Isaac Phoenix, April 5th, 2025

  As Isaac stepped out of Hannah’s bedroom, he threw a comment over his shoulder, half-murmured, without turning back, waving dismissively.

  "You're heading out."

  In that moment, he heard her deep exhale behind him — and the quiet words that sounded like both a promise and a farewell.

  “I am.”

  He didn’t stop.

  He crossed the threshold into the next room. On the couch, his clothes were laid out: a black shirt and black pants. The fabric still smelled faintly of detergent, but the moment he pulled them over his skin, his body heat brought them to life again. He smoothed the shirt down his torso, then tightened his belt. The movement was routine, the motion of a soldier who knows there is no room for a wrong step.

  By the front door, he grabbed his biker jacket from the coat rack. The leather was chilled from the night and cracked from rain, its scent a familiar blend of gasoline and smoke — comforting. From the stand beside it, he took his helmet, cold and smooth beneath his fingers, a weight that always fit him naturally.

  He paused in front of the mirror in the hallway.

  A tired face looked back at him — but a calm one. Black strands of hair fell over his cheeks. He pulled the hair tie from his wrist and quickly gathered his hair into a half-bun. The movement was swift, practiced, yet carried a disciplined precision.

  For a moment, he hesitated. His eyes dropped to his hand on the doorknob.

  The gold ring on his index finger caught the dim hallway light and glinted.

  A simple band, etched with old symbols — yet he felt it on his skin like a weight he never took off.

  He inhaled deeply. The metal of the doorknob was cold and smooth beneath his fingers. The click of the lock cut through the silence. He opened the door, descended the stairs, and stepped outside.

  The air outside — sharp and clean, filled with the scent of wet asphalt and the distant rumble of early-morning engines — struck his face. In front of the building, his motorcycle waited for him.

  A Kawasaki Ninja 1000SX, matte black, gleaming under the first touch of morning sun.

  Its aggressive lines looked like the edge of a blade, and the chrome accents flashed cold and sharp.

  Below the seat rested an Akrapovi? exhaust — dark and menacing, like a promise of thunder ready to tear through the street.

  Isaac ran his fingers along the fuel tank, feeling the roughness of the matte surface, then sat on the seat, the leather cracking softly beneath the weight of his jacket. He lowered the helmet onto his head; the visor caught the reflection of the early sky. He turned the key.

  The engine roared to life — a deep, living growl, metal thunder echoing off the surrounding buildings.

  In that instant, something shifted in his chest — a familiar sense of belonging.

  The sound of the machine was like a heartbeat.

  As his thumb brushed the throttle, his thoughts drifted where he didn’t want them to go.

  Hannah wasn’t the only one with work today.

  His job awaited him too — and he knew it wouldn’t be any easier than hers.

  Then a thought halted him for a heartbeat: The Amber Directorate.

  If someone actually passed the test this year… If someone truly survived the selection… What would that mean for Hannah?

  Isaac inhaled deeply through his nose; the scent of gasoline and engine smoke filled his lungs.

  He tightened his grip on the handlebar — the bike snarled — and he let out a short smile that tasted more of bitterness than joy.

  With that thought, he released the clutch, and the motorcycle surged forward, loud and fierce, carrying him down the street.

  The city stretched around him as the bike slid through the streets. Morning sunlight fractured across windows, street stalls were already open, and the smell of fresh bread and smoke from the first bakeries mixed with the gasoline trailing behind him. Wind slammed against his visor, and the growl of the engine turned everything else into a muted hum.

  A small light flickered inside his helmet, and through the microphone came a familiar voice.

  “Isaac, where are you now?”

  Her voice was warm, feminine — with a tone both worried and cheerful.

  Like fear hiding behind a smile.

  “By the city hall,” he answered shortly, watching traffic lights shift from yellow to green as he slipped through the intersection.

  For a moment, there was no voice on the other side.

  Only the faint static of the line.

  His eyes flicked to the side mirror — only rows of cars and headlights behind him.

  “Ivy?” he asked. His voice was steady, but something tightened inside him.

  Then, after a pause that lasted far too long, her voice finally came.

  “Be careful, Isaac.”

  The line went dead.

  The sound of the engine filled the silence again, and the city kept sliding past him.

  But now, he felt he was riding with another weight — invisible, yet heavier than the gold ring on his finger.

  The engine went quiet as he pulled in and parked right beside the curb. Isaac removed his helmet and looked toward the café window. It was an ordinary place; the smell of roasted coffee drifted all the way outside, and the glass reflected the morning rush of the street. He raised an eyebrow.

  The lawyer was supposed to be waiting for him — a small, nervous man who never ran late to meetings. The deal had been clear: short, discreet, no unnecessary words.

  But the tables outside were empty.

  Inside, a few guests flipped through newspapers, one young man tapped at a laptop, a waiter dried glasses. No lawyer.

  Isaac stayed seated on the bike, his eyes narrowing. A mouthful of uneasy air slid into his lungs.

  Something’s wrong.

  His right hand drifted unconsciously to the inner pocket of his jacket, where the USB was. A tiny piece of metal — but heavy as stone.

  Then he saw them.

  At the far end of the street, two men started walking toward him. They weren’t rushing, but their steps were too synchronized to be accidental. On the left side, two more peeled away from a kiosk, as if they’d been pretending to talk until now.

  Isaac’s stomach tightened.

  The lawyer was dead. Had to be. Otherwise, he’d be here. They already knew about the USB. One of them lifted a hand to his ear, whispering into an earpiece, eyes locked on Isaac.

  The bike was still warm beneath his thighs. The street — ordinary just minutes ago — turned into a maze of shadows and threat.

  Isaac clenched his jaw. Exhaled through his nose, slowly, like a man who’d accepted long ago that there were no easy jobs. He’d hoped this would be routine — a clean exchange, a simple café meeting, nothing more.

  But in this game, nothing was ever simple.

  Too early for this, he thought — and instead of fear, he felt only bitterness.

  Life in the mafia didn’t offer peaceful days. Any job could become a slaughterhouse, any exchange a trap. It was a price he’d accepted a long time ago.

  His fingers tightened around the throttle. The engine growled, and something old sparked in his chest: the adrenal scent of metal and blood — a smell he’d never learned to separate from the smell of freedom.

  The bike howled as Isaac twisted the gas. The rear wheel skidded on dusty asphalt — and then the Ninja launched forward like a bullet.

  The men reacted instantly.

  A black Nissan Patrol SUV pulled away from the curb and shot after him, tires squealing. The other two sprinted inside their vehicle, doors slamming even as it started moving.

  The first burst of gunfire cracked — a sharp report slicing straight through the city’s morning hum.

  Isaac heard a bullet ping off metal to the right side of the bike; sparks exploded. He leaned into the turns, body perfectly aligned with the machine. Wind tore at his visor, and the roar of the engine thundered through narrow streets. In the mirror he saw the SUV — window down, an arm extended, a handgun aimed straight at him.

  The next shot tore into a building fa?ade; chunks of plaster sprayed across the sidewalk.

  Isaac cut hard left, shifting his weight. The Ninja dropped almost flat against the asphalt and slid past a truck pulling into a parking spot. The SUV behind him didn’t have that kind of flexibility. The driver slammed the brakes — tires shrieked — but they snapped back onto his tail, keeping pace.

  Another bullet whistled past, close enough to skim his shoulder.

  Cold sweat gathered beneath his jacket, but his fingers held the throttle steady. Sirens started wailing in the distance — someone had already reported the shots. He knew police didn’t mean rescue. They meant more complications.

  The city became a labyrinth of asphalt and concrete, and Isaac tore through it, the machine under him roaring like it shared his fury. Tires screeched as two more SUVs burst in from the left.

  He jerked the handlebars and threw the bike up onto the sidewalk.

  People screamed. Coffee splashed from cups. Chairs and tables flew aside as the Ninja skidded along storefronts.

  “Idiot!”

  “You’ll kill us all!”

  Shouts and curses chased him as he hopped the curb and tore through the morning crowd. He glanced in the mirror — the vehicles still followed, forcing their way through the mass without a shred of caution. He looked ahead — a blocked intersection, lights pinned red, everything jammed.

  No way out.

  His heart slammed — but his hand stayed steady as he twisted the throttle and murmured,

  “Karma… come.”

  The gold ring on his index finger flared — small at first, like a spark under his nail — then brighter, burning through the glove. The glow spilled across his hand, up his forearm, and before he could blink, the whole street was washed in that familiar, unreal light.

  The relic answered.

  On the bike, directly behind him, a silhouette formed out of the glow — first a flickering shadow, then a living figure.

  A woman’s small body wrapped around him, arms locking around his waist. The grip was slender — but steel.

  Her hair spilled in waves split into two colors: one half pearly white, the other blood-red. The same division echoed in her face — lashes and brows following that doubled palette — down to a pair of large black eyes that snapped open and shone in the headlights.

  She wore tight pants cut to the knee, her legs hugging the bike as she clung to him. Across her waist and stomach ran multiple leather straps — some thick and heavy, others thin and crossed like a net. One main belt lay over her hips, packed with bullets arranged neatly in small leather pockets.

  Her chest was covered by a plain, square-cut shirt — tight, unmarked — while her long hair whipped violently in the wind as the engine screamed down the street.

  Isaac didn’t need to turn to know.

  Karma was there.

  Bullets shrieked around them, ripping the air as they struck asphalt and the bodies of parked cars. Sparks burst everywhere. Karma screamed — sharp and thin — tightening her arms around Isaac’s waist. Her body pressed to his back, and long strands of hair streamed behind them in red-and-white chaos.

  “Slow down! You know I hate it when you ride like this!” she shouted, her voice swallowed by the cold leather of his jacket, drowned beneath the machine’s thunder.

  Isaac yanked the handlebars and threw the bike into a wider street. The vehicles didn’t let up — three black modified SUVs held on, headlights flashing like predator eyes.

  “Karma, please… get rid of them,” he muttered through clenched teeth, aware his breath was breaking in his throat.

  She shook her head, black eyes squeezed shut, arms tightening even more around his waist.

  Then a bullet tore into his shoulder.

  Leather split. Blood smeared his sleeve. He bit down hard, pain flashing through his entire arm — but he didn’t ease off the gas.

  “Now or never, Karma!” he shouted.

  Karma threw her head back, hair blazing like a long flame of red and white, her black eyes widening into something like an abyss. Still wrapped around Isaac’s waist, she breathed fast — almost panicked.

  Slowly she opened her eyes, looking upside down — straight at the asphalt and the vehicles charging toward them.

  “Fine. Fine. You don’t have to yell,” she exhaled, her voice sounding like a whisper and a promise at the same time.

  She let go.

  Her body flew off the bike. In the mirror, Isaac saw her flip through the air before her feet hit the asphalt.

  The ground beneath her began to collapse, as if someone had grabbed the street and pulled it inward. Concrete plates cracked. Asphalt sank into dark circles. Cars around her braked hard, horns blaring, swerving to avoid her, drivers shouting and cursing in panic.

  Karma didn’t look at them.

  Her hand was already at the belt on her hip. She drew bullets — each one glinting in the morning sun — and clenched them in her fist. Like throwing a baseball, she swung her arm.

  The bullets flew, metal clattering as they cut the air.

  The impact was brutal.

  A tire blew out, metal screamed, vehicles slammed into one another. The first SUV skidded sideways; the second and third plowed into it, and all of them crashed into a parked van while a chain collision detonated behind them.

  Sirens, horns, shattering glass, and screams flooded the street.

  Isaac didn’t even think about slowing down. The bike thundered as he cut across two more intersections, dodging pedestrians and cars that braked and swerved out of his path. He left the chaos behind without looking back — he had to get as far away from that hell as possible.

  And then — that familiar sensation.

  Cold hands wrapped around his waist again, pressing against his stomach through the jacket.

  Karma returned.

  His phone rang — a short signal inside his helmet.

  Ivy.

  “Isaac… are you okay?” Her voice was tense, but still soft.

  He slowed sharply. The moment the speed dropped, he felt Karma’s grip loosen.

  “I’m near your shop,” he said hoarsely, the words swallowed by engine noise. “See you.”

  He ended the call without explanation.

  In the mirror he saw only his own reflection — and two black eyes behind his shoulders — as the Ninja slid quietly onward through the city.

  Ivy Everglow, April 5th, 2025

  The line cut off before she could say anything else.

  Ivy stared for a moment at the small TV screen mounted above her workbench, scratched and smudged with oil. The news was broadcasting live. A reporter stood in front of a mess of smashed cars, blue and red lights flickering behind her.

  “Shooting in the city center… multiple injured… witnesses report a motorcyclist was involved…”

  Ivy exhaled, closed her eyes for a brief second, then pushed herself back. The wheels of her rolling stool scraped across the concrete floor, rattling over spilled screws and tiny metal fragments. Sounds surrounded her: oil dripping into a tin bucket, the faint hum of an old fridge in the corner, the occasional hammer strike from the workshop next door. The smells of gasoline, smoke, and dust were so thick she practically tasted them.

  She picked up a toolbox, the metallic clatter ringing out as sockets and wrenches shifted inside. Sweat already stuck to her back, but she didn’t care. She slid beneath the car, the lamp hooked to the chassis casting a yellow light over her hands as they gripped a rusted screw.

  The roar of a motorcycle thundered outside the shop before shifting into a deep, grinding rumble as it slowed. The door was half open, and the Ninja rolled inside. The tires left thin black streaks on the concrete, and the smell of burnt fuel blended with the stale scent of oil and metal already hanging in the air.

  Isaac stopped, braced a foot on the ground, and let the bike settle on its stand. Slowly, he removed his helmet. His hair stuck in damp strands across his sweaty forehead. When he straightened, his back was taut, his shoulders slumped as if he’d been carrying half the city on them.

  Ivy slid out from under the car, wiped her hands on an old rag, then stood. She gave him a sharp look — measuring him from head to toe — but her voice was clipped and direct.

  “Where’s Karma?”

  Isaac set the helmet on a worktable crowded with screws, scratched wrenches, and oil-stained cloths. The sound was dull — metal on metal.

  “She got sick,” he muttered, his voice tired and rough. “Went back into the relic.”

  Ivy nodded, saying nothing, though her gaze lingered on his shoulder. A bloody gash was clearly visible through the torn jacket.

  Isaac removed the jacket slowly, fingers bracing around the injured shoulder. A curse slipped through his teeth — quiet, rough. He set the jacket next to the helmet. The two items looked like trophies from a fight that hadn’t gone well.

  “Come with me.”

  Ivy had already turned, heading through the narrow passage to the back room. Isaac followed without protest. His heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete, hers quick and precise.

  The room behind was smaller — shelves stacked with boxes of spare parts, the smell of dust and old grease, and in the center a table with a single computer and a lamp whose yellow light flickered faintly. On one shelf sat a first aid kit.

  “Sit,” she said curtly, already pulling a chair out.

  Isaac sat without resistance. He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a back marked by old scars — and a fresh one cutting across his shoulder. The blood was dark and sticky, the skin around it flushed red.

  Ivy opened the kit, pulled out gauze and alcohol.

  “Is the USB still on you?” she asked, soaking a cotton pad as she stepped closer.

  “In the jacket,” he answered, staring at the wall.

  She pressed the pad to the wound. The alcohol burned; Isaac clenched his jaw, holding his breath.

  “Poor lawyer…” she said quietly. “But at least you didn’t lose the data. Boss would lose his mind.”

  Isaac let out a hard breath and nodded.

  “Yeah… good thing.”

  He didn’t complain when she wrapped the gauze around his shoulder. Her fingers were fast and steady, but occasionally gentle — as if trying to soften the pain. She tightened the bandage, checked it with a firm touch, then stepped back half a pace to look him over. Her face was cool, but there was a faint trace of concern in her eyes.

  “Those guys chasing you… I assume they knew what you were carrying,” she said, her voice low but certain.

  Isaac leaned back in the chair, his shoulders easing just enough to blunt the pain.

  “Seems like it.”

  Ivy rested a hip against the table, arms crossed.

  “Which means we’re not the only ones who were after that data.”

  “Rivals… or someone on the inside,” he muttered, reaching for a cigarette before stopping when she shot him a look. He rubbed his temples instead.

  “Either way. Not the first time someone’s figured it out.”

  Ivy nodded, though she didn’t look convinced.

  “The next step’s obvious. The USB has to go to the boss. Before those people show up again.”

  Isaac lifted his gaze, his eyes settling on hers.

  “And if they do show up again?”

  “Then,” she said, placing the gauze back into the kit, “let’s hope Karma’s in a good mood.”

  A short, bitter smile crossed his face.

  “You keep hoping.”

  The restaurant was small and old-fashioned, its walls paneled in dark wood and its tablecloths stained with stubborn café marks that no amount of washing ever fully erased. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, fried bacon, and buttered bread — heavy, but comforting.

  A few early risers sat tucked in corners, flipping through newspapers or scrolling on their phones, while an elderly waitress in a white apron glided between tables with a tray balanced on her hand.

  Isaac and Ivy took a table by the window. He ordered coffee, three sunny-side-up eggs, and two sausages; she ordered only a black coffee. The food and drinks arrived quickly, cups and plates clinking as they hit the table.

  Ivy wrapped her hands around her mug, letting the warmth seep into her palms. She watched the dark liquid sway inside, the bitter scent rising straight into her nose.

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  “You should call Killian,” she said flatly, without lifting her gaze.

  Isaac choked on his bite. He instantly grabbed his cup and took a gulp of coffee — too hot — just to force the lump down his throat. Shaking his head, he muttered:

  “Why?”

  Ivy finally looked up. The morning sun filtered through the grimy curtains, catching her eyes and sharpening their golden tint.

  “Whoever’s after the USB isn’t going to leave you alone,” she said, her voice steady and unbroken. “You need backup.”

  Isaac set his fork down, the metal ringing against the porcelain. He looked out the window at the city just waking up. The food in his stomach sat heavy — just like her words. He kept cutting and eating in short, tense motions; his fork and knife clicked against the plate in the rhythm of his nerves.

  “The boss isn’t far from here,” he mumbled between bites. “I’ll bring him the USB myself.”

  He paused only long enough to drink more coffee before continuing, eyes still fixed on the sunny streets beyond the window.

  “I’m sure Killian has better things to do.”

  Ivy shook her head, her eyes narrowing as she pulled her phone from her pocket.

  “I’ll call him myself—”

  She didn’t even get to unlock the screen.

  Isaac snatched the phone from her hand with a swift motion, set it next to his plate, and said:

  “No. You won’t.”

  She leaned back in her chair, shoulders loosening though her stare sharpened. A lock of short dark hair curled around her finger, sliding over her palm as she let it fall.

  “It’s better you call Killian…” she said, calm but sharp as steel,

  “…than lose the USB.”

  Isaac lowered his fork; he no longer cared to eat. Traffic noise seeped in through the closed window, but the silence between them was heavier than any siren or horn outside.

  That silence broke with a sudden spike from the TV above the counter. The waiter turned the volume up, and the anchor’s clear voice filled the restaurant:

  “In today’s news… this year’s examination for Amber Directorate candidates has drawn public attention. Our crew is on the scene and has the opportunity to speak with Hannah Adler, one of the unit’s lead officers.”

  Isaac lifted his gaze.

  Hannah appeared on-screen — calm and composed — facing the camera. Her dark hair was braided tightly down her back, her face unreadable, but her voice sharp and measured.

  “This examination, like those before it, tests not only physical capability but psychological stability,” Hannah said. “The goal is to find those who can withstand pressure and take responsibility for an entire country, not just themselves.”

  Ivy looked up from her mug, momentarily forgetting their argument.

  Hannah continued, candidates visible in the background entering the building:

  “I can’t reveal the details of the test,” she added, “but what I can say is that, as every year, only a handful will pass.”

  A quiet murmur swept through the restaurant; a couple by the counter commented under their breath.

  Isaac clenched his jaw, eyes locked on Hannah as the camera zoomed in on her face.

  Ivy watched him from the corner of her eye, thoughtful, her fingers still twisting that strand of hair. She looked back at her coffee, steam rising from the rim — then suddenly spoke, soft and almost offhand:

  “Are you seeing her again?”

  Isaac stiffened. His gaze shifted from the TV back to her. He didn’t blink.

  Just answered, cold and short:

  “No.”

  Her eyes were golden in the morning light, but distrust glimmered beneath the color. Her lips parted — she was about to say something more when—

  A sharp, muffled crack split the air.

  The window beside them shattered into a rain of glass.

  Shards spilled across the table, over their plates, over their hands —

  as a bullet tore past Isaac’s shoulder

  and buried itself in the wall behind them.

  People in the restaurant screamed, chairs toppled, and the waitress dropped her tray — the crash rang out across the floor. Ivy threw her hands up instinctively, while Isaac was already flipping the table, using it as a shield. Glass shards sparkled across the tiles like scattered stars.

  Isaac’s voice tore through the chaos, blending with the guests’ screams and the sharp crack of gunfire as he pulled Ivy toward the overturned table.

  “Karma!”

  The ring on his finger flared — first a spark like a lit match, then brighter, flooding the room with golden light. On the floor, amid broken glass, Karma appeared kneeling beside him, her hands gripping his sleeve. Her black eyes glinted, and her hair — half white, half blood-red — spilled over his legs.

  “What is this morning!?” she wailed, her panicked, high-pitched voice slicing right past his ear.

  The wooden table above them trembled as bullets punched through it, leaving holes and spraying splinters over their hair and shoulders. Isaac and Ivy covered their heads while the barrage went on.

  “Karma, deal with them,” Isaac growled between clenched teeth.

  He glanced at Ivy. She met his look with burning eyes and said quickly, breathless:

  “My relic is still in the workshop!”

  Isaac’s jaw tightened until his teeth creaked. He grabbed Ivy’s wrist and, as soon as the gunfire dipped, the two of them bolted. They vaulted over the counter, slammed against the cold surface, and curled up behind it. The smell of spilled liquor and detergent from smashed glasses filled their noses.

  Karma didn’t follow.

  She stayed kneeling by the overturned table, curled up like a child, arms wrapped around her knees.

  “Isaac, this is not fun at all!” she whimpered, sounding on the verge of tears.

  Isaac pressed his forehead against the icy metal of the counter, shut his eyes, and exhaled like a man whose patience had finally evaporated. His hand tightened around Ivy’s before he rasped out, voice scraping through his teeth:

  “I’ll buy you ice cream after… just deal with them.”

  The gunshots and screams continued — then Isaac shouted louder, his voice echoing over the counter:

  “Pistachio!”

  Like a cloud breaking to reveal sunlight, her expression brightened instantly. Her black eyes lit with childish excitement. She rose slowly, straightening her shoulders, her long hair cascading down her back in streaks of red and white.

  The men stormed inside, firing wildly.

  Bullets hit her — but left no mark. They slid off her skin and clattered to the floor like useless drops of rain.

  Karma tilted her head, a smile stretching across her face. She drew one leg back like a soccer player preparing for a perfect strike — then kicked.

  The bullets scattered around her feet shot upward, accelerated, and in the next second punched into the attackers’ bodies.

  The sound was dull, muted.

  Then silence.

  Bodies collapsed onto the cold restaurant tiles, blood spreading and mixing with spilled coffee and crumbs from breakfast. Chairs and tables lay overturned, and the only sound that remained was the soft hum of the TV above the counter.

  Isaac wiped a hand over his face, as if trying to smear away the entire stressful morning. His shoulders hung low, his eyes heavy.

  “Why did I even get out of bed today,” he muttered under his breath, voice losing its edge.

  Ivy stood up, brushing glass and dust from her pants with both palms before straightening and inhaling deeply.

  “We should go,” she said simply, glancing at the bloodstained floor but not lingering on it.

  Isaac nodded. As he rose, the ring on his hand glowed again — softer this time, like it sighed with him. He felt Karma withdraw back into the relic.

  He walked slowly toward the exit. At the counter he paused, left a wad of cash, and said quietly:

  “For the damage.”

  Then he continued through broken glass and overturned chairs. The smell of gunpowder and blood clung to the air, but his eyes were already fixed on the street outside, on whatever waited next.

  “Call Killian,” Ivy added behind him, her voice carrying no hesitation at all.

  Isaac stopped.

  He turned his head slightly, looking at her from the corner of his eye. His hand slipped into his pocket. He pulled out his phone, turning it between his fingers as if weighing the decision itself.

  And in the heavy quiet, the only sound was the crunch of glass under their shoes.

  Killian Phoenix, April 5th, 2025

  In the abandoned factory, silence was broken only by the dripping of water from rusted pipes and the occasional shriek of rats echoing from the shadows. The air was thick with the stench of old blood, metal, and dust — heavy, rancid, suffocating.

  Tied to a concrete pillar, a man knelt with his hands bound behind him. His head hung forward, hair matted with sweat and blood, his face a map of bruises and open cuts. His breath came shallow and quick, each inhale sounding like it might be his last.

  Killian stood over him.

  Tall, wrapped in a long black coat that brushed the dusty floor, he moved with deliberate calm. He lifted his knee and drove it hard into the prisoner’s jaw. The sound was dull, sharp — a wet crack — and blood mixed with a loose tooth sprayed across the concrete.

  Without giving him a moment to recover, Killian leaned forward, grabbed the man by his hair, and yanked his head up. His own face hovered close to the broken, bloodied one in his grip.

  “Go on,” he said quietly, “repeat what you said. This time, a little louder.”

  Something buzzed in his pocket.

  Killian froze mid-movement, then let go. The man’s head slammed against the pillar with a heavy thud.

  Straightening his back, Killian reached into his coat and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up.

  Isaac.

  A short, muffled laugh slipped from his throat as he unlocked the screen with his thumb.

  “Little brother,” he said, raising the phone to his ear while his free hand searched the pockets of his coat for a cloth.

  His voice was warm. Friendly.

  Isaac didn’t answer right away. In the quiet, Killian found a wrinkled rag and began wiping the blood from his fingers. Red smears spread across his skin, and beneath them, the ink of old runes became visible. He tossed the rag to the floor, where it soaked up dark puddles.

  “Come on,” he continued lightly, as if they were discussing weekend plans “tell me. How can I help you today?"

  “Some people killed the lawyer,” Isaac said tensely. “They’re after the flash drive. I need to get it to the boss. But they’ve intercepted me twice already.”

  Killian fell silent for a moment. He adjusted the collar of his black turtleneck and took a cigar from his inner pocket. He lit it calmly, pulled in a long breath, then began pacing around the prisoner who was still trembling and gasping against the pillar.

  “Where are you now?” he asked at last.

  “At Ivy’s,” Isaac replied.

  Killian’s gaze dropped back to the blood-soaked man at his feet. Without hesitation, he swung his boot and struck the prisoner across the face. The crack of bone and strangled groan echoed clearly through the call. Isaac didn’t ask about it.

  Killian’s pale blue eyes glinted beneath the shadow of his dark hair as he watched the body quiver from the blow. He took another drag of the cigar and exhaled slowly before speaking again — short, decisive, leaving no room for questions.

  “I’ll be there in ten.”

  The call cut off, leaving the prisoner gurgling in a pool of blood at Killian’s boots.

  Isaac & Killian Phoenix

  Isaac set the phone down on the worktable and turned in his low chair; the wooden leg scraped across the concrete. Behind him, Ivy was still bent over the motorcycle — grinding down the bullet-torn edge of the metal, her hands lit by the bare bulb hanging above the bench. The sharp clink of metal against metal echoed through the garage.

  “What did he say?” she asked without lifting her eyes from her work.

  Isaac leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling.

  “He’s on his way.”

  She nodded once, wordless, and kept working.

  Ten minutes later, a deep, thunderous engine growl shook the quiet of the shop. The street trembled with it — the sound of a Suzuki Hayabusa, matte-gray and heavy, like a promise of violence. Killian appeared in the doorway, stepping off the bike with a slow, unhurried grace, as if even time moved aside for him. He removed his matte helmet, revealing a face carrying a soft, almost tender half-smile.

  He went to Ivy first. His hand moved through her short hair, brushing a dusty, oil-streaked strand behind her ear.

  “Where’s my favorite mechanic?” he said, warmth trembling in his voice.

  Ivy lifted her chin and met his gaze — returning only a small, flat smile.

  Killian turned to Isaac.

  “Little brother,” he greeted him, as if they had bumped into each other at a family gathering and not in a dim garage after a morning full of blood.

  Isaac didn’t bother standing. He just looked up from under the dark strands falling over his eyes and said, without enthusiasm:

  “Killian.”

  A strained silence settled between them, tight as a pulled wire. Killian put his hands on his hips, glanced around the workshop, then fixed his gaze on his younger brother again.

  “Well,” he said, extending his hand like he was asking for pocket change, “give me the USB and let’s get out of here.”

  Isaac stared at him — steady, unblinking. The air smelled of oil, metal, and the faint nicotine smoke clinging to Killian’s coat. Ivy stayed by the motorcycle, head lowered, but her ears angled toward them — she wasn’t risking missing a word.

  Finally, Isaac reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. His fingers paused for a heartbeat on the cold zipper before he drew out the small, dark flash drive. He handed it over gently, placing it into Killian’s palm. Killian closed his fist around it, and the USB disappeared into the depths of his long coat.

  He didn’t linger.

  He turned sharply, black coat sweeping behind him like a shadow swallowing the light. In one fluid motion he was on the Hayabusa again, helmet on, engine roaring deep and low. Isaac watched him for a second longer, then pulled on his own helmet. His Ninja answered Killian’s beastly engine with a sharp, furious snarl.

  For one breath, the yard was quiet.

  Then both engines erupted — two different hearts beating with the same blood.

  The street stretched before them like a long, narrow strip of film. The Hayabusa tore forward like a wild creature, massive and heavy, yet under Killian’s hands moving with the grace of a panther. His black coat streamed behind him like the wings of a raven hovering over its prey.

  Isaac’s Ninja was slimmer, angrier — every twitch of the handlebars was like the pulse of a heart on the edge of rupture. He leaned harder than necessary, chasing the limit where the tire almost kissed the asphalt.

  They took turns overtaking each other — silent, competitive, dangerous. Killian would surge ahead, then Isaac would carve through from a different angle, skimming the curb, weaving between panicked drivers hammering their horns. The city watched them. The windows of tall buildings caught their reflections; the road gleamed like a black mirror dusted with streetlights.

  Every bridge they crossed looked like a frame carved from steel and shadow.

  The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber was their perfume.

  The roar of engines — their music.

  Adrenaline ran through their veins like molten metal.

  As they flew past the river, the water glittered under the rising sun, and their engines sounded like thunder ripping the morning apart.

  No words.

  Just the game — leaning, racing, sliding so low it seemed their knees might scrape the black concrete.

  Then — in their mirrors — two lights flared.

  Not headlights.

  Eyes.

  Two motorcycles, screaming down the street behind them, closing the distance with impossible speed.

  Isaac clenched his jaw.

  They’re coming.

  Without looking back, Killian opened the throttle. His coat snapped like a raven’s wing caught in a storm.

  And then — the explosion of light.

  Not from their lights.

  Not from the sun.

  From between them and the pursuers — as if someone had torn open space itself.

  A shape formed in the glow.

  A man.

  Huge, massive, each of his steps shaking the pavement. His dark hair glinted in the sun, and his eyes were nothing but two deep black voids.

  He ran barefoot — but every step cracked the asphalt beneath him.

  He lunged.

  His foot slammed into the ground with a sound like thunder, and a jagged fissure ripped across the street, stretching straight toward Isaac and Killian.

  Their motorcycles trembled.

  The ground split beneath their wheels.

  Both machines skidded, tires screaming as concrete shattered like brittle glass. For a heart-stopping moment it looked like they would both be thrown off — but they recovered. Barely.

  The Ninja slid low, almost scraping the ground.

  The Hayabusa jerked and straightened again, Killian forcing it forward with sheer will.

  The monster didn’t slow. He was gaining — each step sending another shockwave shuddering through the street.

  He tore up chunks of asphalt — massive slabs — and hurled them like deadly stone blades. The sound was like thunder, the whistle of stone slicing air.

  Isaac and Killian dodged between the attacks, engines screaming, leaving spirals of rubber on the destroyed street. Cars parked along the sides shattered under the flying debris. Alarms wailed.

  Killian turned his head just enough — pale blue eyes shining behind the visor — then glanced at his rear-view mirror.

  Isaac’s helmet gleamed in the light.

  Through the comm-link, Killian’s voice came, dry and faintly amused:

  “And I was just starting to enjoy the ride… shame.”

  Isaac exhaled sharply. His voice stayed cold, trained.

  “They’re not a regular organization. They have relics too.”

  No time for more.

  A slab of stone skimmed past Killian’s head — close enough for him to feel the displaced air nearly rip him off the motorcycle. He ducked instinctively as the Hayabusa roared onward.

  Then — a new sound cut through the chaos.

  Another engine.

  A third pursuer.

  Isaac caught the glimpse in his mirror: a rider in a black helmet, riding low and predatory, closing in fast. The attacker drew a gun from the holster on his thigh. Sunlight flashed across the metal as he aimed.

  The gunfire erupted — rapid, vicious.

  Bullets sliced past their helmets, one ripping off part of the Ninja’s side mirror.

  Isaac clenched his teeth, leaning the bike hard to dodge the next shot.

  Killian had already reacted. His left hand gripped the handlebars, and with his right he drew his gun. The motion was effortless, fluid — elegant.

  One shot.

  A sharp crack.

  The attacker’s pistol flew from his hand, skidding across the asphalt and sparking as it bounced. A spike of pain shot through the man’s arm; he lost balance, the bike shuddered beneath him. He veered sharply, the rear wheel clipping the curb. Everything burst into sparks. The motorcycle skidded, flipped, and dragged him straight into a concrete divider. The impact boomed through the chaos of the street.

  In his mirror, Isaac saw the burst of sparks and smoke swallow the rider and the bike as the city behind them filled with sirens and horrified screams.

  Killian lowered his gun, spinning it smoothly around his finger before tucking it back under his coat.

  His voice came through the comm — cold, calm:

  “One down.”

  Isaac didn’t respond — the giant behind them was still tearing up the street.

  Their motorcycles carved through the asphalt as they dodged new slabs of concrete hurtling toward them. Sparks sprayed as chunks of pavement smashed into metal railings. People screamed and fled toward the sidewalks, covering their heads.

  Isaac dropped the Ninja at an impossible angle, tire screeching between buildings, while Killian kept pace beside him — steady, composed, as if riding to work on a Sunday morning.

  “I’d really love to see Karma right about now,” Killian remarked dryly through the mic, just as another flying chunk of concrete shot past him and shattered against a streetlight.

  Isaac’s sharp dark eyes flashed behind the visor.

  “You have your own relic,” he shot back — but the ring on his finger was already glowing with that warm, familiar light.

  Karma appeared on the seat behind him, pressing against his back, her huge dark eyes wide and electric.

  “What is this again?!” she screamed, her voice slicing through the roar of engines and distant gunfire. “I thought we were getting ice cream… pistachio!”

  Isaac didn’t answer. He only twisted the throttle — the Ninja howled like a beast — and Karma tightened her grip, bracing for what came next.

  Concrete exploded around them, sending deadly discs of pavement spinning through the air. Dust thickened the air; the thunder of engines blended with the crack of breaking ground.

  Karma opened one large dark eye and caught sight of Killian’s silhouette beside them. She leaned into the wind, her red-and-white hair whipping wildly, and squinted at him like a child searching for a familiar face in a crowd.

  “Killian’s here!” she shouted, her voice both excited and terrified. She tapped her finger on her chin, thinking aloud, eyes sparkling. “So where’s Indigo?”

  Isaac yanked the throttle harder, the bike snarling forward. Karma squeaked and clutched his waist with both arms, nearly disappearing against the cold leather of his jacket.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Killian — still composed under a hail of stone projectiles — casually give her a wave as if they’d met on the street, then return to riding, body folding into the rhythm of the asphalt.

  “When we finish this job,” Isaac shouted over the chaos, “we’re getting pistachio ice cream!”

  Karma blinked — then her face lit up. A bright, childish smile bloomed across her lips, the kind born from a promise that must be kept.

  The next moment, she let go of his waist.

  The wind caught her — she jumped backward, floating above the street while the ground shattered beneath the giant’s pounding steps. She touched down gently, as if standing on solid ground, and her huge black eyes gleamed as she charged straight toward the monster.

  Eye to eye with the creature collapsing the street under his feet.

  The asphalt rose in waves. His muscles tensed, dark hair whipping wildly in the wind. Every step cracked the earth like a whip. He tore up slabs of concrete with his bare hands, hurling them with catapult force.

  Karma was already armed — bullets in hand, drawn from the leather belts across her thighs and waist — throwing them one by one like lethal baseballs. Each hit detonated in a spray of metal and stone, bursting in mid-air like fireworks. Sparks and debris filled the sky.

  A slab of stone struck her torso — sending her flying backward. She crashed to the ground, sliding until she dropped to her knees, palms slapping the pavement. Cracks spidered under her hands — but she was already up again, hair falling over her face in red-and-white sheets.

  Her hand lifted — she flung a fistful of bullets into the air. They burst apart into a hundred tiny fragments. The giant raised his arm to shield himself, but several sharp pieces sliced into his shoulder and leg. Blood trickled down his skin — but he didn’t stop. He bared his teeth, black-hole eyes burning as he ripped up another slab of pavement and hurled it at her.

  It hit her ribs.

  A cry tore from her throat as her body flew backward again. She slammed into the wall of a nearby building. Bricks cracked and scattered; she slumped on one knee and forearm, breath ragged.

  While the two of them tore the street apart, Isaac and Killian kept going — engines screaming, leaving behind clouds of smoke and the ruin of broken pavement.

  But they weren’t unnoticed.

  The first rider — the one controlling the giant — was still on his bike. His eyes were hidden behind a dark visor, but his gaze was locked on them.

  He shifted up a gear and accelerated.

  In his mirror, Isaac saw him closing in. Metal glinted in the man’s hand — a pistol, aimed with no hesitation.

  Killian reacted instantly, drawing his own weapon, but a shot from a different angle pierced the air first. Sparks exploded. Killian’s gun was ripped from his grip, spinning through the air before disappearing into the street.

  The attacker pressed on, closing in from the left, firing without pause. One bullet grazed Killian’s arm, ripping a red line across the sleeve of his coat. Another shattered Isaac’s right mirror; glass burst into tiny shards, cold air slicing past his helmet as sunlight momentarily blinded him.

  The bikes drew dangerously close, engines roaring, bullets ricocheting off metal and pavement. The city turned into a trap of speed and gunfire.

  In Isaac’s helmet, Killian’s voice came through — low and final:

  “Enough playing.”

  His hand dove into the inner pocket of his coat.

  He pulled out a heavy metal lighter, its surface engraved with raised symbols — ancient, like the object was as old as the city itself.

  “Indigo,” he breathed.

  A blinding light erupted behind his motorbike.

  Even Isaac had to squint. The pursuing rider ducked instinctively, shielding his face from the flash.

  When the light withdrew — someone stood on the back of Killian’s speeding bike.

  A woman.

  Her silhouette looked unreal, as if she had risen directly from the sea. She stood effortlessly on the rear frame of the motorcycle, as though speed meant nothing to her — as if her feet were planted on calm, solid ground.

  Her hair — deep ocean blue — streamed behind her like a banner unfurling in sunlight. White fabric wrapped her body in layered folds that flowed like waves, creased like seafoam. Golden ornaments fastened parts of the cloth — small but shimmering, catching every speck of light.

  In her right hand she held a golden staff, long and heavy, crowned with a crescent moon. When she tilted it, the entire street seemed to glow in warm gold for a heartbeat.

  She opened her eyes — two radiant golden circles, glowing as brightly as her staff.

  Indigo didn’t waste a second.

  Her body, wrapped in light, drifted from Killian’s bike like a shadow peeling off a wall. In an instant she appeared behind the pursuing rider. He didn’t even turn his head — the crescent-moon blade had already pierced his chest.

  Gold shimmered as metal drove through flesh and bone. Blood splattered across his visor; his scream cut through the roar of engines.

  Indigo stepped off lightly, as if walking on air. A moment later, her form dissolved into pure light, which flowed backward like water — straight into Killian’s lighter. It glowed once, then stilled.

  The rider’s body, lifeless, slid off the bike and crashed onto the asphalt. The motorcycle, left to inertia, skidded dozens of meters before slamming into a nearby wall, bursting into sparks and bent metal.

  A quick flash crossed the corpse — the relic, freed and unbound, returning to its core without a master.

  At the same time, Isaac felt a pulse beneath his hand.

  The ring on his finger flickered — a heartbeat returning to him.

  Karma was back.

  The streets were empty where the body had fallen.

  Isaac and Killian slowed their motorcycles, parking them right by the curb. The engines still rumbled as they dismounted, helmets in hand, while the smell of burning metal and spilled fuel hung in the air. Killian approached the corpse first. He crouched beside it. His fingers moved over the pockets, the straps, the sleeves.

  “Let’s see what you’re hiding…” he murmured as he pulled up the sleeve of the biker jacket.

  And then they saw it.

  On the inside of the forearm — inked in black — a symbol.

  A burning rune.

  They both recognized it instantly.

  A tight knot twisted in Isaac’s stomach.

  “Activists…” he said through his teeth.

  Killian didn’t comment. He kept searching until his fingertips brushed something cold and metallic. He pulled out a slim golden bracelet — simple in shape, but etched with runes.

  A relic.

  Without a word, he slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat. He rose to his feet, brushed dust and blood from his hands, then cast a short look at Isaac.

  “Let’s go.”

  Isaac nodded, and both brothers climbed back onto their bikes. The engines roared to life again, slicing through the air as they rode off, leaving the body and the activists’ symbol behind.

  The glass tower rose above the city like a cold obelisk, each surface catching the sunlight and breaking it into sharp lines of glare. At the entrance stood two black SUVs, and several suited men with earpieces discretely scanned the surroundings.

  The sound of two motorcycles cut through the hum of the city.

  Killian’s Hayabusa and Isaac’s Ninja screeched to a stop right at the front. The engines died, leaving behind only the hum of the building’s ventilation and the lingering scent of burnt gasoline.

  Killian removed his helmet first. His hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes gleamed as if they wanted to reflect the tower itself. He set the helmet on the seat, pulled the small USB from his pocket, and held it between his fingers for a moment — weighing it.

  Then he tossed it to Isaac.

  Isaac caught the flash drive with one quick, precise movement. His gaze lingered on it — as if he were trying to read the secrets hidden inside its smooth metal surface.

  “So the activists were after this too,” he said.

  Killian simply shrugged. He pulled out a cigarillo, then the golden lighter engraved with runes, and lit it. Leaning casually against the bike, he watched the building’s entrance. The guards had already noticed them but looked away discreetly.

  Isaac started toward the doors, but when he realized his brother wasn’t following, he turned.

  “Come on,” he said. “You know Vega hates waiting.”

  Killian exhaled a slow trail of smoke.

  “Not my job, little brother,” he replied lazily. “I don’t like stealing someone else’s glory.”

  Isaac sighed, shook his head, and waved him off as he turned away.

  At the entrance, two guards in black suits waited. Their shoulders were broader than the doorway, hands clasped in front of their stomachs. One of them nodded immediately.

  “Mr. Phoenix.”

  Isaac returned a brief nod and walked past.

  The building’s interior was just as cold and imposing as the exterior. Large gray marble tiles gleamed under harsh lights. Everything was done in steel-gray and white tones, without a single unnecessary detail. In the middle of the vast lobby stood a sleek reception desk where two women in business attire flipped through documents, speaking in hushed tones.

  Without a word, Isaac pulled a card from the inside of his jacket and tapped it against the sensor by the hallway door. A green light flashed, the doors slid open with a soft hiss, and he stepped inside.

  The hallway led him to a bank of elevators. The space wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t peaceful either — men in suits walked briskly, conversations passed in whispered fragments, the metallic thud of office doors shutting echoed, and the rapid click of heels crossed the marble floor.

  Isaac pressed the button; the elevator opened and he stepped inside. The walls were brushed steel, reflecting him from every angle. He pressed the floor where Dorian Vega waited, and the doors closed with a gentle hum.

  Several floors up, the doors slid open.

  A man stepped in — massive build, broad jaw, short pale hair. One of his eyes was glass — cold, unmoving — while the other, equally pale, observed everything sharply. A short, messy beard framed his hard features.

  Isaac immediately smiled.

  “Agron!”

  Their hands locked in a firm grip — the kind of greeting that spoke louder than words. They stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the doors as the elevator rose, the floor numbers ticking upward. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft hum of machinery.

  Agron spoke first — his voice deep, rough, almost cracking into a smirk.

  “Have you heard?”

  Isaac shot him a sideways glance.

  “Amber’s got a new recruit.”

  Isaac slowly lifted his head. His eyes landed on Agron, whose metallic grin revealed silver teeth. His glass eye remained still, but the other gleamed with amusement.

  “Some kid survived the test… imagine that.”

  The elevator continued rising, tension hanging in the air between them.

  It slowed, then stopped with a soft hydraulic sigh. The doors opened and Agron stepped out.

  “See you around, Phoenix,” he said with a half-grin, waving once.

  Isaac nodded as the doors slid shut and lifted him higher. Silence returned — only the steady hum and his own breathing. His thoughts twisted restlessly.

  If someone passed… actually survived… Does that mean Kai wasn’t part of this year’s trial? Or was he — and someone endured anyway? Impossible…

  He tightened his fist. The ring on his finger flickered faintly in the dim light of the elevator, as if Karma had sensed his thoughts and answered in her own way.

  The doors slid open, dispersing his thoughts like smoke.

  He stepped into a long, darkened corridor. The walls were paneled in dark wood and leather, the thick ash-colored carpet absorbing his footsteps. At both ends of the hall stood two guards — still as statues. Only their eyes tracked him as he walked toward the large double doors at the end.

  He stopped before them. Above him, just under the ceiling, a black camera lens stared back. Its thin red light brightened — scanning his features, pausing on his eyes.

  For several seconds, nothing stirred. Only the sound of his pulse in his ears.

  Then — a soft click.

  The massive wooden doors opened on their own, slow and synchronized, pushed by an invisible force.

  A faint golden glow spilled into the hall.

  Isaac inhaled, squared his shoulders, and entered.

  A long table stretched through the middle of the room — cold and gleaming, like a slab of black marble. Heavy metal blinds covered the tall windows, letting in no daylight. A few lamps on the edges cast dim, muted light, just enough to carve out faint shadows.

  At the far end of the table, in the half-dark, sat a figure. His face was hidden in shadow, but his hands were visible — strong, broad, weighed down by gold and silver rings. Their cold gleam caught the light each time his fingers turned a page or dragged a pen across paper. The soft rustling of documents was the room’s only rhythm.

  Isaac stepped in and stopped just past the threshold. His silhouette, lit only from behind, remained still as his voice filled the space:

  “Boss.”

  The pen scraped one final time, then stilled.

  Ringed hands placed the paper down.

  The voice from the shadows was quiet — but carried a weight that brooked no contradiction.

  “Do you have it?”

  Isaac took a few steps forward, pulled the flash drive from his jacket and placed it on the table. The metal clicked faintly on the stone surface.

  “It’s here.”

  The boss’s hand — heavy and deliberate — slid the USB toward himself without checking it.

  “Well done.”

  Isaac nodded. He turned and walked back toward the doors.

  They closed behind him without a sound, leaving only the soft scrape of paper and the presence of the man in the shadows — as if Isaac had never been there.