Vivian Thorn, April 11th, 2025

  The April morning rose early, the sky painted in pale pink and golden tones. Vivian greeted the sun from her terrace, standing still as a statue while she held a watering can with her metal hand. A soft stream of water poured steadily, hitting the soil in the pots. The petals of purple, orange, and red flowers gleamed in the morning light, their leaves trembling as if dancing—whether from the wind or gratitude, it was hard to tell.

  When she was done, Vivian set the can aside and brushed her healthy hand across one of the petals, gently, as if touching a memory rather than a living flower. A smile flickered on her lips—brief, but enough to soften the stern lines of her face. She lingered a moment longer on the horizon, where the sun was fighting to reclaim the sky, then turned and went back inside.

  Her apartment was small, but every object in it had its place, like a note in a melody. Shelves lined with books, corners decorated with red and blue vases full of green plants. Instruments and vinyl records hung neatly on the walls, well-kept and carefully preserved. It was a space that carried presence—not just her own life, but the echoes she refused to forget completely.

  The kettle whistled; steam drifted across the kitchen like a soft cloud. Vivian walked over and picked up a cup—imperfect, shaped as if by an amateur hand, glazed in a shine that caught the morning sun. She placed a black tea bag inside and poured the boiling water. She brought the cup to her face and inhaled the familiar bitter scent, watching as the clear liquid darkened, a flavor born from simple water.

  With the cup in one hand and a book in the other, she stepped back onto the terrace. She sat down, opening the book to where she had stopped reading the night before. The wind tugged gently at the pages, but she held them with her finger and continued, looking serene, almost fragile in that moment.

  The phone ringing sliced through the peace. Vivian set the book down, then the cup—carefully, as though the arrangement of objects on the small table mattered. Only then did she pick up the receiver.

  “Thorn,” she said curtly, a voice that asked for no explanations.

  She listened for a long time, her expression unchanged. Only the shadows in her eyes deepened as the silence on the other end filled the space with her thoughts. When the caller finished, she replied just as short:

  “I see.”

  She hung up, letting the line fall quiet while steam from the cup drifted upward, carrying the message she’d just heard. She returned to her morning rhythm as if the phone call were merely another paragraph in her book—important, but not enough to unsettle her balance. She took the last sip of tea, then washed the cup carefully and left it to dry in its place.

  She dressed without haste, as though confirming her composure through every movement: a wide, bright red shirt tucked neatly into matching trousers, cinched with a black belt emphasizing her waist. The metal legs slipped into high-heeled boots, every step quiet but certain. Her golden waves of hair needed only a single pass of the comb—nature had done its part.

  Keys, wallet, a few neatly arranged papers—all packed into her bag in one smooth motion.

  Just as she was about to leave, she paused by the shelf. Her gaze fell on a book with golden covers, engraved with runes that shimmered softly in the morning light. She stared at it for a moment, but her fingers didn’t reach for it. She turned and left, leaving the book undisturbed—calm, untouched, yet present.

  She reached headquarters quickly. Her parking spot was, as always, empty; she slid the car in with precision, grabbed her bag, and locked the doors with a single click. The mechanism echoed briefly before fading into silence as her heels resumed their rhythm.

  Inside, the building breathed routine—the rustle of papers, conversations behind office doors, occasional typing. But her steps did not dissolve into the noise; the weight of metal and the precise strike of heels created a cadence that announced her arrival. She stopped before the door labeled First Unit.

  Her cold metal hand pressed down on the handle and opened the door.

  The familiar scene: Hannah buried in front of her monitor, fingers dancing tirelessly over the keyboard, piles of files and spreadsheets glowing on the screen. Leonid leaning over the back of Anton’s chair, voice dropped into a low instruction, pointing at something on the monitor while Anton nodded frantically, fixing his mistakes and following every piece of advice like his life depended on it.

  “We have a mission.”

  The words were not loud, but they cut through the room instantly. All three turned toward her, and in one motion abandoned what they were doing. Without a word, they followed her to the briefing room, knowing Vivian never uttered those words lightly.

  They took their seats around the long table, lit by projector light cutting through the dim room. Vivian moved around them carefully, placing copies in front of each member with her cold metal fingers. When she finished, she sat at the head of the table. She pressed the remote, and the projector hummed to life—the blank screen shifting into a series of images: luxury interiors, crystal chandeliers, panoramic windows overlooking the city at night.

  “Tonight, a black-market relic auction will take place,” Vivian said evenly, her voice devoid of speculation. “It’s organized by the mafia.”

  A photo flashed on the wall—a dazzling hotel facade under night lights. At the entrance, luxury cars, lines of security, a red carpet leading up to the doors.

  “Location: the luxury hotel Cube. Their base of dirty operations for years. The restaurant on the ground floor is known to everyone. But the real games happen on the third floor.”

  The image shifted: a dark auction room illuminated by spotlights, tables full of items. On pedestals—glass display cases holding relics that gleamed under the lights.

  “Your mission,” she continued, now looking directly at Hannah, then Anton, then Leonid, “is to enter as buyers. Under false identities. The objective is simple: secure the relics and get out of Cube before the mafia realizes what happened.”

  Leonid leaned back, raised an eyebrow, twirling a pen between his fingers.

  “Sounds like a fun evening stroll,” he muttered.

  Vivian’s icy gaze slid past him and landed on Anton, who still stared at the hotel photo as if looking at a monster.

  “Don’t be fooled,” Vivian said. “This is not an ordinary mission. The mafia will not negotiate. If they spot you, you’ll be in their crosshairs before you manage to draw breath.”

  Silence fell over the table. Only the soft drone of the projector remained, the relics on the screen shimmering faintly.

  While Vivian laid out the logistics of the operation, Hannah lowered her gaze to the papers in front of her. The sheet spoke clearly: 20 relics. Her eyes drifted across the list, her fingers unconsciously brushing the fake ID card. Hotel Cube—and even on the briefing document, the surname Phoenix hung in the header like a shadow over everything. She caught herself silently repeating a prayer—that tonight everything would go cleanly, without them having to draw weapons, without bloodshed.

  Leonid stretched his legs under the table and covered his mouth with his hand as he pretended to listen attentively. But in his mind, a feeling lingered—he couldn’t remember the last time they’d raided an entire mafia auction. A cleared hall, twenty relics, the Phoenix hotel, black-market trade… was this really worth the trouble? Wouldn’t it be simpler to let the rich play with their toys and let Amber buy back the important relics later through the Adler family? He glanced at Hannah—her expression was firm, but far too tense.

  Anton squeezed his ID so tightly the edge dug into his palm. He’d already survived two missions—one beside Hannah, one beside Leonid. He’d learned. He’d kept up. And tonight, they would go together, as a true unit.

  He felt a mix of pride and dread. Would he be able to prove he deserved their trust?

  Only the projector continued to hum, its light flickering across their faces as if they were already on stage—an audience waiting for the curtain to rise.

  Isaac Phoenix, April 11th, 2025

  Isaac’s Ninja roared through the streets of the wealthy district, the engine slicing through the evening quiet and bouncing off glass facades, as if the entire city bowed beneath his arrival. On his back he felt the weight of tonight’s business, but also a strange calm—the arms around his waist held him with a certainty that grounded him. That grip didn’t belong to a relic spirit, but to a woman of flesh and blood.

  Ivy Everglow.

  She leaned against him, visor down, her gaze fixed on the lights and buildings rushing by in a blur. She was steady, almost as if riding through this chaotic city had long ago become second nature to her.

  When they pulled up in front of the hotel, the large golden letters on the facade gleamed under the floodlights: Cube. A modern building—massive, polished, but overshadowed by the reputation behind its name.

  Isaac swung off the bike first, removed his helmet, and his black hair spilled over his shoulders. Ivy lingered a moment longer, as if wanting to stretch out the feeling of the ride. Then she removed her helmet and ran her fingers through her hair. Her other hand brushed over the cold metal of the Ninja, petting it like a living creature.

  “See? Now it purrs beautifully,” she said, satisfaction blooming into a smile as she looked up at him.

  Isaac returned the smile, letting her stand. When she stepped closer, he slung his arm over her shoulders and drew her toward him. They walked side by side toward the hotel entrance, the floodlights sliding over their faces while the fading hum of the bike dissolved into the night behind them.

  “Tonight is going to be very important for Killian,” Ivy said, their footsteps echoing across the marble floor.

  Isaac glanced down at her, giving her shoulder a brief, firm squeeze before letting his hand fall into his jacket pocket. He took out a pack of cigarettes, ran his thumb along the cardboard edge, then shook his head and put it back.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, “we can’t screw this up.”

  The moment they stepped inside, they were swallowed by the usual hotel bustle—voices overlapping, staff rushing by, the scent of expensive perfume and floor wax drifting through the air. The hostesses recognized them the second they entered.

  “Good evening, Mr. Phoenix. Second floor,” one of them said with a professional bow.

  Isaac gave a short nod—someone who didn’t need words. The elevator carried them upward with a soft hum. When the doors opened, they walked down the hallway and through a pair of wide double doors.

  Before them spread an enormous hall. Walls paneled in dark wood, velvet chairs in deep black and burgundy, and crystal chandeliers overhead scattering light into a hundred small gleams.

  Together they passed through the crowd, exchanging nods and brief handshakes with familiar mafia faces—acknowledgments, half-smiles, nothing more. Finally they settled in their seats. The air was heavy with expectation and luxury; all around them, mafiosi and staff waited patiently for the evening to unfold.

  Killian stepped onto the stage, and the room fell silent instantly. Spotlights washed over him from above, reflecting in his eyes with a cold glimmer—like ice catching moonlight. The black suit he wore swallowed the light, making him appear like a shadow standing tall before them.

  “Tonight we are hosting a relic auction,” he began, his voice deep, controlled, the words falling sharp as lined commands.

  “I have the honor of leading it… and of overseeing it.”

  He paused. His gaze swept the hall, face by face, as if measuring every soul present.

  “Our hotel is welcoming important guests from all over the world. Let’s make sure they feel comfortable… and that they know they didn’t board their planes for nothing.”

  A brief smile appeared on his lips—cold, fleeting—before his voice sharpened again.

  “I want everything to run perfectly. I expect every one of you to be perfect tonight.”

  His words rang in the silence—clear, unwavering, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Killian clapped his hands once, then again, the sound echoing through the hall.

  “Everyone to your positions. The auction begins in two hours.”

  Chairs scraped as people rose; waiters and staff hurried to their tasks; whispers revived in small waves. As Killian descended from the stage, his voice cut through the space one final time:

  “Make it shine.”

  Auction, April 11th, 2025

  Anton stood beside Hannah as she slipped her phone into a slim envelope-sized purse. She stepped closer and tugged gently at the end of his tie, undoing the knot only to re-tie it with calm, practiced fingers. Her voice was quiet, but firm.

  “Don’t be nervous tonight. We need to look and behave…”

  She lifted her gaze, inspected the knot she was tightening beneath his throat, then finished,

  “…as if we were born for this.”

  Anton nodded. His heart was racing, but he forced himself to look composed. Watching Hannah, he knew she wasn’t pretending — the dress she wore clung to her like it had been tailored for her alone, the golden pendant hidden beneath the fabric, the silk scarf carefully covering the runes on her shoulders and arms, and the blonde wig transforming her into someone else entirely — elegant without effort.

  Footsteps behind them.

  Leonid joined them, a cigarette glowing between his lips. He wore a dark suit, his tie matched the exact color of Hannah’s dress — a detail too precise to be an accident. He whistled softly, giving Hannah a long appreciative look.

  “Miss Adler, you look stunning,” he murmured, then through a curl of smoke added,

  “Or should I say, Mrs. Black?”

  Their identities tonight were a mask: husband and wife from a distant country, and their nephew.

  The Black family.

  A black limousine pulled up in front of them, its lacquered surface gleaming under the hotel’s neon lights. Leonid opened the door. Hannah entered first, Anton followed, and Leonid slid in last, snuffing out his cigarette mid-step and nodding to the driver.

  The limousine stopped on the red carpet, where other guests were already arriving. Uniformed drivers opened doors, helping women whose dresses looked like works of art step out gracefully beside their partners. Flashbulbs flickered occasionally — even though this wasn’t a public spectacle, everything about this world looked ready for the front page.

  Anton stepped out first, his eyes darting everywhere — the luxury cars lined up like trophies, the jewelry glittering on women’s necks and wrists, men’s watches worth more than his entire apartment. Foreign languages blended in the air, along with laughter and the hum of conversations — a cacophony of wealth.

  Hannah stepped out after him, and the entrance lights caught her perfectly, making the chain around her neck flash with brilliance. She walked with absolute confidence, head held high, as if she’d lived among these people all her life. Out of the corner of his eye, Anton noticed an older gentleman in a tuxedo pause and stare after her.

  Leonid exited last, extinguishing his cigarette in a crystal ashtray by the door before draping an arm over his “nephew’s” shoulder. His usual half-smile played on his lips, but his eyes missed nothing — the lines of security guards, the discreet cameras hidden in the ceiling, the waiters already offering champagne in tall glasses.

  At the entrance, a host in white gloves asked for their identification.

  Hannah handed hers first: “Mrs. Black.”

  Her voice was clear, steady, without a tremor.

  Leonid followed with his own. Anton copied them — uncertain, but practiced enough.

  The host bowed professionally and let them inside.

  The doors of Hotel Cube opened wide, pouring them into a sea of light. Crystal chandeliers illuminated marble floors, walls adorned with paintings that looked too expensive even for a gallery, while the music of a string quartet floated from the adjoining hall. Waiters in white gloves slid through the crowd, balancing trays of champagne.

  Everywhere around them shimmered dresses woven from silk and gold, jewelry reflecting against polished surfaces, and an atmosphere so thick with luxury Anton felt he could breathe it in.

  Hannah glanced back at them and whispered,

  “Now the show begins.”

  They walked through the dazzling crowd, moving as if they belonged beneath those chandeliers and on that marble. Leonid raised his arm, and Hannah draped her hand beneath it in a gesture perfectly rehearsed for these occasions. Their steps were synchronized, rhythmic, a dance that blended seamlessly with the music.

  Anton followed close behind, eyes wide as he took in the swirl of colors, the perfume mingling with the scent of freshly served dishes, the glimpse of a life he had known only from cinema screens.

  Hannah tilted her head slightly toward Leonid. Her blonde disguise shimmered as she murmured,

  “Second floor is the auction. Third floor is where they keep the relics.”

  Before Leonid could respond, a waiter appeared with a silver tray lined with crystal glasses. Hannah waved him off, but Leonid — amused — picked up a glass anyway. The sparkling drink caught the light beautifully, looking like it belonged in his hand.

  Anton hesitated, then — wanting to commit fully to the role — took a glass himself. Hannah shot them both a sidelong look beneath dark lashes, a hint of admonition in her eyes.

  “We have to blend in,” Leonid whispered, raising the glass as if to toast all the lies wrapped around them.

  The delicate chime of crystal cut through the hall, bright enough to momentarily silence conversations. One of the hostesses in a sleek silver gown stepped onto a small elevated platform.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the auction is about to begin. Please join us on the second floor.”

  The movement in the hall was instantaneous — silk dresses rustled, expensive watches and bracelets chimed softly as the guests drifted toward the staircase. Hannah, Leonid, and Anton blended into the crowd like drops in a current, but every step they took was measured.

  On the second floor, a vast hall greeted them, the light from crystal chandeliers scattering across walls framed in gold. Tables were arranged in neat rows, and on the stage stood a podium — empty, yet heavy with significance.

  They found empty seats in the middle — close enough to see and hear, but distant enough to remain unnoticed.

  Hannah set her clutch beside her and let her gaze sweep across the room. She counted the men in black suits lining the walls, noted the spacing between them, the angle of their stares, the rhythm with which their eyes circled the hall. Every detail was a data point.

  Leonid sat down with casual ease, but his eyes were just as sharp — beneath that relaxed half-smile, he measured every hand dipping too often into a suspiciously large coat pocket, every face that betrayed too much tension or too much confidence.

  Anton, on the other hand, was clearly new to this. His eyes roamed across the scene as if he were watching a play. Glittering dresses, ring-studded fingers shining like tiny stars, the cold stares of mafiosi — everything looked unreal, like a movie scene he had stumbled into by accident.

  “Calm your eyes,” Hannah whispered, lips barely moving. “They give you away.”

  Anton swallowed and quickly lowered his gaze to the glass in front of him, but Leonid patted him on the shoulder.

  “Easy, kid. Look like all of this belongs to you.”

  Anton tried, though his heart wasn’t convinced.

  The murmur in the hall stilled the moment a tall, dark-haired man stepped onto the stage. He didn’t need to raise his voice or make a gesture — his presence alone hardened the air. Two blue eyes, cold and cutting, swept over the crowd like twin searchlights, while his feet carried him with the ease of a predator in a perfectly tailored black suit.

  He looked simple — and yet as if the entire room breathed in sync with him.

  He tapped the microphone twice, the soft thud echoing through the hall. Then he leaned forward, lips nearly brushing the mesh. His gaze drifted, measured, evaluated.

  “Welcome, dear guests, to the relic auction,” his voice was warm, but in that warmth lay something that sliced to the bone. “Here, in the heart of our city — within Hotel Cube itself.”

  Anton felt uneasy watching him. Even from the middle of the hall, he could see the runic tattoos on the man’s fingers — the same kinds he’d seen on Hannah and Vivian. He looked like the male version of Vivian: the authority and aura didn’t belong to humans, but to something bordering on the relic itself.

  Leonid sat leaned back but alert; Hannah rested her hand on her knee, her nail tapping softly against silk. Both recognized him — and both prayed silently that his sharp eyes wouldn’t recognize them.

  “My name is Killian Phoenix,” he continued, and his smile sliced through the room — colder than steel, brighter than the chandeliers. “Tonight, I have the honor of leading this auction.”

  He paused, letting silence carve space for his words.

  “The first relic will be presented in five minutes. Until then, enjoy the drinks, the music, and the company.”

  He bowed his head and spread his arms in a gesture of welcome. Applause rippled through the room like a wave — but brief, too nervous to be sincere. Music soon returned, soft and ceremonial, and excited whispers picked up again.

  Killian stepped off the stage without a word. His presence parted the crowd like a blade.

  “All right, we need to move quickly.”

  Hannah’s voice was low, sharp, swallowed by the hum of voices and the music, as if it were part of the melody itself. Her eyes moved over both men — focused, decisive.

  “Leonid goes to the third floor first,” she continued, hiding her words behind a polite smile for passing guests. “He’ll tell us how many guards there are.”

  Her fingers brushed the slim bracelet on her wrist, as if checking the time — but her eyes never left Leonid.

  “I’ll leave as soon as the first relic is displayed,” she added, then turned to Anton, her gaze stern but not unkind.

  “You stay here. You need to watch every shift — what the men in black are doing, what happens on the stage. Every detail. If someone steps wrong, if the lights flicker, if the music pauses for a second — you need to notice it. Understood?”

  Anton nodded, his heartbeat pounding in his throat.

  Hannah leaned in slightly, her eyes flicking once toward the stage where Killian’s profile was still visible, sharp and calm like carved stone.

  “Most important — keep your eyes on that man,” she whispered. “Every move he makes.”

  Leonid was already rising, adjusting his tie with a light sweep of his hand. He walked through the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged there, shoulder-to-shoulder with the wealthy, yet apart from them all. Anton followed him with his gaze until Leonid’s figure disappeared into the dim shadow behind a column.

  Leonid walked through the empty corridors of the third floor, the luxurious carpets swallowing the echo of his footsteps. A few times he ran into a lone guest in a tuxedo or evening gown; he greeted them with a slight nod, or pretended he didn’t understand their language, his smile rehearsed just enough to pass as natural. His charm had gotten him far in life, but tonight it wasn’t getting him anywhere.

  At the end of the hallway, a large guard in a black suit stepped in his way.

  “Sir, this area is off limits.”

  His voice was rigid, eyes sharp.

  Leonid gave a crooked smile, ran a hand over the back of his neck while the other stayed shoved deep in his pocket.

  “Ah, sorry, sorry… I was looking for the restroom.”

  The guard watched him a moment longer, suspicion flickering across his eyes. But then his expression shifted — just another drunk rich man, or someone on stronger substances. He pointed him in the opposite direction.

  “Down that way, sir.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  Leonid nodded, smiled, and moved on.

  When he closed the restroom door behind him, the smile vanished as if it had never been there. He approached the mirror, loosened his tie, and leaned toward his own reflection. The cold metallic light fell across his face, carving shadows under his eyes.

  He touched the earpiece.

  “It’s better secured than I expected.”

  Hannah’s voice came through, quiet but clear.

  “Can you get in?”

  “I can get in,” Leonid murmured, staring straight into his own eyes in the mirror. “The question is — how are we getting out?”

  Silence filled the line for a moment, until Hannah spoke again, her voice steady.

  “Okay. Wait for me.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, turned on the faucet and splashed cold water onto his face. Droplets ran down his cheeks and neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He shivered at the icy shock, then exhaled with a half-smile.

  “It’s going to be a long night,” he muttered under his breath.

  Hannah waited patiently. Her stomach was calm, her gaze steady and alert, every sound and movement in the hall already mapped inside her mind.

  Then the music went silent.

  The lights dimmed at once, pulling the room into half-darkness. Only the podium remained lit by spotlights. Killian stepped out of the shadows, fastening the top button of his jacket as he walked toward the microphone. His movements were measured, assured — the gait of a man to whom the entire room belonged.

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  “Ladies and gentlemen… the first relic.”

  He gestured to the left. A young man in white gloves rolled a set of silver display carts onto the stage. On them rested a black velvet box, heavy and elegant. The young man lifted the lid with care, set it aside, and stepped behind the curtain, leaving the box bathed in light.

  A golden badge gleamed inside, its runes carved deep into the metal. The spotlights caught the golden lines, turning them into flickering flames.

  Killian cleared his throat, his voice flowing across the hall.

  “The first relic comes to us from the southwest,” he said smoothly, every word chosen and delivered with the care of a relic placed in its box.

  “A-rank, guarded for generations…”

  He paused, let the anticipation grow, then raised his hand with a smile.

  “We start at two hundred million euros.”

  Numbers shot into the air one by one, and the atmosphere ignited. The murmur of the crowd turned into competitive excitement as people bid over each other. Killian followed them with his eyes and elegant motions of his hand — a conductor leading an orchestra that played in the rhythm of power and money.

  Hannah used the moment.

  She rose from her seat without hurry, as if simply stretching her legs or going for a drink. Her dress rustled softly as she stepped away from Anton. She leaned down, her lips brushing close to his ear, her voice a whisper cutting cleanly through the noise of the hall.

  “Remember… every step he makes.”

  Anton nodded, a tight knot forming in his stomach. Her words echoed in him long after Hannah disappeared into the crowd, leaving him alone with his eyes fixed on Killian.

  The moment she stepped onto the third floor, Hannah understood there would be no smooth passage.

  An older man, face flushed red from alcohol, staggered into her path, swaying like a ship on waves.

  “Oh, miss…” he began, voice heavy with wine, waving a half-empty champagne glass.

  “I must say… such beautiful eyes are rare in this place.”

  Hannah inhaled deeply, keeping her expression cold.

  “Excuse me, I’m in a hurry,” she said in a tone that did not allow argument — but the man blocked her again, shifting drunkenly in front of her.

  His breath carried the sour weight of alcohol, and his confidence was greater than his balance. She already felt the tattoos beneath her silk scarf tighten faintly when a familiar voice cut through the space behind the drunk.

  “There you are, darling, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Leonid materialized as if from shadow, smoothly slipping past the older man and sliding an arm around Hannah’s neck, drawing her close like it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brushed her cheek, stroking her chin lightly, while a broad, irresistibly fake smile stretched across his lips.

  Only then did he look at the man, tilt his head, and ask:

  “And you are?”

  The drunk blinked, gaze dropping, the red of embarrassment replacing the red of wine.

  “I… actually, I was just leaving,” he stammered and turned, nearly tripping over his own feet as he hurried down the hall.

  Leonid watched him go, wearing the expression of a man smoking a cigarette that wasn’t actually there. His arm still rested loosely across Hannah’s shoulders.

  “You can remove your hand now,” Hannah said coolly, eyes fixed on the floor in front of them.

  Leonid barely lifted an eyebrow, then stepped away with a lazy smile, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  They continued down the hallway, their steps perfectly matched.

  “So, how many guards?” Hannah asked as they walked, her voice soft but steady.

  “Ten in the hallway,” Leonid answered without hesitation — the tone of a man long accustomed to counting threats. “Two standing right by the door.”

  His steps were slow and deliberate, while her heels clicked sharply beside him. The sound grated on her nerves.

  Suddenly, she stopped, braced a hand on his shoulder, and leaned back. In silence, she slipped off her heels. Her toes touched the cold marble for a brief moment before she tucked both shoes behind a nearby column.

  When she straightened again, she continued barefoot — soundless.

  “Nyx will take care of those in the hallway easily,” she said coolly, though her eyes flashed in the dim light. “But we don’t know how many are inside. And we don’t know exactly when they’ll bring the second relic.”

  Leonid pressed his lips together, looking for a moment like he’d light a cigarette if he could. Instead, he raised his brows and shrugged.

  “They take a short break between each item,” he reminded her, as if that thought were his only comfort. “We should have time. However many are inside — as long as they don’t have relics of their own, we’re fine.”

  Hannah nodded slightly, her face firm, eyes focused like a laser beam. Leonid, however, did not look fully convinced by his own reassurance.

  From his inner pocket, he took a golden pocket watch and curled his fingers around it. Moonlight slipping through the window caught the edge of the metal, casting a faint glow across his green eyes.

  “Nyx, darling, I need you,” Leonid whispered, tightening his grip on the cold metal.

  The runes shimmered, bursting into pale light, then dissolved into a cloud of smoke. From that smoke, black fabric unfurled — heavy, silky, shaped into a gown woven from the night itself.

  Nyx appeared just behind him, a shadow curling around him. Her arms slid across his stomach and chest, her chin brushing his ear.

  “Another lovely night,” she whispered, her voice like a fading dream remembered only at waking.

  Her dark eyes cut through the space and landed on Hannah.

  “Ah, Miss Adler is here too.”

  Hannah didn’t even blink.

  Leonid took Nyx’s hand from his chest, lowering it gently, and pointed down the corridor with the other.

  “It’s bedtime.”

  Nyx laughed with delighted mischief and dissolved into movement — slipping across the columns like darkness through water.

  A second later, behind each guard her figure coalesced, bending over their shoulders, her whisper sliding down their necks. One by one, the guards wavered and collapsed into sleep, bodies hitting walls and floors without a single cry of resistance.

  The hallway fell silent, lit only by the dim glow of wall lamps and wrapped in the sound of Leonid’s slow inhale — always accompanied by a smile.

  Hannah stepped closer, glanced at him from under her lashes without fully meeting his eyes.

  “Let’s finish this.”

  Leonid nodded gently, his perpetual smile deepening as they approached the door.

  Hannah slowly pressed the handle, and the door opened without a single creak.

  Step by step, they slipped inside.

  The men in black guarding the room were already raising their guns, aiming without warning.

  Before a single bullet flew, Nyx stepped forward.

  Her body dissolved into a shroud of darkness — thick smoke poured into the room as if the night itself had broken through the door. The walls vanished into the cloud, the lights choked out.

  Hannah and Leonid exchanged a brief glance through the murk.

  They were ready to push through the darkness and finish the job — but the room burst with a flash.

  Raw light, cold and sharp, cut through Nyx’s shadow and scattered the smoke as if it had never existed.

  They were seen.

  On the other side of the room, like something pulled from a nightmare and a dream at once, stood two figures.

  The woman — hair cascading in waves, half snow-white, half blood-red; lashes and brows in the same split colors. She wore a torn black top, bare skin crossed with bullets and cartridges hanging from her belt.

  Karma.

  And behind her stood a man.

  Dark hair tied in a tight knot, eyes just as dark — deep, hard.

  Isaac.

  Hannah’s pupils trembled when they met his gaze. No words were spoken, but the tension between them vibrated louder than gunfire.

  Leonid didn’t wait for the feeling in the air to unfold. Through gritted teeth, he muttered:

  “Looks like we’re not doing quiet tonight.”

  Karma wasted no time. Her fingers were already grabbing ammunition from her belt — the metal rattled as she snapped her hand forward and hurled it at them.

  Bullets flew like a swarm of death, faster than human sight could track.

  But for Nyx — a creature born of shadows — they crawled.

  Her silver blade flashed under the moonlight filtering through the tall windows; the edge sliced bullets mid-air, each one splitting cleanly in two and clattering onto the marble floor in a rhythm like steel rain.

  Hannah didn’t move.

  Her legs were frozen in place.

  The men in black didn’t have the luxury of hesitation — guns were drawn, and a storm of bullets tore through the room.

  Leonid reacted first — he lunged toward Hannah, pulling her sharply aside as both of them rolled behind a display case.

  The glass shattered into a thousand razor shards, scattering around them like deadly stars.

  “Wake up, boss!” Leonid shook her shoulder, breath ragged.

  In that moment, Anton’s voice burst through their earpieces — tight, whispering, barely cutting through the chaos.

  “Uh… we have a pause. They’ll bring the second relic after.”

  Karma showed no sign of slowing — her torrent of bullets didn’t cease; each movement of hers was violence orchestrated with precision.

  Nyx danced through the storm.

  Her shadow-wrapped arms carved arcs through the air — every second was a clash of metal and darkness.

  Flashes illuminated the room like someone flickering the lights to a brutal rhythm.

  In that dim chaos — amid the gunfire and shards reflecting broken beams of light — Hannah could still feel Isaac’s gaze locked onto her.

  Like a weight.

  She reached for the medallion around her neck.

  The runic edges shimmered, and her voice — barely a whisper — swallowed the noise.

  “Come, Kai.”

  The room reacted as if mocking her.

  The lights flickered violently.

  Blinding patterns bloomed across the walls, mocking the moonlight struggling through the windows.

  From that whirl of chaos came a sound — a clattering, like dozens of rings colliding on the hands of merchants.

  The sound grew, turning into an orchestra of precious metals.

  At the epicenter of the chaos, atop the shattered display case still bleeding shards of glass, Kai appeared.

  Seated like a king on an improvised throne — one knee down, the other raised, elbow resting lazily at the top.

  Golden hair spilled over his shoulder in luxurious waves. The jewelry draped across him glinted so brightly even the dead bulbs seemed to flicker alive.

  A crooked smile stretched across his lips, his voice silky — but venomous.

  “Oh… just when I thought I might die of boredom.”

  Panic rippled among the men in black. They didn’t wait for orders — guns rose, and bullets filled the air.

  Kai didn’t move.

  As the projectiles flew toward him, time itself seemed to slow only for him.

  He plucked a few bullets mid-flight, casually, like a child catching butterflies.

  Then, with a flick of his wrist — as if tossing dice onto a table — he sent them back.

  The impacts thudded.

  Bodies hit the floor.

  Blood spread across expensive shoes and tailored suits.

  One by one, they fell like severed marionettes.

  Kai observed his little massacre in silence, then brushed a lock of hair from his face, his grin gleaming.

  “Isaac, this is getting boring!” Karma shouted, her voice splitting through the clash of metal and breaking glass.

  Isaac growled under his breath, his gaze darting between Karma and Nyx, then to Leonid and Hannah — but lingering longest on Kai.

  Before anyone could move again, the doors burst open.

  A new group of men in black charged in — and at their head was Ivy.

  She strode with purpose, holding a golden screwdriver glowing with runes like heated wires. The metal shimmered under the lights as she tightened her grip, her voice remarkably calm in the chaos:

  “Anecdote, give me your hand.”

  For a moment, relief flickered across Isaac’s face.

  From Ivy’s tool, light erupted — tearing through smoke and shadow.

  The light solidified, shaping a form — a woman.

  Her hair, long and white as snow, cascaded down her back in stark contrast to the dark leather gear wrapped around her.

  Her body was covered in small packs, belts, straps, vials, and pockets — a walking arsenal of tricks and secrets.

  Her eyes were deep and dark, like gazing into another dimension.

  Her silhouette was still — but held tension like a violin string drawn tight.

  Karma’s pale face brightened with pure relief when she saw Anecdote.

  Anecdote wasted no time.

  Her fingers dove into one of her many pockets and retrieved a thin, nearly invisible knife that flashed like a silver lightning bolt.

  In the next blink, she was in front of Kai.

  The blade traced a line across his throat.

  Kai froze — his crooked smile turning into confusion, his brows lifting as a thin red line slid down his skin.

  Anecdote remained in her attack stance, knife still pressed into his neck, eyes empty and unmoving.

  Kai slowly lifted his hand, touched the blood, and studied it.

  A mocking smile crawled back onto his lips.

  “You’ll need to go deeper next time…” he murmured, his voice dropping into a cold whisper as his fingers tightened around her neck.

  “…if there even is a next time.”

  He lifted her with ease — as if she weighed nothing — stepping down from the display while holding her by the throat.

  Anecdote’s legs dangled in the air, her arms still hanging calmly at her sides, unbothered by his strength.

  Karma reacted instantly.

  Bullets ripped from her belt, filling the room with metallic rattle, striking Kai’s shoulder and chest.

  The hits forced his hand open.

  Anecdote fell to one knee — knees slamming the marble — and in the next breath dissolved into a smear of mist, reappearing right beside Karma.

  “Uh, the second relic is coming out now — Killian’s on stage again,” Anton’s voice crackled in Hannah’s and Leonid’s ears, trembling with static.

  And indeed — the men in black seized the moment, snatched the relic box, and vanished through a side door.

  Ivy didn’t wait a second.

  In one motion she drew her gun and opened fire on Hannah and Leonid.

  The display case shattered into thousands of fragments as they dove behind cover.

  Leonid wrapped an arm around Hannah, pushing her head down to shield her, while his other hand drew his own gun and returned fire. Bullets carved into doorframes and pillars; sparks burst from metal lamps.

  Ivy vaulted over a fallen chair, sprinted diagonally across the room, sliding behind another column to get to Isaac.

  “What is the Amber Directorate doing here?!” she spat, breathless as she reached him.

  Isaac grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him.

  They ran behind the next column as Leonid’s bullets tore into the wall behind them.

  When they finally stopped, both were breathing heavily — sharp inhales mixing with the scent of gunpowder.

  Ivy leaned against the cold marble, her gun hanging low beside her thigh but her finger still firm on the trigger.

  Isaac stood in front of her, lowering his head.

  His dark eyes found hers.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered. “But Killian’s not going to like it.”

  Killian raised his hand, his smile flashing under the spotlights.

  “Sold!” his voice rang through the hall.

  The audience applauded, and he added with the same effortless charm, “We’ll take a short break until the third relic. Enjoy your drinks.”

  He lowered the microphone and vanished behind the heavy black curtains. The moment he stepped into the private room, the smile dropped off his face like a mask. He clasped his hands behind his back, walking calmly—yet his voice struck like steel.

  “I said—perfect. Not this… whatever this is.”

  The men in black moved aside for him. One of them gathered enough courage to approach.

  “Mr. Phoenix… your brother and Miss Everglow are on site. It looks like… the Amber Directorate has arrived.”

  Killian stopped right in front of him. His eyes flashed like the sun at the edge of the horizon.

  “What did you say?”

  The man trembled, but repeated it.

  “The Amber Directorate, Mr. Phoenix.”

  For a moment, silence fell like lead. Then Killian slowly nodded, took a step back, and stared into nothing. He lifted a hand and pressed the earpiece in his ear. His voice turned terrifyingly calm—almost gentle.

  “Little brother… do I need to come down there?”

  For a few seconds there was only heavy breathing, then the clank of metal—then Isaac’s breathless voice came through.

  “No need.”

  Killian didn’t smile, but his pupils flickered. His hand slid into his pocket; his fingers touched the golden lighter. The soft click of metal beneath his fingertips was the only sound in the room as his breath mixed with the cold air hanging in the weight of night.

  “He's pissed," Isaac muttered, crouched behind a column and peeking out now and then to watch the chaos. And there was plenty to see.

  Karma’s bullets carved the space—half flying straight at Kai, half at Nyx; the hiss of lead and the impacts tangled with the crash of glass. Anecdote was yanking knives from her pouch, flinging them through the air or slipping them behind her back mid-motion, striking with hands and feet in movements that resembled some forgotten martial art. Nyx vanished into folds of shadow and suddenly reappeared behind attackers, whipping her long blade through the room—display cases and pillars splintered under her strikes, bullets cracking against the cold metal edge of her weapon.

  Kai found pleasure in the chaos; every blow he landed carried lethal precision. With one sweep he sent Karma flying—she slammed into the tall windows, which burst under the force of the collision. Another time, in a clash with Anecdote, Kai caught her under the chin and she shot upward, slamming into the ceiling.

  Across the hall, Isaac caught the outline of Leonid’s shoulder—Hannah was completely hidden behind a column, out of his reach, out of his sight.

  “What do we do?” Ivy whispered, uneasy, one eye still tracking the fight.

  Isaac shook his head, but his gaze stuck on the long table beside them, lined with black boxes.

  “At least the relics are on our side of the room,” he murmured, sharp. “They’d have to cross all the way over here just to even think about stealing them.”

  Ivy met his eyes, then—still not fully convinced—asked:

  “And you’ll be able to shoot Hannah, if it comes to that?”

  Isaac’s eyelids narrowed. Something like resolve flickered in his eyes. His voice trembled when he answered.

  “Yeah. I'll be able to.”

  Leonid swapped magazines. For a moment, the emerald stare stayed fixed on his pistol—then lifted to Hannah. She was clutching the medallion at her chest, her breathing uneven and broken, rising and falling like panic shattering between her ribs.

  “So,” Leonid said calmly, even as tension seeped into every word, “the relics are on the other side of the room, our spirits are slaughtering each other in blood and bullets… and we just have to make sure the mobsters don’t turn us into Swiss cheese.”

  Hannah didn’t react. As if his voice never got through the wall of her silence.

  Leonid leaned over her, his hand braced against the column beside her head. He was close enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek.

  “Hannah, please—answer me,” he said, and for a moment his voice cracked. “Anton is still downstairs among them… and they’ll call reinforcements any second.”

  He paused for only a heartbeat, then leaned even closer.

  “I need you steady.”

  She blinked, looked him straight in the eyes, and nodded. Her voice became firm, cold, and clear—the one he knew.

  “Kai will keep Karma and Anecdote busy. Nyx gives us a cloak of shadow so we can reach the table with the relics. We take what we can… and we get out.”

  Leonid nodded, a tight smile cutting across his face for a second. “Sounds like a plan.”

  At that moment, their earpieces hissed, and Anton’s voice came through:

  “The third relic is going out now.”

  As if time had been tuned to a clock, a man in black slipped through a side exit, grabbed a box, and vanished.

  Kai and Nyx seemed to hear their agreement—each moved into place.

  Kai dove between Karma and Anecdote, his fists ripping the air, blows falling like thunder. His laughter tore through the room, his eyes widening, drunk on the chaos. The crack of impacts fused with the jingle of his jewelry—gold and silver rings, chains, bracelets flashing and clattering with every swing like grotesque music.

  Nyx, in contrast, placed her weapon on the floor and sank into shadow. Her lips moved in murmurs, and black smoke began spilling from her hair and dress—thick as living fog, swallowing walls and pillars. In a second, the room turned into a nightmare: opaque, cold, unreal.

  Hannah and Leonid exchanged a quick look and nodded to each other, then stepped into the dark. They breathed in sync, their footsteps muffled in the mist, moving past tables—they could already see the silhouettes of the black boxes.

  But the plan was cut short.

  Anecdote pulled a small sphere from her bag, glowing like a star. A second later it exploded into blinding light, shredding Nyx’s shadows. The room was visible again—clear as day.

  And Hannah and Leonid were completely exposed.

  Isaac already had his pistol raised. His hand trembled; his gaze froze on Hannah’s face. He pulled the trigger—but the barrel dipped downward. Bullets slammed into the marble at their feet, stone fragments bursting up in a cloud of dust.

  Ivy didn’t hesitate. Her shots whistled straight at them—sharp, precise.

  Hannah and Leonid sprinted on instinct, diving behind a nearby column. As they threw themselves into cover, one bullet slipped through the haze and struck Leonid in the shoulder.

  He gasped, teeth clenching, his palm flying to the wound. He sagged against the column, shoulders trembling. He cursed through his teeth, voice rough with pain and fury.

  Hannah snatched the silk scarf from her neck without thinking and folded it over the wound. His arm jerked when the fabric touched skin; blood bled through the cloth—warm and dark. She tied a knot with one hand while pressing hard just above the wound with the other. Leonid forced out a sound between his teeth, breathing shallow—adrenaline kept him upright, but his hand was already weakening.

  As she cinched the scarf into a tight seal, Leonid’s fingers loosened on his gun.

  Hannah turned his palm, pulled the weapon free, keeping it in her own hand. She drew his head briefly to her shoulder, gave a short, cold little smile, and whispered:

  “When this is over, I’m getting that fixed… and then I’m taking you for a whiskey.”

  He returned a smile—faint, but honest.

  Ivy shot Isaac a look, eyes like a slap across his face.

  “Do you even know how to aim?!” she shouted, but her voice barely broke through the deafening chaos—metal striking, gunfire, echoes, demonic screams.

  Isaac waved her off as if brushing the remark from his shoulder, but his gaze was already locked on the battlefield of spirits.

  “Karma and Anecdote won’t hold much longer,” he muttered, teeth clenched, eyes moving from one infernal scene to the next.

  Ivy followed his gaze.

  Karma was breathing hard, sweat and blood mixing as her arms spasmed from the recoil of repetitive fire. Anecdote—fast and precise—now moved slower with exhaustion, knives slipping from her fingers as if they were made of lead.

  Opposite them, Kai grinned—face and hands bloody, eyes shining with sick exhilaration, every strike detonating like an explosion.

  On the other side, Nyx was growing heavier too—smoke that had been flowing around her now tore in jerks, and her silver blade caught bullets and knives at the last possible second.

  Isaac pressed the back of his head to the column and slammed it against the cold marble—once, twice—trying to knock the decision loose from inside himself.

  Ivy exhaled, her voice colder than she meant it to be.

  “Call him.”

  Hannah glanced behind them, clutching the medallion as if her breathing depended on it. Her voice was short—sharp.

  “Nyx looks exhausted. You should send her back into the relic.”

  Leonid followed her gaze. His shoulder still burned beneath his hand, but he managed a grin.

  “Good thing Kai’s enjoying himself.”

  Still, he listened. With his good hand he grabbed the pocket watch and muttered through clenched teeth:

  “That’s enough for tonight, Nyx.”

  A second of light—and she was gone, pulled back into the rune-marked flesh of metal. The watch flashed in his pocket and fell silent.

  Kai showed no signs of tiring. The fever of battle had him—he snatched Karma’s bullets out of the air, and snapped Anecdote’s knives between his teeth like they were glass.

  “Come on—show me a new trick! This is getting boring!” he screeched, and his laughter tore through the room.

  Hannah exhaled deeply and shook her head in a gesture that said: I’ve seen this too many times.

  “I think we should get out of here,” she said, not hiding the weight of the decision.

  Leonid held her face in his gaze for a beat, eyes narrowing.

  “We haven’t collected a single relic… that’s bad, Hannah.”

  He lowered his chin, almost a murmur.

  “Maybe we call the kid to join us. Then we could definitely scoop up the relics.”

  Hannah pressed her fingers to her chin, as if weighing every word.

  “Maybe…”

  Before she could fully consider it, Anton’s breathless whisper pierced their earpieces:

  “Hannah, Leonid… Killian, um… he’s not on the stage. Someone else is presenting the fourth relic.”

  Their eyes met instantly. It wasn’t fear or doubt—this was pure, crystalline terror.

  A flash of gold lit the room—a staff, long and heavy, flew like lightning and drove through Kai’s shoulder, pinning him to the wall. Blood ran down his clothes, and the wall behind him spiderwebbed with cracks; plaster and concrete fell like dusty rain.

  A woman’s silhouette stepped in first. Her hair—blue as spilled sea—rippled like waves in moonlight. She wore a wide, white dress, and the light around her made the room look, for a heartbeat, like a temple.

  Karma bared her teeth in a grin when she saw her.

  “Indigo!” she shouted, delighted—like a child spotting rescue.

  Hannah and Leonid’s eyes didn’t linger on her. They locked onto the figure behind.

  Killian Phoenix.

  He entered without haste, and his presence clenched the room like a fist. The air thickened, the lights dimmed, and every step of his black shoe echoed like a bell.

  His blue eyes were ice. His smile was barely there.

  “Amber!” he barked.

  The word exploded through the room, rolling over the walls like a tidal удар.

  “How many times do I have to teach you not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

  He walked slowly, completely untouched by the chaos still raging.

  From behind the column, Hannah raised her pistol and aimed straight at him. Her finger rested on the trigger.

  But Leonid’s hand settled over her weapon—calm, firm. She met his eyes, and he only shook his head.

  Without a word, she lowered her aim.

  Indigo lifted her hand, and the staff returned to her fingers like an obedient soldier. The crescent-shaped tip was still smeared with Kai’s blood.

  Freed of its weight, Kai dropped to his knees, clutching his wound—yet his grin didn’t fade. If anything, it widened.

  With a wild shout, he lunged straight at Indigo, and their strikes threw sparks—bright as explosions in the dark.

  “Little brother,” Killian’s voice was ice-calm, in a tone that wasn’t up for debate, “pick up those relics and take them downstairs—behind the stage.”

  Isaac and Ivy didn’t wait a second. They moved at once, obedient, as the dark boxes vanished under their hands.

  Leonid turned to Hannah; his eyes glinted with decision despite the wound in his shoulder.

  “We have to go. Now.”

  Hannah nodded—short and sharp—and their steps headed for the side door, far from Killian. They didn’t dare come any closer.

  Meanwhile, the fight between Kai and Indigo intensified like a storm. Indigo swung her golden staff and struck him straight in the jaw. Kai flew through several display cases; glass shards erupted everywhere, and his body slammed into the wall, leaving a crack in the marble.

  Still, he got up instantly and launched back at her. Indigo barely managed to blunt the force of his kick with the cold gold of her staff.

  The sparking of their clash lit the room in short, violent flashes—like lightning.

  Killian watched from the side. He didn’t blink as his eyes tracked Hannah and Leonid leaving, but he didn’t move to chase them. Instead, he smiled to himself under his breath.

  In the hallway, Hannah and Leonid hurried down the stairs. Leonid pressed his earpiece.

  “Anton—move. Find us outside the hotel. Now.”

  Hannah glanced back several times, expecting shadows in pursuit. Leonid squeezed her hand and said quietly:

  “They won’t follow us. For him, this is a victory.”

  She nodded tensely, but didn’t speak.

  Only when they burst outside, into the hotel entrance washed in luxurious light, did Hannah grip the medallion at her throat and call Kai back into the relic. Golden light swallowed him, and the shadows calmed.

  A black limousine waited at the curb. The door opened and they all climbed in fast—Leonid breathless and bleeding, Hannah’s eyes tight with worry, Anton pale and stunned.

  The door slammed, the engine hummed, and the limousine vanished into the city streets.

  “Central hospital,” Hannah said curtly, her voice sharp as a command.

  The driver didn’t ask anything—just set the GPS and pulled the wheel.

  The limousine slid through night streets; spotlights and neon signage swept over tinted windows in broken reflections.

  Anton sat rigid, watching Leonid’s bloodied shoulder, then Hannah’s clenched expression, then dropping his gaze to his own hands again. He couldn’t shake the feeling of helplessness.

  All that time he’d been among the rich—watching glittering dresses and fake smiles—hell had been happening upstairs.

  He squeezed the little golden bell in his pocket so hard his fingers went white.

  Leonid noticed his stiffness. Slowly, he turned his head and bumped Anton lightly with his shoulder—almost friendly.

  “It’s okay, kid. You were excellent,” he said, though his voice was hoarse with pain.

  Then he tried to settle more comfortably, letting out a short, tight breath.

  “It doesn’t always go according to plan.”

  Anton nodded. The words didn’t feel convincing—but they were the only thing he could hold onto.

  The limousine raced on through the city. Streetlights slid over their skin like brief, cold touches.

  Inside, silence ruled—broken only by the creak of leather seats and the distant sound of the engine, as the black car cut through the night toward the hospital.

  The waiting room smelled of disinfectant and stale air. The white lights were far too bright—flattening every shadow into something unnatural, leaving the walls sterile and bare. Midnight had long passed outside, but in here time stretched, as if the clocks refused to move.

  Anton sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced, staring at a single point on the floor that had long since stopped having a shape. His youth and exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, yet his eyes remained stubbornly awake.

  Hannah watched him in silence for a while. Part of her was grateful that Amber had taken in a soul as clean and uncorrupted as his—but guilt stung her all the same. That same pure soul was now trapped in their bloody world.

  She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, releasing a long breath.

  “You know… if you’re tired,” she said softly, “I’ll give you money for a taxi. You can go home.”

  Anton looked up for a moment. His blue eyes gleamed under the merciless white light. He glanced at her over his shoulder and shook his head.

  Hannah smiled faintly.

  “Leonid's tough as nails. There's nothing to worry about.”

  Anton nodded, and only then did he realize—she had never looked more vulnerable than she did now, under this harsh lighting that ruined her sharpness, her dark eyes fighting to keep their usual depth and cold composure.

  An hour passed. Maybe an hour and a half. But in a hospital waiting room, time meant nothing. The white tiles and sterile lights stretched minutes into hours and hours into eternity.

  Anton fell asleep in his chair, his head slumping onto his shoulder, his breathing calm and even. Hannah watched him for a moment, then gently picked up his tuxedo jacket and draped it over him like a blanket. Her fingers brushed through his blond curls, and in that peaceful sleep he looked like a child dreaming far away from this world—a child who should never have been drawn into the blood and shadows Amber walked through.

  Her gaze softened, but the moment was cut by a voice.

  “Miss Adler.”

  The doctor stood before her, white coat blending into the walls behind him. Hannah straightened, exhausted but still composed.

  “The injury is stabilized,” he said calmly. “The shoulder is cleaned, the bullet didn’t hit the bone. We’ll keep him for observation a few more hours for safety, but after that he can go home.”

  Hannah nodded. Her eyes closed briefly, letting relief and fatigue blend into one breath.

  “Thank you.”

  She paused. “Can I see him?”

  The doctor nodded and pointed her toward the rooms. Hannah glanced once more at Anton—peaceful, wrapped in a tuxedo-turned-blanket—then turned and walked down the hallway. Her footsteps echoed through the hospital’s emptiness as the whiteness swallowed her.

  Leonid lay in a hospital bed, one shoulder wrapped tight in bandages, but his eyes—the ever-alert green eyes—looked calm. Dark circles carved themselves beneath them, marks of battles fought between dreaming and waking. When he saw Hannah in the doorway, a tired but genuine smile lit his face.

  “Boss.”

  He tried to sit up—slow, careful movements—his brows tightening for a moment, but immediately he replaced the grimace with a smile, like he wanted to hide the pain from her.

  “You should’ve gone home,” he murmured, warm and quiet. “To rest from all this.”

  Hannah didn’t answer immediately. She approached and sat on the chair beside his bed, folding her hands in her lap. Her eyes stayed fixed on his face.

  “In a few hours, when they release you,” she said. “Then we’ll go together.”

  He nodded, gaze drifting up to the white ceiling for a moment, stuck in its emptiness.

  “The grandmaster... is he alright?” he asked after a short pause.

  Hannah smiled—but quickly covered her smile with her hand.

  “He’s in the waiting room. Sleeping.”

  Leonid’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, then he chuckled—a quiet, relieved sound that blended with hers.

  “You’re too strict… you should’ve sent at least him home to sleep.”

  She shrugged, eyes still on him.

  “He insisted.”

  Silence fell between them. They stayed that way until the clocks on the wall finally marked the time to leave.

  The hospital room door creaked as Hannah and Leonid stepped into the hallway. The fluorescent lights washed over Anton’s sleeping face; he sat slumped in the uncomfortable chair, shoulders curved, head leaning to the side.

  Leonid approached, placed his good hand on the boy’s shoulder, and gently shook him.

  “Come on, chessmaster,” he said, voice still edged with exhaustion, but warm. “Time to head home.”

  Anton mumbled something unintelligible, then slowly opened his eyes. He blinked several times under the harsh light—then, when he saw Leonid in front of him, smiling despite the bandages—Anton suddenly jumped up and hugged him with all his strength.

  Leonid froze for a moment, startled. Then his face relaxed into a soft smile; he closed his eyes and patted Anton’s back firmly. After a few seconds he pulled away just enough to see his face, and ruffled the boy’s messy hair.

  “Come on, kid,” he murmured. “We’ve earned some rest.”

  Anton nodded, a laugh escaping him, the tension of the entire night dissolving instantly.

  Leonid, Hannah, and Anton walked together down the hall toward the exit. Their footsteps echoed quietly, and the night air waited outside.

  The mission had ended in failure—but in those moments they shared something more precious: the sense that they belonged to each other, a small unit that had survived yet another night in a world full of darkness.

  The auction had long ended, and the night outside Hotel Cube felt as quiet as anywhere else in the city. Only the streetlamps and the occasional passing taxi disturbed the silence.

  Parked by the entrance, side by side, stood Isaac’s Ninja and Killian’s Hayabusa—machines ready to swallow miles of night.

  Isaac lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before he drew in a breath, as if he needed the smoke to drain the poison of the night from his lungs. Ivy stood a bit further away, arms wrapped around her own body, shoulders trembling from the cold. She shot him a sharp, tired look from under her lashes.

  “You know… everything would’ve been easier if you actually aimed properly.”

  Isaac turned his head toward her. He didn’t speak—just took another drag. Then he walked over, slipped off his leather biker jacket, and draped it over her shoulders. The scent of smoke and engine oil wrapped around her instantly.

  “Put that on,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Then we're going.”

  She didn’t argue. She slid her arms through the sleeves and zipped it up, feeling warmth hold together what words couldn’t. When she lifted her gaze, she felt pressure on the top of her head—Killian’s hand, firm but not harsh.

  “Well done, Ivy. Excellent work.”

  His smile flashed, his gaze cut through the darkness like a cold blade. Ivy gave a shy smile, then pulled her helmet on.

  Killian walked toward Isaac. There weren’t many words—he grabbed the back of Isaac’s neck, firm but brotherly, and leaned their foreheads together.

  “Little brother,” he murmured, quiet but icy. “Call me sooner next time.”

  He let go and turned away, heading toward his Hayabusa. Even in that simple motion he looked like the room still belonged to him, despite the walls of the hotel far behind.

  He pulled on his helmet; the engine roared, and night swallowed him as he disappeared down the empty avenue—raising one hand in a last, casual wave.

  Isaac and Ivy stayed a moment longer.

  The drifting cigarette smoke, the scent of leather, the fading engine echo—that was their only conversation.