The penthouse floor was silent.
Unlike the roar of the ballroom below, the Vanguard Suite was an oasis of muted luxury. The walls were lined with dark obsidian glass, reflecting the city's neon grid like a digital graveyard. The air here was even colder, pressurized and heavy with the scent of aged scotch and old money.
Liam stepped out of the service elevator. He didn't move like a man anymore; he moved like a shadow seeking its owner. His boots, soft-soled and worn, made no sound on the deep velvet carpet.
The hunger in his chest had settled into a dull, focused ache. It wasn't just a physical sensation; it was a sensory map. Through the Mimic's heart, he could feel the vibrations of the building—the hum of the mana-grid, the distant laughter from the floor below, and the heavy, rhythmic heartbeat of the man in the next room.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It was the heartbeat of a man who thought he had won.
Liam reached the double doors of the main suite. He didn't pick the lock. He didn't use force. He simply placed his hand on the keypad, letting a hair-thin filament of black mana slip from his fingertips into the machine's circuitry. It was a trick Jarl had taught him: Everything is a system, and every system has a flaw.
The lock hissed open.
Inside, the room was bathed in the soft, blue glow of the city's skyline. Marcus Thorne stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, his heavy chrome chestplate discarded on a nearby leather sofa. He was still wearing his formal trousers and a silk shirt, his back to the door as he poured amber liquid into a crystal tumbler.
"I told you I wanted ten minutes alone, Sarah," Marcus said, his voice dropping that heroic baritone for a weary, irritable growl. "The Guild Masters can wait."
Liam didn't answer. He drifted into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that Marcus finally noticed.
The Captain froze. He didn't turn around immediately—a Hunter's instinct told him something was wrong. The air in the room had suddenly dropped ten degrees.
"Sarah?" Marcus asked, his hand tightening around the glass.
"She's downstairs, Marcus," Liam said.
His voice was a ghost of what it used to be—flatter, colder, stripped of the desperation of the boy who had begged for his life in the dark.
Marcus spun around, his eyes narrowing. He looked at the hooded figure in the black cloak, his gaze instinctively scanning for a Rank-badge. When he saw the faint E-Rank flicker on Liam's wrist, his tension visibly eased, replaced by a flare of arrogant anger.
"A worker? How the hell did you get past security?" Marcus set the glass down, his muscles rippling beneath his shirt. "Get out before I have you thrown off the balcony. I'm not in the mood for autographs."
Liam stepped into the blue light, pulling back his cowl.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Marcus stared at Liam's face—the face of a dead man. He looked at the scar running up Liam's neck, the one that Jarl hadn't quite hidden.
"No," Marcus whispered, the color draining from his tanned face. "No. You... you're dead. The vault... nothing survived the collapse."
"The void is a slow eater, Marcus," Liam said, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. "It gives you a lot of time to think. About the doors. About the sound of the lock turning. About the names you say you carry in your heart."
Marcus's shock lasted exactly three seconds before the predator in him took over. He was a Silver-Rank Hunter—a man built for violence. He didn't ask for forgiveness; he reached for the combat knife on the table.
"I don't know how you crawled out of that hole, kid," Marcus hissed, his body glowing with a faint, metallic aura. "But leaving you alive was the only mistake I made. I won't make it twice."
Marcus moved.
He was fast—a blur of Silver-Rank speed and precision. In the eyes of a normal human, he would have been invisible. But to Liam, Marcus looked... loud. Every movement Marcus made sent a ripple through the air that the Mimic's heart caught and translated.
Liam didn't retreat. He leaned into the attack.
As Marcus swung the blade in a lethal arc, Liam's body seemed to fold. It wasn't a dodge; it was a displacement. He slipped through Marcus's guard like smoke through fingers.
[Skill Devourer: Mimicry - Passive]
For a split second, Liam's skin turned the same matte-black as the obsidian walls. He appeared behind Marcus, his hand catching the Captain's wrist with a grip that cracked bone.
"You're slow, Captain," Liam whispered into his ear. "And you're so, so loud."
Liam didn't use a blade. He slammed his palm into Marcus's back, right where the spine met the lungs.
A pulse of black, oily mana exploded from Liam's hand. It wasn't a strike meant to kill—not yet. It was a corruption. Marcus screamed as the black energy raced through his nervous system, short-circuiting his mana-channels.
The "Hero" collapsed to his knees, his silver aura flickering and dying like a blown bulb. He gasped for air, his face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated terror.
"What... what are you?" Marcus wheezed, blood beginning to leak from his nose. "That's not... that's not a human skill."
Liam knelt down, grabbing Marcus by the hair and forcing him to look out at the city he thought he owned. Below, the golden lights of the party were still glowing, a masquerade for a man who was currently breaking on the floor.
"I'm the weight of the names you carry, Marcus," Liam said, his voice devoid of pity.
He pulled the broken skinning knife from his belt. It was a jagged, ugly piece of metal—the same one that had tasted the blood of the Mimic.
"Tonight," Liam whispered, leaning closer until his cold breath tickled Marcus's ear, "the puppet strings of this gilded masquerade snap. And you're going to tell me exactly how many other 'heroes' helped you turn that key."
The hunger in Liam's chest surged, no longer a dull ache but a roaring void, ready to swallow the first lie that escaped Marcus's lips.