The city has become a constellation of lights. Turbine blades turn like second hands. The air is hot, like it wants to ignite.

  Arthur sits alone at the table in his apartment. Sweat beads race down his neck.

  He finishes lacing a narrow device into the comm system—a noise-shaping bridge, a packet cloaker. He routes a cable, snaps a connector into place, then exhales and taps the call key.

  Dead air.

  Arthur taps the top of the device. The screen stabilizes. Call information rolls across the display as a smaller window expands, flickering into focus.

  Merail Greshen.

  Holden Industries.

  Cold office lights burn behind her. Her expression hardens the instant she sees him.

  “What do you want?”

  Arthur smiles faintly.

  “First, I want to apologize. I know Daevos showed up shortly after we left.”

  He meets her eyes.

  “I’m sorry about that.” A beat. “And I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Disgust flickers across her face—unmasked now.

  “I asked what you wanted. Or is this you trying to get me killed again?”

  “I deserve that,” Arthur says calmly. “But I want your help.”

  “I know you hate him. Helping me gives you a chance to be rid of him—and to be ready when he’s gone.”

  Merail lets out a sharp laugh and leans back, arms crossed.

  “Damn right I hate him.” Her voice lowers. “And he’s never going to be gone. He pretends to be his father’s son… but he doesn’t have a father.”

  Her hand hovers near the kill switch.

  “He’s been around a very long time. The more I dug, the worse it got.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Sarah’s voice brushes Arthur’s ear from the Void.

  “She’s scared. She might just as easily turn us over to him.”

  Arthur’s gaze flicks for half a second—listening—but never leaves Merail.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” he says evenly. “He’s a monster. And he’s older than you think.”

  Arthur leans back, folding his hands.

  “With a little help from you, I intend to destroy that monster.”

  A pause.

  “After he’s gone, you’ll be safe. And nothing you provide will trace back to you.”

  Another pause, deliberate.

  “And maybe I’ll tell you exactly how old he is.”

  Merail studies him like a device she doesn’t trust—something that could detonate just outside her control.

  A thin smile appears.

  “You’re awfully confident.”

  “What are you hiding?”

  “Hiding?” Arthur lifts his cup and takes a sip. “Nothing.”

  A glance at the darkened city.

  “But everyone has secrets.”

  “Are you in?”

  She exhales slowly.

  “What kind of help?”

  “Nothing too difficult,” Arthur says. “I’m already tracking his ship. Some intel on its specs would help.”

  “And equipment. Nothing I couldn’t get myself—if I didn’t need military or industrial grade.”

  Merail rolls her eyes.

  “Call me tomorrow. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The comm cuts.

  The room goes still—too quiet.

  Arthur stares at his reflection in the dark screen. Small. Isolated. Unassuming.

  He turns back toward the city lights and sits in

  Somewhere out in the darkness of space, the Leviathan approaches a jump gate.

  The warship is a black cathedral of pain, engines like clenched suns. Ion plumes unfurl—a silent storm in the vacuum. The ring ignites, burning with controlled blue lightning. The Leviathan’s hull drinks the light until it gleams like wet steel.

  The hum of the gate chain is almost peaceful.

  There is no peace inside.

  The ship’s interior is austere. Precise. A museum of glass and line. Holograms drift above a central desk in layered complexity—trajectories, manifests, secured dossiers updating with each heartbeat.

  Daevos sits in absolute stillness, as if carved into place.

  “Why have they not been found?” he asks quietly.

  On the other end of the comm stands Kasan—ex-military, calm, exacting.

  “They left Bexsis-Two and traveled to Earth. From there, they could’ve booked passage anywhere.” A pause. “Thousands of vessels. We’re chasing down leads now, sir.”

  Daevos answers in the kindest voice he can manage.

  “Thank you, Kasan.”

  The words land wrong—hanging in the air like a threat.

  He closes his eyes.

  Kasan hears the blade in the tone.

  “Sir—we will have them. Even if I have to search myself.”

  Daevos opens his eyes. A small grin touches his lips.

  “I expect nothing less,” he says softly. “I’m glad you won’t disappoint.”

  The channel cuts.

  The room returns to the ship’s low hum.

  Daevos resumes scanning the holograms—then stops.

  Something at the edge of the display draws his attention.

  “What are you staring at?” he murmurs, pushing his chair back.

  He rises. Floor lights bloom beneath his steps.

  Along the far wall stands a restrained figure—Arthur, but not Arthur. A clone—shackled upright, battered, displayed like a specimen. His mouth is wired shut. Steel bands cage his chest. His breath labors.

  His eyes track with animal clarity.

  Daevos steps closer, studying him like an instrument that might still produce sound.

  Without ceremony, he draws a narrow blade.

  “Where would you go?” he asks, tapping the blade against the clone’s side.

  The clone barely makes a sound as the blade slides gently between his ribs.

  The body convulses. Breath catches against iron. A thin line of blood appears.

  The eyes burn brighter.

  Hatred feeds the game.

  Daevos savors it.

  The clone spasms—then steadies. Breath rasps through his nose. He never looks away.

  Daevos studies the unblinking defiance with idle curiosity, the way one might lean too close to a candle flame.

  He withdraws the blade.

  The wound seals instantly.

  Already bored, Daevos turns away.

  He returns to his desk, considers for a long, clean moment, then presses a key.

  “Set the exit gate for Shaelock Seven.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Daevos releases the control and smiles faintly.

  “You went there once,” he murmurs. “Perhaps you did it again.”

  The clone watches him—anger buried deep.

  The Leviathan surges into the gate chain.

  Blue light and arc lightning crash against its hull as the warship barrels toward its destination.

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