"Finally!" John threw his arms up, the air filled with the sharp mechanical whir-click as the small milling machine hissed to a halt. Its stylus mount withdrew like a knight sheathing its blade, gliding into its docking position with a faint metallic sigh. He leaned in, sweat still cooling on his brow, to inspect the freshly cut plate — a simple part, sure — but built from blood, caffeine, and a hundred YouTube tutorials he'd half-remembered and half-invented.

  “It only took… what? Six tries?” he muttered, running a thumb over a still-warm edge. His voice held a tired satisfaction.

  Then came the next step. He pulled up his Terminal with a flick, text glowing against his grime-smudged face. “Alright,” he murmured, scrolling past diagrams on his downloaded document, “engravings go on the slab, then... something happens. Great.”

  He placed the bronze plate — etched with painstaking, minuscule runes — onto the stone surface of the engraving station. The slab responded instantly. It hummed — low and resonant — like the sound of a distant engine underwater. A pulse of light surged up from within the stone, grabbing the plate in a flash of crimson brilliance. John flinched back instinctively. When the glow faded, the plate shimmered — heat rippling across its surface. A dull red aura clung to it like heat mirage.

  “I guess that’s a yes.” John exhaled slowly and reached forward. The metal was hot to the touch. Too hot. He recoiled with a curse. “Should’ve seen that coming.” Still, his eyes stayed locked on the engraving. The runes were no longer simple etchings — they glowed, the intricate lines pulsing faintly like a living thing. He recognized them now: miniature versions of the Spell Components still burned into his brain, tweaked and condensed to fit a postage stamp’s worth of space.

  He looked down at the workbench — littered with scorched plates, mangled wires, and rejected designs. A graveyard of attempts. "Drawing them into a format the machine could actually understand..." John shook his head. "Took more time than I want to admit." He rubbed his temple and squinted at the now-successful piece. "And it means I’ve gotta learn a whole lot more of ‘em."

  His voice trailed off as he pressed the activation rune. A finger-sized flame erupted from the center of the bronze. It wavered, steady and impossibly contained — the perfect little flame that shouldn’t exist on bare metal. John's face lit up with childish wonder. "Holy shit," he breathed. "I actually did it."

  The flame licked his knuckle.

  “OW—dammit!” He yanked his hand back, waving it as the plate cooled. “Yeah, yeah, fire’s hot, I get it.”

  Shaking his head with a grin, John turned back toward the rest of the bench. Tucked between tools and failed prototypes sat his latest prize: a compact reloading press gleaming under the overhead light, still smelling faintly of oil and freshly printed instruction manuals. His eyes slid to the small pile of bullets stacked beside it — custom-made on his own mini lathe. Unfired. Unfinished. Waiting. “I can enchant things now,” he said aloud, testing the words like they were fragile. “I can actually do this.”

  He picked up a single bullet, rolling the smooth projectile between his fingers. The metal was a dull gray — unremarkable at first glance, but deceptively heavy. His brow furrowed. “What was this called again?” He rifled through the notes app on his Terminal until the name popped up in bold letters. “Right — Arcanisteel.” He snorted. “Because of course that’s what it’s called. These naming conventions are trash.”

  Still, the data checked out. Arcanisteel — not the most mana-conductive alloy out there, but sturdy, enchantable, and perfect for beginners who didn’t want to deal with volatile reactions. He tapped the bullet against the desk in thought. “Okay… what can I even do with these?” He opened his design software, which became a modern grimoire, and flipped through component diagrams like an artist rummaging through a palette. “I’ve got space limitations — tiny engravings only — and even the machine can’t cut micro-scale.”

  His mind spun with possibility. Explosive impact? Tracking marks? Mana-channeling rounds?

  Then it hit him.

  “Oh…” His eyes widened. Hands already moving, he snapped open the modeling software and started fusing runes together, murmuring as he worked. “If I stagger the charge here… and reinforce the core with STRENGTHEN... maybe just enough space to redirect the impact force…” The model began to take shape — every inch of the slug was carefully loaded with as much magic as it could.

  Half an hour later, and John eased the bullet into the rotating axis clamp. He double-checked the feed angle, then uploaded the cutting program. The machine buzzed softly to life, its fourth axis humming as it spun the bullet beneath the stylus’s glow.

  His hand hovered a breath away from the emergency stop.

  “Come on…” he whispered, eyes locked on the display. The engraving run was mercifully short. A flicker of light, a faint whine, and then the tool retracted with a metallic noise. John released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Looks fine,” he muttered, squinting. The runes shimmered faintly across the projectile — an etched lattice of binding glyphs and expansion commands, compressed into the curve of the metal like silver veins. “But I guess this will tell me if I fucked up.” He placed the newly completed round on the stone slab of the engraving station. The moment it touched the surface, the stone pulsed. Not loudly — just enough for the air to shift. Energy arced into the bullet with a faint hiss, then vanished.

  The metal glowed. Faint gray, almost misty. But alive.

  “It worked…” John whispered, awe creeping into his voice. He reached out and picked it up with trembling fingers, holding it like it might vanish if he blinked. A grin tugged at his lips, but it didn’t last long. “Let’s make sure I didn’t screw this up,” he said, turning back to his Terminal and pulling up the 3D model. “If I got the structure right… then on impact, the tip breaks. That triggers the array. It absorbs mana from the target… expands the core, draws more mana… and the arcanisteel reacts.” He paused, eyes flickering across the diagrams. One command after another lined up like a brutal equation.

  Impact. Absorption. Internal growth. Detonation. His imagination filled the blanks for him. A fishman, mid-charge — then its torso tearing outward in jagged iron growths, blooming like a grotesque flower.

  John swallowed hard. “That… should help,” he muttered, voice dry. “Or maybe it just tickles and I wasted four days of work.” He forced a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just tension.

  He turned back to the bench and slotted in the next blank. The milling head spun up. One by one, more bullets were born.

  An hour passed like a slow breath.

  By the time he finished, John was fitting the cartridges into a deep brown bandolier, each round snug in its leather pouch. He pulled the strap over his shoulder and adjusted the weight. Not too heavy. Just enough to feel real. “Feels like I’m turning into some kind of magical cowboy,” he said with a wry smile. “Chase would—” The name hit harder than he expected.

  Chase.

  Ziraya’s warning echoed in his mind, soft but sharp: Fallwater was a massacre.

  His fingers hovered over his Terminal.

  He hesitated.

  Then typed.

  Thomas: Hey, can we talk?

  The minutes dragged. Then the screen buzzed.

  Chase: Sure, I’m finally back home. Could use a drink or two.

  Chase: Or maybe five.

  Thomas: Hot Spot?

  Chase: On my way.

  John pocketed the Terminal. His hand strayed to the weapon at his hip, just to be sure it was still there.

  The Ship shimmered into being near the fast-food joint, its lights reflecting off wet pavement. A cold drizzle fell from the night sky, misting his face as he stepped out.

  He blinked. “It’s already dark?” He looked up, startled by the pale sky. “How long was I in there…?”

  Before the question could settle, a loud clang echoed from the alley behind him. He turned just as Chase rounded the corner — tousled hair damp, jacket slung lazily over one shoulder. The werewolf’s grin was as easy as ever, but his eyes were ringed with exhaustion. “Hey man!” Chase called out, raising a hand. “What’s with the bandolier? You join a fantasy militia while I was gone?”

  John managed a laugh, but it came out brittle. “These have… a purpose.”

  Chase raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “So, what’s up?”

  John hesitated. “I don’t think I can say it in public,” he said finally. “Just… some questions.”

  Chase’s expression flickered — not quite worry, but something close to caution. He gestured toward the Hot Spot. “Alright. You’re the one buying drinks though.”

  They made their way through the bustling crowd in the tunnel and stepped through the portal. Neon signs flickered through steam vents. John’s boots squelched against the slick cobblestones, the remnants of rain dragged through the portal now mixing with the sizzling oil smell of late-night vendors.

  Chase tried to lighten the mood. “So, advice about your scaly girlfriend, or—?”

  John didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.

  Chase stopped mid-stride, turning toward him. “Okay. Not about Ziraya.” His grin faded into something gentler, quieter. “What is this about?”

  John didn’t answer. Not yet.

  He just kept walking — past the stalls, past the noodle cart, and straight toward the looming outline of the Wolfheart warehouse.

  “By the way, thanks for checking out the quantum computing lab,” Chase said casually as they stepped into the dimly lit safehouse. His tone was light, trying for normal, but his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of exhaustion. “Saved me a hell of a migraine.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  John didn’t answer.

  He shut the door with a soft click and turned, the silence between them growing heavy. Without a word, he reached into his coat and pulled out the gem — the identity shard that marked him as Thomas Greenheart — and placed it on the table.

  The gem pulsed once, faintly, as if acknowledging his presence… or judging it.

  Chase’s brow furrowed. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Something’s eating you.”

  John stared at the gem for a moment longer, then let out a quiet exhale.

  “Ziraya and I talked,” he said at last. His voice was calm, but there was something brittle beneath it. “About a lot of things.”

  Chase gave a skeptical grunt, leaning against the back of a worn chair. “She’s a Scalebound, John. You can’t trust them. She’s—”

  “Fallwater.” The word dropped like lead.

  Chase froze. Whatever ease was left in his face drained away. His grin vanished, and he sat down — not slouched, but rigid. Alert. Like a soldier bracing for an ambush.

  John watched him. “She called it the ‘Fallwater Massacre.’ Said it’s why mages don’t work with your family anymore.”

  “She would call it that,” Chase muttered, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Of course she would.” He rubbed his face with one hand, weariness bleeding through. “Do we really have to dig this up now?”

  “Yes,” John said firmly, stepping closer. “Is this where the gem came from?”

  “What do you think?” Chase snapped, eyes flashing as he folded his arms across his chest. “We’re werewolves, John. People in the Hidden World can tell what we are — even when we’re not transformed. Our mana just feels different. So even if we needed a false identity, we wouldn’t use one for a mage. This was— taken from the Fallwater quarry, to make sure that words didn’t spread too quickly.” His jaw clenched. “We’re Enforcers. That means we keep order. Sometimes… that gets messy.”

  “She called it a massacre, Chase!” John’s voice cracked as he slammed his fist onto the table. The gem rattled against the wood. “I want to believe you. But if you’re covering something like that — if you ordered something like that — then what else are you hiding from me?”

  Chase stood suddenly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. His hands were fists at his sides. “Why are you acting like this?” he growled. “You really want the truth? You really want to dig up every dirty secret this family has? There are things you shouldn’t know, John. Things no one should. I don’t go digging into your past, do I?”

  John’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t the same.”

  “Isn’t it?” Chase barked. “What about the Ninth Street crew you turned into minced meat? They came after you, sure — but you went after them first. You exterminated one of their safehouse. From their point of view, that was a massacre. You ended them.”

  “I didn’t have a choice!” John snapped. “They came to my home! What was I supposed to do?”

  “And you think it’s any different for us?” Chase spat. “I’m not saying we were saints. But this job—this life—chews people up. Do you know how many bodies I’ve had to step over in just the past six months? How many times I’ve had to decide who deserved to die just to keep the city from burning down?”

  The weariness was breaking through now — not just anger, but exhaustion. There were bags under his eyes, and his voice had lost its bite. What was left behind was just… tired. “Still,” Chase muttered, voice dropping, “You hear one story from that scaled bitch and suddenly I’m on trial? What happened to trust?”

  “I’m not taking her side,” John said quietly. “But I have to ask. It’s been eating me alive.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a shaky hand. The ember flared briefly in the shadows, a red eye in the dark. “You’ve done more for me than anyone. You kept me free, gave me a chance when no one else would. But I can’t stop thinking about it. About that gem, about what it might mean. And if there’s truth to what Ziraya said…”

  “Big if,” Chase muttered.

  “You didn’t deny it,” John said.

  Silence fell again.

  Chase turned away, pacing once before resting both hands on the back of his chair. His fingers flexed into the wood. “You want the truth?” he asked finally. “Fine.” He looked back over his shoulder, something pained behind his eyes. “It was five years ago. I wasn’t calling the shots — I was barely out of school. It was my mother’s campaign. She was trying to secure a foothold near Fallwater. There were rival mages in the area. Things got heated. Something went wrong. A lot of people died.” He paused, breathing through his nose. “I didn’t know the details at first. They kept it quiet. I wasn’t trusted with that kind of intel. But over time, I pieced it together. I asked questions. Carter didn’t care — he never does — but I had to know what I was part of. Just like you do now.”

  John stayed quiet, watching him carefully.

  “We used mercenaries,” Chase said, voice dull. “Ziraya’s people do the same. Don’t let her act like they’re saints. We were playing a dirty game… and that time, we lost control.” He sighed and finally slumped back into the chair. “We’re Enforcers, John. I joke about us being warlords, but it’s not that far off. We’re doing what we have to do to keep monsters at bay.”

  John took a long drag from his cigarette, then let the smoke curl from his lips like a slow exhale. “Then why hide it from me?”

  Chase leaned against the crumbling wall of the safehouse, his shoulders heavy beneath the worn leather of his jacket. His eyes, usually sharp and alert, were dulled by something deeper than fatigue—an exhaustion carved into the marrow of his bones. He didn’t look like the proud werewolf Enforcer the world feared. He looked like a man unraveling. "Honestly?" he muttered, rubbing his brow like he could wipe away the years of war and regret. "I hoped you’d never ask me about that." His voice was low, almost lost in the hum of the Bazaar beyond the boarded windows. "But I should’ve known you’d figure it out eventually. You always do."

  John stood quietly, the identity gem still warm in his palm, its faint pulse like a heartbeat between them.

  "I know it’s selfish," Chase went on, lifting his tired eyes to John’s, "but... I didn’t want you to see us like that. I dragged you into the Hidden World—into this nightmare of monsters and politics and blood—and I thought maybe, if I could just keep some of it buried, maybe you wouldn’t look at me like everyone else does.” He gave a bitter laugh. “We’re not monsters, John. We really aren’t. We’re doing everything we can to protect people, even if it doesn’t always look that way.”

  John's arms were crossed, but the tension in his jaw had softened. “Then tell me. What happened, Chase?”

  Chase exhaled hard and let himself sink into a chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped tightly like he was holding himself together. “We hired three mage mercenary companies—young, cocky, talented. They wanted to make a name for themselves. And we—” he swallowed, “we needed the manpower. Fast.” His voice trembled, not with fear, but with the rawness of memory. “The enemy had fortified a position in an old quarry. Isolated, remote. Perfect for a pincer attack. The idea was simple—mercs charge the front, we hit them from behind while they’re distracted.”

  John tilted his head, slowly piecing it together. “But something went wrong.”

  Chase nodded grimly. “The quarry was a trap. Not metaphorically. The entire damn thing turned into a stone mouth. The ground collapsed beneath them, and something—some kind of magic—crushed them. Ate them. All of them. Screams, then silence.”

  The room fell into a quiet so deep it hummed.

  “Our forces hit the rear line right after. Caught the enemy off guard. Won the battle. But the cost...?” Chase’s hands trembled. “Those mages never stood a chance.”

  John paced slowly, trying to process the weight of what he’d heard. “From the outside... it would look like you used those mercs as bait. Sacrificed them for a win.”

  “I know how it sounds.” Chase looked up, his voice hoarse. “But my mother didn’t know it would happen. No one did. If she had, she never would’ve sent them in. Not just because of the politics—though, yeah, the fallout destroyed our reputation—but because they were people. Kids, really. Just trying to make a name.”

  “But you keep talking about the political cost,” John replied, his tone sharp again. “All those people died, and you’re worried about reputation?”

  “They were mercenaries!” Chase snapped, then immediately flinched, ashamed of how harsh he’d sounded. He stood and started pacing, hands gesturing erratically as if trying to make his truth visible. “John, you’ve spent most of your life in the human world. You don’t get it. Out here? In this world? Nothing’s safe. Everyone’s a pawn unless they claw their way out of the pit. The Hidden World is brutal. And it changes you—whether you want it to or not.”

  John looked away, his fists clenched. “You think Ziraya’s manipulating me? Telling me about all of this to make me question you?”

  Chase gave a weary smirk, more sadness than sarcasm. “Of course she is. I would’ve done the same. Maybe she wants intel. Maybe she wants to rattle me. Maybe she just wants a win for her side. That’s the game.”

  John’s mouth opened—but no words came out. He looked at Chase, really looked at him. This wasn’t the smooth-talking friend he used to drink with at midnight or joke around with. This was a tactician. A leader. A killer, if he had to be. And John remembered the warehouse. Remembered his own idea to blow it up—no warning, no prisoners. The Ninth Street fishmen hadn’t even had a chance to scream. He had done that. Willingly. Coldly. And he hadn’t felt guilt.

  His breath hitched, and a dry chuckle escaped him. “That’s... hypocritical of me, isn’t it?” John said quietly, the words tasting bitter. “I planned a massacre of my own. And it didn’t feel wrong. It felt necessary.”

  Chase met his eyes. There was no triumph there. Just understanding.

  “You’re being shaped by this world,” Chase said softly. “Same as I was. Same as everyone who survives it.”

  John nodded, the weight of the truth finally settling in. “Sorry, man. I just— I panicked. The Ninth Street were scum, yeah, but that word—massacre—it carries so much.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Chase said, his voice quieter now, the tension finally slipping from his shoulders. “Can’t blame you for wanting to know. Hell, I would’ve asked too.” He sank back into the creaky chair with a long sigh, the kind that carried more weight than words. The smile that followed was tired, but genuine. “Truth is, I’m tired, John. Not just physically—deep down. This life, being an Enforcer, always watching your back, waiting for the next ambush or political landmine… it wears you down.” Chase glanced toward the window. The artificial lights outside painted the room in gold and gray. His voice softened with memory. “Back in college… it felt like I got a taste of what life was supposed to be. I still had missions, sure, but they were far between. Most of the time, I was just—living. Parties, late-night burgers, drinking until dawn. I had friends. I had fun. I got to pretend I was just some regular guy. No claws. No wars. Just... quiet.”

  He paused. A strange, hollow look crossed his face. “I’ve thought about walking away. Leaving the Hidden World behind. Just fading into the background. Pretend I’m human. Live out my life in peace.”

  “Really?” John asked, surprised. He took a half-step back, studying his friend’s face. “Wouldn’t you miss it? The magic, the strength—”

  “All the magic in the world can’t replace peace of mind,” Chase interrupted, almost bitterly. “Human society is flawed, sure, but it’s stable. Predictable. Humans don’t have to worry that a territorial dispute will level their home, or that one wrong word will start a blood feud.”

  John frowned. “It’s really that bad?”

  Chase gave a tired chuckle. “Maybe I’m jaded. Being an Enforcer... it changes how you see things. It’s not exactly a job you can quit. My pack—Carter, the others—they rely on me. And my mother?” He cracked a grin. “She’d drag me back home by the ear if I even thought about leaving. She has plans, and unfortunately, I’m one of them.”

  John smiled faintly, the tension between them finally dissolving. “I get it,” he said, glancing at the blue system window still hovering at the edge of his vision. “Sometimes, I wish none of this had happened either. But at the same time... I’m kinda glad it did. I mean, I can’t really picture myself stuck behind a desk for the next forty years.”

  Chase smirked. “A werewolf in an office cubicle? Sounds like the worst sitcom ever.”

  They both laughed, deep and easy, like a dam had finally broken.

  “Anyway,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m sorry about earlier. I just needed to hear it from you. The truth.”

  Chase nodded, the teasing edge gone from his voice. “I get it. And I get where you’re coming from. Just... be careful, alright? Especially with Ziraya. I know her type—smart, dangerous, manipulative. She’s using you to get to me, and to my family.”

  “Maybe she was at first,” John admitted. “But now? I don’t know. Yeah, she’s annoying as hell, but she’s not evil. She and I... we’ve been through things.”

  “Oh, how romantic,” Chase deadpanned, his smirk returning. “Next thing I know, you’ll be inviting me to your wedding. Just know—my mother would probably crash the ceremony, kill you both, and then scold me for attending.”

  “Who said you were invited?” John replied with a dry grin, flipping him off.

  Chase gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “The pain! The betrayal! My poor heart!”

  John couldn’t help but laugh. It felt good—real. For the first time in what felt like days, the weight on his chest eased. “Well,” he said with a mock sigh, “I shouldn’t waste more of your time—”

  “Oh, no. You dragged me into this emotional heart-to-heart,” Chase said, standing up and stretching, “Now you’re buying me drinks. That’s the law.”

  John raised an eyebrow and hugged his bag of Credit Gems close. “Who said I had any money?”

  Chase tapped the side of his nose, eyes gleaming. “Werewolf, remember? I can smell the Credit Gems from here.”

  “That’s extortion!” John said with a laugh, stepping out into the Bazaar. The streets glowed under the amber streetlamps, and it buzzed with nighttime energy.

  As the two disappeared into the crowd, their laughter echoing between the walls, something between them had shifted—not just mended, but strengthened.

  War might still be waiting for them just around the corner—but for tonight, at least, they had peace. And drinks.