Owen hated Sombra. Not because it was dangerous—though it was, in every way that counted—but because it was a map of everything Nueva Arcadia wanted to forget. Every step under the surface was a descent through the city's repressed memories: ancient sewer runs, maintenance tunnels abandoned after the mana-grid revolution, Sombra kids' hideouts reeking of cheap rum and cheaper synth-berry. It was all rot and condensation and the slow, steady exhale of power from above.
Hazel led, eyes shining with a manic blue-white edge, every so often stopping to check a pulse of comms from Mouse. The kid wasn't physically there—too risky, too valuable—but his presence snaked through every data junction, feeding them real-time routes, warnings, and, occasionally, advice.
"Tunnel twenty meters ahead, left," Mouse chirped in their earpieces, the audio pitch-shifted to evade any Nexar sniffer tech. "Then up the ladder. Security blind for sixteen seconds after the shift change. Watch for the wet spot—someone pissed themselves during the last sweep."
Hazel barely managed a smirk. "Charming, Mouse."
Owen's boots thudded on the uneven concrete, every sense screaming for the telltale signs of an ambush. He checked the time. "We're ahead. They'll be late, but not by much. Stay focused."
They reached the ladder. Hazel went up first, hands slick on the rungs, then pressed her back against the access panel and waited. Above, muffled voices; a Nexar patrol, probably bored, probably deadly if you startled them.
"On my count," Owen said, and Hazel nodded.
Three. Two. One.
Hazel moved, arms and legs compact, up and out through the hatch. Owen followed, knees bent for the landing. They emerged into a pitch-black access corridor, redolent of coolant and human funk. The only light came from a set of old sodium tubes, most of them dead or flickering.
Hazel's suit drank in the darkness, making her all but invisible even at this range. Owen's own suit was bulkier, designed to mask his size and suppress the telltale "wolf" aura he'd been tagged with since birth.
They moved. The security was nothing like the megaplant—no sensors, no alarms, just a pair of bored rent-a-cops with sidearms and old-fashioned stun batons. One precise shot at the base of the skull, and the guard folded. Hazel handled the second: a tap to the shoulder, a twist, and the guard was out, slumped against the wall like a ragdoll.
Owen checked the schematic on his pad. "Left. Down two flights. We're close."
They reached the next level—an intersection of four corridors, all alike, each reeking of mildew and failure. This was where the black site started. The doors were heavy, arcane seals slathered on with a kind of frantic desperation. The designers had clearly meant to keep something in, not out.
Hazel studied the nearest sigil, fingers hovering over the air just above it. "Old magic. Not even wired to the grid."
"Can you break it?"
She nodded. "Quietly? Probably not. But I can blind it long enough."
She placed her palm flat on the rune and whispered a sequence of words, each one shaping the darkness around them like sculpted fog. The sigil fizzled, flickered, then went inert. Owen pushed the door and it swung open with barely a groan.
The corridor beyond was colder, walls lined with insulation gone greasy with age. They moved in tandem, steps measured, every muscle tensed for the next surprise.
First up: security golems. Not the high-end kind, but old municipal models with crystal-core brains and a knack for violence. Their eyes glowed a dull red, sweeping the hall with unwavering precision.
Hazel whispered again, this time letting her shadow magic bloom. The air thickened; the light around them bent and blurred. She shook with the effort, but the golems' sensors missed them completely—they stepped past as if Owen and Hazel were nothing but two more ghosts in a corridor full of them.
After the golems: another lock, this one physical, a simple deadbolt with a mana-brace welded over it. Owen snapped the bolt with a twist, then let Hazel peel off the bracing with a thin blade of ice. They made it through, and then they were at the cell block.
The first cell was empty. The second: a man, bound and gagged, eyes wild with fear. He recoiled when he saw them, as if expecting torture or death. Owen considered freeing him, then saw the sun tattoo on the man's neck and left him as he was.
Third cell.
Shiori.
She was slumped on the floor, one wrist handcuffed to a radiator pipe, blood drying on her face and under her nails. Her suit—the one from the club—was ripped and filthy. Her head jerked up at the sound of the door, eyes wide, feral.
Hazel went in first, hands up, gentle.
"Shiori. It's us. It's Hazel. You're safe."
Shiori's eyes flickered with recognition, then something like despair. "You idiots. You can't be here. You're dead, do you know that?"
Hazel moved to the radiator, started working the cuffs.
Owen stepped in, kneeling to Shiori's level. "The contract isn't finished until you're safe. That's the rule."
Shiori's lip curled, but there was no venom in it. "You really think any of this matters now?"
Owen looked at her, and for a moment she saw the animal in him: the cold, flat regard, the teeth just behind the smile. "Doesn't matter if it matters. It's what we do."
Hazel popped the cuff. "We have to move. They'll have noticed by now."
Shiori swayed, tried to stand, but her leg buckled. Hazel caught her, Owen slung her arm over his own shoulder, and together they half-dragged, half-carried her out.
Down the corridor, the golems' eyes snapped to alert: red to white. "They're onto us," Hazel said, voice tight.
Owen handed her his last grenade. "Run ahead. Mouse has a route ready. I'll cover."
Hazel hesitated.
"Go," he growled.
She sprinted, Shiori's weight no trouble at all, her own legs pumping with a desperate energy. Owen waited until the golems turned the corner, then hit the grenade at his feet.
The world exploded—an instant of pure, silent force, enough to crumple steel and turn the golems into spinning trash. The floor collapsed under their feet, and Owen dropped two levels down, rolling to his feet with a grunt.
He caught up to Hazel at the exit, both of them gasping. Shiori was still with them, barely, eyes closed, breathing ragged.
Mouse's voice crackled over the comm. "Rooftop two blocks north. AV is there, ready to run."
Hazel looked at Owen, relief and terror mixing in her face. "We're not out yet."
Owen checked Shiori's pulse, then lifted her fully. "We will be."
They made it up to street level, weaving through alleys and fire escapes until the night sky opened above them. The rain had stopped, leaving the air raw and full of ozone. A battered AV hovered, engines whining, side door open.
Hazel and Shiori went in first. Owen paused, scanning the street for pursuers, then climbed in after. The AV closed and shot off, the city shrinking beneath them.
For the first time since the contract started, Owen let himself breathe.
He looked at Hazel. "We did it."
It was too quiet.
The first sign of trouble was a click—metal on stone, deliberate. The corridor outside filled with a blue shimmer, anti-magic suppressors powering up in a low, ugly hum. Two seconds later, a round of gunfire stuttered through the door, punching holes the size of thumbs in the concrete. Owen yanked Shiori down, Hazel dropping flat beside them.
From the hall: footsteps, measured and slow.
"Shiori," came the voice, even, professional. "This is Minerva Lancaster. You are outmatched and outgunned."
Hazel's face twisted. "That's her. The golden bitch herself."
Owen didn't reply. He watched the door, counting the rhythm of the shots, the pace of the approach. He felt the pressure building in his chest, the call of the void that always came before a kill.
Minerva's voice again, closer: "No answer? Typical. I know you're here. And I know you're listening."
Owen reached for his comm, clicked twice. "Mouse, now."
Hazel sprang up, hands flashing. The darkness in the corners of the room rippled, peeled away, and with a sound like tearing silk, Hazel was gone—her body melting into a column of shadow that slithered under the door and out into the corridor. For a moment, all was silent.
Then chaos.
The gunfire stopped, replaced by the wet crunch of impact and the high, panicked shouts of men dying faster than they could scream. Minerva yelled orders, her tone snapping from contempt to rage in half a sentence. The suppressor fields flared as someone tried to juice the power, but the blue-white arcs that filled the air only made the shadows deeper, thicker.
Owen stood, Shiori still slumped at his feet. He moved to the door, waited for the noise to peak, then hit the air with a blast of wind so dense it turned the entire hallway into a slipstream. Bodies—three, maybe four—went tumbling end over end, smacked into the far wall, and dropped. Minerva ducked, rolled, and came up with a wand already primed, her own power flaring gold in the gloom.
"Got you," Hazel whispered, her breath hot and close.
Minerva spat blood, then smiled—actually smiled. "You think this matters? You think anyone will care if I die in this shithole?"
Owen's boots thumped up behind her. He didn't hesitate. He hit Minerva in the chest, just once, but hard enough to crack bone. She slammed back against the wall, gasping, and slumped to her knees.
Hazel stood over her, hands trembling with adrenaline and mana burn. "That's for Shiori. And for every Feran kid you buried in the last five years."
Minerva laughed again, softer this time. "She's not even Feran. She's just a whore's—"
Owen cut her off with a kick, then knelt. He took out a knife—nothing fancy, just steel and hate—and carved a line into Minerva's forearm. With his other hand, he traced a rune in the blood. It glowed a savage, angry red.
Minerva's eyes went wide. "No. Not that. Not—"
"It's a humiliation mark," Owen said, his tone flat. "It means everyone you ever cared about will know you lost. It means you're finished."
He stood, wiped the blade on Minerva's coat, and turned to Shiori.
Shiori was on her feet now, swaying, but lucid. She limped over, stared at Minerva for a long moment. "Remember when you said I'd never amount to anything? When you promised you'd make my family disappear?"
Minerva tried to spit at her, but failed.
Shiori bent down, close enough to whisper, and said something only Minerva could hear. The other woman's face drained of all color.
Hazel reached for Shiori, helped her upright. "We should go."
Owen nodded. He looked at Minerva one last time, then stepped over her and out.
They made it to the roof, Mouse's AV waiting, engines hot and ready. Hazel, still trembling, collapsed into the seat next to Owen. Shiori climbed in after, breathing hard.
As the AV lifted off, Owen looked down at the city—at the chaos, the violence, the light. He felt empty, and alive.
Minerva was still on the roof when they left, holding her arm and screaming into the night.
Owen closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled.