The routine was becoming familiar now comforting in its predictability. Shower. Fresh clothes: jeans and a soft cream-colored sweater that made her look younger than her years. Tea brewed carefully, steeped for exactly three minutes. Then settling on the couch with her book and headphones, the rest of the world fading away.
Coffee at Midnight. Chapter seven. The couple was finally admitting their feelings.
Peaceful.
Aveline sat across the room in a chair positioned near the window not facing Yuki, but facing the street. Watching. Always watching. Silent. Unmoving. Her posture was perfect, her hands folded in her lap, her expression neutral as stone.
But her eyes moved constantly. Tracking cars. Pedestrians. Shadows. Variables.
Yuki removed one earbud, glancing over. "You ever read for fun?"
"Reading serves informational acquisition," Aveline replied without looking away from the window. Her tone was flat, clinical. "Recreation is statistically inefficient. Time allocation should prioritize skill development or threat assessment."
Yuki smiled despite the cold response. "You're missing out."
"Doubtful."
A pause. Then Yuki tried again. "What do you do for fun, then?"
Aveline's eyes flickered briefly toward her, sharp, assessing—before returning to the window. "Problem-solving. Tactical simulations. Firearms maintenance."
"Those aren't hobbies. Those are... work."
"Work is purpose. Purpose is fulfillment."
Yuki tilted her head, studying Aveline with genuine curiosity. "Don't you ever just want to... relax?"
"Relaxation decreases operational readiness."
"But you're always ready. Don't you get tired?"
Aveline's lips twitched, barely perceptible. Not quite a smile. Just... acknowledgment. "Fatigue is biological. Management is behavioral."
Yuki laughed softly and returned to her book. "You're impossible."
Aveline said nothing. But for just a moment, something flickered in her eyes. Interest. Calculation.
She's resilient. Adaptable. Valuable asset if properly utilized.
Then it was gone.
8:42 AM| Adrian's Safehouse
Movement caught Aveline's eye.
Two black SUVs rolled to a stop across the street engines purring low and predatory, windows tinted dark as obsidian. No license plates. No markings. The kind of vehicles that didn't exist in official records.
Professional. Deliberate. Hostile.
Six men emerged in synchronized precision. Tactical gear molded to their bodies like second skin body armor, weapons concealed but unmistakable from the way they moved. Weight distribution. Shoulder bulges. Controlled aggression radiating from every step.
Nexo contractors. Or La Sangre Nera operatives. The distinction didn't matter.
What mattered was that they were here.
And they were here for Yuki.
Aveline stood in one fluid motion, her hand already moving to her sidearm. Her expression didn't change still neutral, still cold but her eyes sharpened with lethal focus.
"Hostile contact," she said, her voice cutting through the peaceful morning like a blade through silk. "Upstairs. Kitchen. Keep the door open. Do not close it. Stay there until I tell you otherwise."
Yuki looked up from her book, confusion bleeding into terror. "What—"
"MOVE. NOW."
The command was absolute. Final. The kind of voice that bypassed rational thought and spoke directly to survival instinct.
Yuki dropped her book and ran.
The front door.
The men moved with military precision—trained, coordinated, no wasted motion. They weren't amateurs. They were operators.
First attempt: biometric lock. One man pressed his thumb to the scanner, expecting it to fail but following protocol anyway.
DENIED.
Red light flashed. Error tone beeped. As expected.
Second attempt: electronic lockpick. A compact device hummed as it interfaced with the lock mechanism, probing for vulnerabilities, searching for the electronic pathway that would grant access.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
The device beeped failure tone.
DENIED.
The men exchanged glances. Silent communication. Immediate strategy adjustment.
Then they abandoned subtlety entirely.
One man stepped forward with a battering ram—solid steel, two handles, weighing forty pounds, meant for exactly this purpose. He positioned himself, braced his legs, adjusted his grip, and swung with devastating force.
BOOM.
The sound was thunder. The entire house shuddered. The door frame cracked—splinters flying, hinges groaning under impossible stress.
BOOM.
Wood split. Screws tore from their moorings. The biometric scanner sparked and died, circuits frying in a shower of sparks.
BOOM.
The door exploded inward in a violent shower of wood fragments and twisted metal, slamming against the wall with enough force to crater the drywall and send dust billowing into the air.
They were in.
Aveline stood at the top of the stairs, perfectly still.
Gun drawn. Posture relaxed but ready. Eyes cold and calculating.
The first man through the door was massive about six-foot-three, two-hundred-forty pounds of muscle and armor, rifle raised to firing position. Professional stance. Weight forward. Finger resting on the trigger guard.
He swept the room with his weapon, scanning for targets, assessing threats, processing the environment in milliseconds of trained instinct.
Found one.
Their eyes met.
Aveline fired.
CRACK.
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. The muzzle flash illuminated her face for a fraction of a second calm, focused, almost serene.
The bullet caught him directly between the eyes. His head snapped back violently. Blood misted the air behind him in a fine spray of crimson droplets. His body crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, rifle clattering to the hardwood floor with a metallic clang.
For just a moment, barely perceptible Aveline's expression shifted.
Not satisfaction exactly. But something close.
Clinical assessment of successful outcome. Variable eliminated. Problem solved. Threat neutralized.
Her lips curved upward, just slightly. A ghost of something that might have been pleasure.
One down.
Then the mask returned. Neutral. Cold. Focused.
The second man entered immediately faster, smarter, using his fallen comrade's body for cover, rifle already tracking toward where the shot had come from.
Aveline adjusted her aim with mechanical precision.
CRACK.
Center mass. The bullet punched into his chest plate Kevlar and ceramic absorbing the impact with a dull thud that echoed through the stairwell. He staggered backward, boots skidding on the floor, but didn't fall.
Body armor. Heavy grade. Military surplus. Probably Level III or IV plates.
Recalculation required.
CRACK.
Headshot. Clean. Instant. His skull opened in a burst of red and gray matter. He dropped without a sound, weapon falling from nerveless fingers.
Two down.
The third man was already moving—closing distance fast, exploiting the seconds it took Aveline to adjust fire, using his fallen teammates as obstacles to break her line of sight.
He covered the ground between door and stairwell in three long strides, bringing his rifle up not to shoot but to swing at her head like a club a brutal, efficient attack meant to incapacitate rather than kill.
Aveline saw it coming.
In that split second, as the rifle arced toward her skull, her father's voice echoed in her mind sharp, clinical, drilled into her through years of brutal training in cold rooms with concrete floors and fluorescent lights.
"Guns are inefficient during close combat. Muzzle length requires space for clearance. Reaction time insufficient at arm's length. Distance nullifies advantage. Close quarters: knives. Always knives."
The rifle swung toward her head heavy, fast, meant to cave in her skull in a single crushing blow.
Aveline dropped low, the weapon passing inches above her head with a whistle of displaced air that she felt more than heard.
Her hand moved to her shoe.
Not just any shoe. Military-grade tactical boot with concealed modifications—the kind intelligence operatives carried into hostile territory when conventional weapons weren't an option. Spring-loaded mechanism. Four-inch surgical steel blade. Designed by engineers who understood that sometimes the most effective weapons were the ones no one expected.
One click to the sole.
SNAP.
A mechanical sound barely audible over the chaos, drowned out by shouting and footsteps and the ringing aftermath of gunfire as a spring-loaded mechanism released with precision engineering.
A blade ejected from the toe of her boot. Four inches of surgical steel, razor-sharp, designed for exactly this purpose. Lethal. Elegant. Perfect.
The man recovered from his swing, muscles already coiling to bring the rifle back around for another strike, training and adrenaline moving faster than conscious thought.
Too slow.
Aveline pivoted on her left foot, using the momentum to generate rotational force, and drove her right leg upward in a devastating high kick that combined technique, timing, and brutal efficiency.
The blade punched through the underside of his jaw with surgical precision, driving upward through soft tissue, through his tongue, through the roof of his mouth, piercing into his brain with the kind of anatomical accuracy that could only come from extensive training.
His eyes went wide, shock, pain, confusion all flickering across his face in rapid succession as his nervous system tried and failed to process what had just happened.
Then nothing.
Consciousness ended.
He collapsed, dead before he hit the ground.
Three down.
Aveline's boot clicked again as she retracted the blade with another press of the mechanism. She stood, breathing steady, pulse barely elevated, expression calm.
Her eyes glinted—bright, sharp, interested.
Effective. Clean. Beautiful.
For just a moment, she allowed herself to appreciate the efficiency of it. The elegance. The perfect execution of technique under pressure.
Then the moment passed.
Business.
Then two more entered.
And everything changed.
These weren't contractors. These were operators.
Bigger both over six feet, heavily muscled. Better armored full tactical loadouts with Level IV plates, helmets, the works. Moving with the kind of coordinated precision that spoke of special forces training Spetsnaz, Delta, SAS, GIGN, something in that tier. The kind of training that cost governments millions to produce.
One went left, one went right. Flanking positions. Crossfire setup. Professional kill zone formation designed to eliminate any possibility of escape or effective return fire.
Aveline assessed in microseconds.
Her mind calculated with cold precision:
Two hostiles. Heavy armor. Professional tactics. Ammunition remaining: fourteen rounds. Engagement probability at this distance with armor: unfavorable. Direct confrontation: suboptimal outcome likelihood 68%. Injury probability: 34%. Death probability: 12%. Alternative solution required.
But her eyes flickered with something else.
Interest. Calculation. Anticipation.
Her lips twitched—that ghost of a smile.
Let's see how they handle fire.
She turned and sprinted upstairs.
They pursued immediately no hesitation, perfect coordination, weapons up, moving as a synchronized unit.
Aveline burst into the kitchen, moving with absolute focus and precision, every motion deliberate and calculated.
Yuki stood at the doorway, gripping the frame with white-knuckled hands, tears streaming down her face, terror radiating from every trembling muscle. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps.
"Don't move," Aveline commanded without looking at her, already moving toward the stove. "Keep that door open. No matter what happens. Don't close it."
Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs behind her. Close. Getting closer. Ten seconds. Maybe less.
Aveline's hands moved with blinding speed, each action deliberate and calculated:
Gas stove first burner.
She grabbed the knob and twisted it to maximum without pressing the ignition button.
Click-click-click.
Gas hissed immediately invisible, deadly, flooding into the air with surprising speed. The smell hit her instantly, mercaptan, that distinctive rotten egg odor added to natural gas specifically so people could detect leaks before they became lethal.
Second burner. Third burner. Fourth burner.
Click-click-click. Click-click-click. Click-click-click.
The hissing intensified, creating a low chorus of escaping gas that filled the room with white noise. The kitchen filled rapidly. The smell became overwhelming thick, cloying, making her eyes water slightly.
Oven door.
She yanked it open with both hands. More gas flooded out, accelerating the saturation exponentially, turning the enclosed kitchen into a death trap.
Ten seconds of buildup. Fifteen. Twenty.
The concentration was climbing toward critical mass. Another thirty seconds and it would hit ignition threshold.
Then the ignition source.
Aveline pulled her keys from her pocket. Metal. Conductive. Simple. Effective.
She opened the microwave and placed them inside, positioning them carefully so the metal prongs would arc when the magnetron activated basic physics, the same reason you never put metal in a microwave.
One spark. That's all it would take.
The operators reached the hallway. Boots pounding. Weapons raised. Shadows moving fast.
Five seconds. Maybe less.
Aveline grabbed Yuki by the collar grip firm, bruising, no time for gentleness and pulled her toward the window.
"Brace."
Yuki's eyes went wide with terror and absolute confusion. "Brace for WHAT?!"
The operators appeared in the doorway massive, armored, weapons coming up to firing position, fingers tightening on triggers.
The lead operator's eyes widened as the smell hit him. Training overrode aggression for a critical half-second.
"GAS—"
Aveline's hand shot out and pressed the microwave's start button.
The machine hummed to life with its familiar electronic whir. The turntable began to rotate. The magnetron activated, generating electromagnetic radiation.
The metal keys began to spark immediately electrical discharge arcing between the prongs in brilliant flashes of blue-white light, tiny lightning bolts dancing in the confined space.
"BRACE FOR IMPACT!"
She grabbed Yuki by the collar and threw them both backward through the open window into open air.
BOOM!!
The kitchen detonated.
Fire exploded outward in all directions a massive fireball that consumed everything in its path in a fraction of a second. The gas-saturated air ignited instantaneously, temperatures spiking from room temperature to over a thousand degrees Celsius in the blast zone.
The two operators didn't even have time to scream. Flesh incinerated instantly, burning away from bone. Bones blackened and cracked from thermal stress. Metal armor melted into slag, dripping like wax.
The blast wave punched through the walls with devastating force, bulging them outward before they disintegrated entirely into flying debris. Windows shattered in every direction, glass exploding outward in deadly projectiles that embedded themselves in trees and cars across the street. The ceiling cracked and collapsed inward with a thunderous roar. The stairwell gave way, support beams snapping like matchsticks.
The entire second story of the house folded in on itself like a controlled demolition, walls buckling, roof sagging, everything collapsing into the inferno below.
Heat washed over the exterior in a scorching wave paint bubbling and peeling, siding warping and melting, grass withering brown, the very air shimmering with superheated gases.
Aveline and Yuki hit the hay pile twelve feet below.
The impact was brutal. The hay cushioned the fall but didn't eliminate it bones jarred, joints compressed, the breath driven from lungs in violent gasps.
Yuki lay there stunned, unable to move, unable to process what had just happened, terror flooding every nerve ending in her body. Her ears rang from the explosion. Her vision swam. She tasted blood.
Aveline landed in a controlled roll, momentum dissipating across her shoulders and back in a technique drilled into her through thousands of repetitions. She was on her feet in seconds, already scanning for additional threats, hands moving to check for injuries broken bones, bleeding, signs of trauma.
None. Optimal outcome.
She stood and brushed hay from her clothes with methodical precision, each movement controlled and deliberate.
Behind them, the house burned.
Flames roared skyward, consuming what remained of the structure with terrifying speed. Smoke billowed black and thick against the morning sky, visible for miles in every direction. The heat was intense even from this distance waves of it rolling off the inferno, making the air shimmer and dance.
Aveline turned to watch, silhouetted against the flames.
The corners of her mouth curved upward in something that wasn't quite a smile but was far more unsettling a look of genuine pleasure, of artistic appreciation for destruction perfectly executed, of deep satisfaction at a plan flawlessly implemented.
Then the mask returned. Neutral. Clinical. Cold.
"Threat neutralized," she said flatly, as if discussing the weather or a completed grocery list. "Extraction required."
Aveline pulled Yuki upright with a grip that left finger-shaped bruises on her arm not cruel, just efficient, functional, unconcerned with comfort.
"Run."
But Yuki couldn't run. She was hysterical, sobbing, shaking so hard she could barely stand. "They tried to KILL me—they were going to—I could have—"
No time for reassurance. No time for comfort. No time for processing trauma.
Aveline hoisted Yuki over her shoulder in a fireman carry that honestly looked more like she was carrying a crying, sobbing mess of an potato sack,efficient, impersonal, treating her like cargo that needed to be moved and ran.
Yuki cried into her shoulder, gasping between sobs, clinging desperately to consciousness and sanity.
Aveline's face remained expressionless. Focused. Operational. Moving with mechanical efficiency.
"Breathing," she said flatly, voice devoid of emotion. "Maintain it."
Safehouse burning behind them. Flames licking skyward like a beacon. Smoke billowing black. Sirens distant but growing closer fire trucks, police, emergency response converging on the disaster.
Aveline set Yuki down carefully in the middle of the street still no emotion, just calculated movement, positioning her away from debris and potential collapse zones.
Yuki immediately threw her arms around Aveline's neck.
Desperate. Sobbing. Clinging with the strength of someone who'd just faced death and survived.
Hugging her.
Aveline froze.
Her entire body went rigid. Her face twisted equal parts disgust, confusion, and something almost like panic.
Physical contact. Unnecessary. Inefficient. CONTAMINATING.
She tried an awkward pat stiff, mechanical, like trying to shoo away an insistent dog attempting to end the contact without violence.
Release me. NOW.
But Yuki clung tighter, arms locked around Aveline's neck, face buried in her shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably, needing human contact, needing comfort, needing to feel alive.
Aveline's eye twitched.
She shoved Yuki away not violently, but firmly, Aveline established clear boundaries, immediately stepping back and brushing off her clothes as if contaminated by germs or disease. Her expression was genuinely offended, violated.
Yuki wiped her tears, laughing through them despite everything, hysteria mixing with relief and gratitude. "Not much of a hugger, huh?"
"Physical contact is operationally inefficient," Aveline said coldly, still brushing her sleeves with visible discomfort. "Serves no tactical purpose. Decreases situational awareness. Creates vulnerability."
Yuki smiled, small, shaky, but real. "I heard a heartbeat. Honestly, didn't think you had one."
Aveline stared at her. Blinked. Her expression shifted to genuine confusion mixed with mild irritation.
"Obviously I possess a heart," she said, her tone flat and factual, as if explaining basic anatomy to a child. "I am standing here. Breathing. Human anatomy requires cardiac output for cellular oxygenation. Blood circulation is mandatory. Psychological differences are irrelevant to physiological requirements."
Yuki started laughing, unable to help it. The absurdity, the trauma, the relief, the sheer ridiculousness of having this conversation while Adrian's house burned behind them, it all came pouring out in waves of slightly hysterical laughter.
The Lamborghini Vision GT screeched around the corner, tires smoking, engine roaring, moving far too fast for residential streets.
Adrian leapt out before it fully stopped, door swinging open, face pale with fear. "Are you—"
He saw his beloved Safehouse: fully engulfed in flames, second story collapsed, inferno raging. Yuki tear-streaked face, covered in hay, but laughing. Aveline brushing off her clothes, looking personally affronted by recent events.
"Are you okay?" Adrian asked Yuki urgently, moving toward her, scanning for injuries.
She nodded, still crying and laughing simultaneously. "She saved me. Blew up your kitchen. But saved me."
Adrian turned slowly to Aveline, expression caught somewhere between horror and disbelief. "You blew up my house?"
"Optimal tactical solution," Aveline replied matter-of-factly, voice completely neutral. "Explosion collapsed stairwell access, preventing pursuit. Estimated delay: forty seconds. Sufficient for extraction. Threat eliminated. Witness secured. Mission parameters: achieved."
Adrian stared at her. Opened his mouth to respond. Closed it. Tried again. Failed. Gave up. Started laughing. Couldn't help it. The absurdity. The horror. The sheer insanity of it all. His house was gone, just gone. And she was standing there explaining it like a successful science experiment.
Yuki joined him, both of them losing it completely, laughter echoing across the street.
Aveline watched them with genuine confusion bordering on concern.
"I fail to comprehend humor," she said, her tone clinical and slightly frustrated. "Threat neutralized. Objectives achieved. All primary mission parameters successfully met. Emotional response is illogical."
Yuki gaspedl through laughter, wiping tears. "I said she doesnt have a heart!"
Adrian cackled, doubling over. "You what?"
"I told her I heard her heartbeat and didn't think she had one!"
Adrian lost it completely, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Aveline's confusion deepened into visible irritation.
"Obviously I possess cardiovascular function," she repeated, voice rising slightly with frustration. "I am standing here. Breathing. Biological human. Psychological differences are irrelevant to cardiac physiology. This response is counterproductive and Frankly useless."
They couldn't. They laughed harder.
Aveline's eye twitched with genuine annoyance.
Fire trucks. Police. Ambulances. Red and blue lights flashing in the distance, growing brighter, converging on the scene.
Getting closer fast.
Adrian sobered first, wiping his eyes. "We need to move. Now."
"Agreed," Aveline said, immediately all business again. "Remaining at scene invites complications. Law enforcement response time: ninety seconds maximum. Media coverage: imminent. Witness protection protocols: compromised."
"Where do we go?" Yuki asked, voice still shaky but stronger now.
Adrian looked at Aveline. "Your place?"
Aveline paused. Her eyes flickered, calculating, assessing variables, running probability matrices, weighing operational security against necessity. Then "Acceptable."
"Everyone in the car," Adrian commanded. "Let's go before—"
They piled into the Lamborghini. Yuki squeezed awkwardly into the back, barely room for her legs in the cramped space, but she didn't complain.
Engine roared to life, powerful and aggressive, built for speed.
They pulled away just as fire trucks turned the corner, sirens wailing.
In the rearview mirror: Adrian's safehouse burning. Flames consuming everything. Smoke rising like a monument to destruction.
Adrian sighed quietly, watching it disappear. "I liked that house."
"Structures are replaceable," Aveline said without emotion, eyes forward, already focused on the next objective.
"Easy for you to say. You didn't blow up your house."
"If tactical necessity required it, I would."
Adrian glanced at her, really looked at her. She meant it, completely. Without hesitation. She'd burn down her own home if the situation demanded it.
"I believe you," he said quietly.
Yuki spoke from the back, voice still trembling but steadier now. "Where are we going?"
"Ironcliff City," Aveline said. "My residence."
"How far?"
"Forty-seven minutes at current traffic patterns."
Adrian smirked despite everything, some of his natural humor returning. "Or thirty if I drive like I normally do."
Aveline's lips twitched, that ghost of a smile again, barely visible but there.
"Acceptable."
He floored it. The Lamborghini launched forward, acceleration pressing them back into their seats, speedometer climbing rapidly as they left the burning safehouse behind.