Aren gripped the knife, his knuckles white. His gaze sharpened—predatory and focused, like a wolf locking onto its prey.
The commander didn't hesitate. He raised a hand and barked a single word: "Fire!"
The roar of gunfire shattered the air. Aren moved on instinct, diving behind the kitchen island just as a hail of lead slammed into the marble.
Shards of stone and wood sprayed like shrapnel, and sparks hissed where bullets struck metal.
Rainwater began to pool across the floor, seeping through the shattered windows. Crouched low, Aren forced his lungs to steady.
The burning ache in his abdomen told him the wound had reopened—he could feel the warm stickiness of fresh blood—but he shoved the pain into a dark corner of his mind.
They didn't even ask questions. They're shooting to kill. But why?
"Two of you—flank from the right!" the commander ordered.
Boots thudded against the floor, closing in.
Aren snatched a metal serving tray from beneath the counter. As the first soldier rounded the corner, Aren hurled it with pinpoint force.
The tray caught the man flush in the face with a sickening crack. Before the soldier could recover, Aren lunged, driving his knife deep into the man's thigh.
The soldier collapsed with a strangled groan.
The second soldier leveled his rifle, but Aren was already a blur of motion. He rolled across the floor, striking the man's wrist with brutal precision.
The weapon clattered onto the stone floor.
"Get him!"
Two more soldiers lunged. Aren snatched the fallen rifle in a fluid motion. He checked the magazine—half full. A cold, hollow smile curled his lips.
"Well," he whispered, his voice dangerously low. "This is getting interesting."
He didn't hesitate. Bang. Bang. Two shots rang out. One pierced a soldier's heart; the other punched a clean hole through a forehead.
Both dropped instantly, their life leaking onto the wet floor.
The remaining soldiers froze, staring at the corpses and then at the boy. Aren't breathing remained eerily calm. His crimson eyes were like ice, reading their fear as if it were written in bold ink.
Thunder shook the mansion. Lightning flooded the hall with a blinding strobe of white. Aren seized the moment. He sprinted left, firing a burst at the ceiling lights.
Crash.
Darkness swallowed the room.
"Damn it! He took out the lights!" a Guardian screamed into the void. "We lost him!"
Aren pressed his back against a corridor wall, counting footsteps. Three. He could hear their panicked breathing.
"They said his threat level was B," one whispered urgently. "This is A+—maybe S!"
"Shut up! Aegis is on the way. Once they arrive, this monster is their problem."
Corrupted Nyx...
Aren't brows furrowed.
So that's what they think I am.
As a soldier passed his pillar, Aren struck like a viper. He drove the knife upward, under the jaw, and into the brain.
One down. Before the others could react, he slashed a second soldier's wrist, disarming him. The third soldier panicked, spraying bullets blindly into the dark.
"Cease fire, you idiot!" the commander's voice boomed, but it was too late.
A stray bullet caught the panicked soldier in the arm. The commander grabbed him by the collar, yanking him back before he could do more damage.
"Everyone, fall back!" she barked. "Take the wounded and retreat! Now!"
The Guardians scrambled toward the exit, leaving their dead behind. Aren saw his chance. He sprinted toward the garden door, but before he could reach it, the world changed.
The air hummed with a metallic vibration. The doors and windows didn't just close—they sealed. Metal tendrils crept over the exits like writhing vines.
"What the—?"
Schlick.
A metal spike erupted from the floor, skewering Aren's right foot and pinning it to the ceiling. A scream ripped from his throat. A second spike punched through his left shoulder, slamming him against the wall.
He was trapped. In seconds, more spikes erupted, impaling his limbs and pinning him in mid-air like a butterfly in a display case.
Blood bubbled in his throat. His vision blurred, his head falling forward—until a hand snatched a handful of his hair and yanked it back with violent force.
Aren stared through the haze at a man with ash-gray hair and eyes filled with casual cruelty.
"You're a slippery little brat, aren't you?" the man mocked. He clicked his tongue.
"Mobilizing this many people for one kid... what a waste."
"Don't worry. You won't die. Yet."
"If you want him alive, Logan, maybe stop turning him into a pincushion," a woman's voice snapped from the shadows.
"I avoided his vitals, Mary. Mostly."
"Mostly?" She gestured angrily at Aren, who was pale and shaking. "He's half-dead."
Logan shrugged, a grin playing on his lips. With a snap of his fingers, the metal spikes retracted. Aren collapsed, but Mary caught him before he hit the floor, lowering him gently.
She placed her hands on his chest. A soft, verdant light filled the room. Aren felt his flesh knit back together, muscles weaving and bones clicking into place.
It was a miracle—but it felt like liquid fire. He couldn't even find the breath to scream.
After what felt like an eternity, the light faded. Mary looked exhausted. She pulled a purple vial from her cloak, forced Aren's jaw open, and poured the bitter liquid down his throat.
"Drink. It'll keep you from fading," she said flatly.
Aren coughed, the potion burning his throat. Mary tapped his cheek with cold indifference.
"Logan, tell the Guardians to clean up this mess. And keep him restrained. I don't want any more 'accidents.'"
"Yes, ma'am," Logan replied with a mock salute.
As the world began to fade to black, Aren felt himself being hoisted onto a soldier's shoulder.
The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the black vans of Aegis waiting in the rain.