**Restaurant - Netherlands Coastal Town - Midday**
The restaurant hummed with quiet afternoon energy. Silverware clinked against plates. Conversations murmured in Dutch, creating a low background noise that felt almost soothing. Through the windows, sunlight painted everything in warm golden tones, and the smell of fresh bread mixed with coffee and something savory from the kitchen.
At their corner table, the group had settled into an uneasy rhythm. Food sat before them, mostly untouched despite being ordered. Carmilla was on what must have been her sixth cigarette, the ashtray accumulating a small mountain of crushed filters. Tess sat with perfect posture, her scarred hands wrapped around a coffee cup she hadn't actually drunk from. Eve's crimson eyes tracked between her companions with that constant analytical attention. Angela stared at her plate without really seeing it.
And Rens nervous, fidgeting Rens with his pink hair and oversized suit suddenly went very still.
His voice emerged quiet but carrying a note of alertness that cut through his usual stutter. "Umm, I-I think s-s-someone is looking at us, I think."
The words hung in the air for a moment, everyone processing them differently.
Tess's head turned immediately, her eyes scanning the restaurant's interior with professional efficiency. She cataloged every patron, every angle, every possible line of sight. Her gaze moved to the windows, checking reflections, looking for anyone outside paying undue attention to their table. The movement was smooth, casual enough not to draw attention but thorough enough to miss nothing.
After several seconds of careful observation, she spoke, her voice carrying certainty. "Rens, are you sure? I don't feel anything."
Carmilla glanced up from her phone, where she'd been reviewing something maps, intelligence reports, whatever data she was constantly processing. Her remaining hand tapped ash into the tray with practiced precision. "Well, Rens, I think you're perhaps maybe wrong." Her tone wasn't dismissive exactly, but it carried the weight of someone whose enhanced analytical abilities hadn't registered any threat.
Rens's shoulders slumped slightly, his confidence evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. His hands returned to fidgeting with the napkin, folding and refolding it into increasingly smaller squares. "Y-yeah, I-I guess so."
Angela's voice cut through like a knife, sharp and sudden, her frustration with their entire situation finding an outlet in Rens's uncertainty. "What do you mean by 'I guess,' you little shit?" The words came out harsher than she'd intended, but she didn't soften them. "I can't even believe you're my same age."
The attack was immediate and cruel, targeting exactly the kind of insecurity that someone like Rens would feel most acutely. Age was supposed to mean something capability, confidence, competence. And here he was, sixteen years old and afraid of his own shadow, while she was sixteen and had survived fire and synthetic body installation and more trauma than most people experienced in a lifetime.
Tess's head turned toward Angela with mechanical precision. Her expression didn't change her scarred face maintained that same professional neutrality. But her eyes went flat, cold, carrying a weight of threat that needed no elaboration.
"I suggest you keep your mouth shut," Tess said, her voice emerging quiet and absolutely final. Not a request. Not even really a threat. Just a statement of fact about what would happen if Angela continued this line of conversation.
The temperature at the table dropped several degrees. Eve's hand moved unconsciously toward Angela, some protective instinct activating, but she stopped herself mid-motion.
Tess turned away from Angela as if she'd already ceased to exist and looked at Rens. Her voice underwent a transformation the hard edge vanishing, replaced by something softer, something that carried genuine concern. "Are you alright?"
Rens looked up at her, and despite everything
despite the fear and the nervousness and the constant anxiety that seemed to define his existence his face brightened. That nervous smile appeared, the one that looked both hopeful and terrified, but this time carrying something else underneath. Something warm.
"Y-yeah, t-thanks a lot, Miss Tess."
Tess paused. The words had come out naturally, reflexively, but now she seemed to register what she'd said and how she'd said it. A faint color rose in her cheeks barely visible, easily missed if you weren't paying attention, but there nonetheless. Her voice emerged with unusual hesitation, lacking the confident professionalism that usually characterized her speech.
"It's not a problem. I always should help my junior, shouldn't I?"
The explanation came out stilted, too formal, overcompensating for something. She was trying to reestablish professional distance, to frame her concern as merely appropriate superior-subordinate relationship dynamics rather than anything more personal.
Rens just did his nervous smile again, not responding with words, perhaps not trusting his stutter not to betray him.
Eve watched this exchange with fascination, her synthetic mind cataloging every micro-expression, every vocal inflection, every tiny behavioral cue. *Lady Tess's voice wasn't confident this time, huh?* she thought, her processors working through the implications. *Does she feel uncomfortable or something? I wasn't sure, but if I look at that boy, I think maybe it's...*
Before she can finish her thought to understand the relationship between Rens and Tess, Angela interpreted.
Angela's voice emerged quieter now, some of the edge gone, replaced by something that might have been genuine remorse. "Alright, I'm sorry. I just don't like low confidence."
The apology was stiff, uncomfortable, clearly something she felt obligated to offer rather than naturally wanting to. But it was there.
Rens's response was immediate and almost frantic. "No, no, you're absolutely right!!! I-I f-feel someone is watching us, but w-who I don't know."
The insistence carried weight. Despite his nervousness, despite his tendency to second-guess himself, he wasn't backing down from this observation. Something in his gut some instinct that operated below the level of conscious thought was screaming danger.
Angela's internal monologue ran cold and analytical. *Well, look like he's not wrong. I feel someone is watching too. But who?*
Her own instincts, honed by months of paranoia and survival, were prickling. That sensation of eyes on her back, of attention focused from an unexpected angle. She'd learned to trust that feeling. It had kept her alive when logic and analysis had failed.
Her gaze moved to the windows, casual, as if she were just looking at the street outside. Scanning. Searching. Finding nothing obvious but feeling it nonetheless.
---
**Rooftop Across the Street - Simultaneous**
Astraea crouched on the edge of a building's roof, three stories up, her position offering perfect line of sight to the restaurant's corner table. Her white-blue hair caught the afternoon sun, and her pale eyes tracked the group below with the kind of focused attention that came from years of observation and assessment.
She spoke to herself, her voice barely above a whisper, addressing no one but needing to voice the thought anyway. "Look like that kiddo has good sense, huh?"
The observation carried genuine surprise. She'd been careful using building geometry to break up her silhouette, positioning herself so the sun would be behind her from the restaurant's perspective, keeping her movements minimal to avoid catching peripheral attention. All the tricks that made surveillance effective.
And yet that pink-haired boy had felt her anyway. Had registered her presence through whatever sixth sense humans sometimes developed when survival depended on knowing when they were being watched.
"What a foolish of me," she continued, self-recrimination clear in her tone. "Let my guard down so easily."
Her gaze shifted between them, cataloging. The boy Rens who'd sensed her. The girl—Angela who'd felt it too, who was scanning now with practiced paranoia. The others who seemed oblivious, caught up in their own concerns.
Then she focused on just two of them. Rens and Angela. Her expression shifted, taking on something that wasn't quite warmth but approached it. Pride, maybe. Or satisfaction. The look of someone who'd invested in something and was seeing returns.
"I can't let my little stars go to waste," she said, her voice carrying conviction and possessiveness in equal measure. "The brightest star deserves them all."
The words emerged with pride, with certainty, with the tone of someone who'd made decisions and commitments and intended to see them through regardless of cost.
She settled back slightly, willing to wait, patient in the way that predators were patient. "Well, I'll wait until they finish their conversation."
But even as she watched them, even as she calculated her approach and timing, she was being observed.
A single ant crawled along the rooftop's edge. Just one ant, black and ordinary, the kind you'd see anywhere and think nothing of. It moved with the purposeful efficiency of its species, antennae twitching, following some chemical trail or exploring for food sources.
It stopped near Astraea's boot. Turned. As if looking at her despite lacking the anatomy for such an action.
Then it resumed its movement, disappearing into a crack in the concrete.
Astraea didn't notice. Her attention remained fixed on the restaurant, on her "little stars," on whatever plans she'd made for them.
---
**Nazi Regional Command - Berlin Office - Simultaneous**
The office felt different now. The walls that had seemed solid before now shimmered with subtle distortion, reality itself seeming uncertain about its own parameters. Whatever Leonhart Voss had activated with that button had fundamentally altered the space not visibly, not obviously, but in ways that made the back of the brain itch with wrongness.
The young Nazi coordinator stood near his desk, his long black hair catching the light from the windows, his expression carrying that same amused interest it had held since Nityen and Hariharan had appeared uninvited in his office.
He continued speaking as if they'd simply been having a pleasant conversation rather than a confrontation between powers that could level buildings. "Well, gentlemen, tell me what game are you talking about? And why did you want to talk with me?" His voice carried genuine curiosity, the tone of someone who found the situation intellectually stimulating rather than threatening.
He gestured at himself with one hand, the movement theatrical, performative. "You know, gentlemen, I'm the most powerful yet dangerous human alive. After all, I should be known as the modern Hitler." The comparison was delivered without shame or hesitation, stated as simple fact. "And how foolish of me
I haven't even introduced myself."
He executed a slight bow, more mocking than respectful. "I'm Leonhart Voss. And what are your names, gentlemen?" His gaze moved between them. "I mean, your guard said you wanted to play games. However, I'm not interested in some normal politics."
Nityen stepped forward slightly, his purple eyes gleaming with something that might have been amusement. He wore that white dress shirt and black pants with casual elegance,somehow looking both natural and impossible at the same time.
"Well, Mister Voss, I appreciate how you introduced yourself," Nityen said, his voice carrying that smooth, cultured quality that suggested education and refinement. "However, I came here for a different reason, you know." He paused, letting the moment build. "I'm certainly sure that the rain wasn't artificial, was it?"
The question hung in the air, loaded with implications. The red rain that had appeared and disappeared impossibly. The storm that had existed and then retroactively hadn't. The meteorological impossibility that suggested powers beyond normal Blessed capabilities.
Leonhart's smile widened, genuine pleasure crossing his features. "Of course, gentleman, it wasn't." He moved toward the window, his movements fluid and confident. "After all, I was surprised by how you came into my room. Even my soldiers were shocked, yet nobody dared to attack you." His gaze became more focused, more analytical. "You must be powerful, gentleman. Are you Blessed?"
"We both are," Nityen confirmed simply.
Leonhart's smile transformed into something bigger, more genuine, carrying real delight. "Ahh, I can't take you easily, can I?"
The admission was delivered with pleasure rather than concern, as if he'd been bored and was grateful for interesting company.
Hariharan's voice cut through the pleasantries, serious and hard, his burned face showing no amusement at all. "Just do your work, you damn monster."
The insult was delivered flatly, without particular heat, just stating what Hariharan considered to be objective fact.
Leonhart turned to him, that smile never fading. "Well, the game you're talking about
what is it?"
Nityen's expression shifted, becoming more focused, more businesslike. This was the actual negotiation beginning, the pleasantries giving way to real discussion. "Well, I have gold that is worth more than Nazi Germany's economy, which is sixty-seven trillion dollars, if I'm not wrong."
The number hung in the air. Leonhart's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes calculation, assessment, the rapid mental arithmetic of someone evaluating an offer's legitimacy.
"Perhaps what you wanted," Leonhart said, his voice carrying interest but also skepticism. Gold was useful, certainly, but claims of such enormous wealth were usually exaggeration or fraud.
Nityen continued, his voice remaining casual despite the weight of what he was proposing. "Well, I want you to let Valenora and overall Netherlands security be gone."
The request was enormous. Not just reducing security or creating gaps in coverage, but eliminating it entirely. Opening the borders, pulling back forces, leaving the territory completely unguarded. The kind of thing that would require tremendous justification and compensation.
Leonhart's response was immediate and violent.
He moved with speed that suggested either Blessed enhancement or extensive combat training. His hand shot to his side, where a weapon had been concealed a blade that emerged with mechanical precision. But this wasn't an ordinary sword. As it cleared its housing, energy surged along its length, visible as bright light, heat radiating in waves that distorted the air.
He swung directly at Nityen's neck. The blade cut through the space where Nityen's throat was, generating a laser that registered at temperatures approaching 7000°C hot enough to cut through steel like butter, to vaporize flesh instantly, to kill any normal human or even most Blessed individuals before they could react.
The blade passed through Nityen's neck.
Nothing happened.
No blood. No wound. No reaction whatsoever. Nityen stood there, completely unharmed, that same pleasant smile on his face. The laser that should have decapitated him might as well have been passing through empty air.
Hariharan hadn't moved. Hadn't even tensed. He stood with that same serious expression, his hand resting casually on his own sword, watching the attack with the kind of bored patience someone might show watching a child throw a tantrum.
Leonhart froze, his blade still extended, his mind racing through impossible calculations. His internal monologue erupted in panic and confusion. *How the fuck did he survive? Even Blessed can't survive this thing. Is he something more than Blessed? An Original? A Sinner? No, maybe more than that. How is that possible?*
The categories he'd used his entire career to understand power structures human, Blessed, Original, Sinner suddenly felt inadequate. Whatever Nityen was, it existed outside those frameworks entirely.
Nityen's voice emerged patient, slightly amused, carrying the tone of someone dealing with a minor inconvenience. "Something wrong? You have a weapon." He gestured vaguely at the blade still hovering near his neck, the laser still generating impossible heat that he was somehow ignoring completely.
Leonhart stood there, utterly shocked, his mind still trying to process what he'd just witnessed. His weapon the most advanced piece of technology Nazi Germany possessed, capable of killing anything that moved, proven effective against even high-level Blessed individuals had done absolutely nothing.
Nityen's voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts. "Hello, Mister Voss. We don't have time, you know. We're very busy people." His smile widened slightly, that purple-eyed gaze carrying amusement and something sharper underneath. "And maybe for our looks, we can be actors or models. Who knows?"
The joke was delivered with perfect comedic timing, completely at odds with the situation
standing there with a superheated blade passing harmlessly through his neck, making casual conversation about potential entertainment careers.
Leonhart slowly lowered his weapon, the laser dissipating, his expression cycling through disbelief and calculation and finally settling on something like cautious respect. "So, only gold?"
The question carried weight. He was asking if that was really all they wanted, if there wasn't some hidden catch, some additional price or demand. Because in his experience, people with this kind of power didn't make simple transactions.
Nityen's smile grew even wider, taking on a quality that was almost predatory. Then he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, speaking two words that carried tremendous weight.
"KARA-ENKI."
Leonhart's reaction was immediate and dramatic. His eyes went wide, genuine shock replacing his careful control. His mouth opened slightly, breath catching. For several seconds, he simply stood there, processing, his mind clearly racing through implications and connections and realizations.
Then, slowly, his expression transformed. The shock gave way to understanding, understanding gave way to satisfaction, and satisfaction crystallized into a smile that matched Nityen's for sheer intensity.
"Alright then," Leonhart said, his voice carrying finality and something like respect. "I will let those security be gone as you wish. So I think our game is over."
The negotiation had concluded. Whatever those two words meant KARA-ENKI they had been sufficient payment. More than sufficient, apparently, to justify removing all security from an entire region.
Hariharan's voice emerged flat and serious. "You understand quickly. That is a good thing."
Leonhart turned to him, that smile still present, some of his earlier playfulness returning. "Your bodyguard is all-time serious."
Nityen waved one hand dismissively, his tone returning to that casual friendliness. "Ignore him. He's just a kid."
"Shut the fuck up," Hariharan replied immediately, his tone suggesting this was a well-worn argument between them.
Nityen and Hariharan turned toward the door, their business concluded, already moving on to whatever came next in their larger plans.
Leonhart watched them go, making no move to stop them, his soldiers in the outer offices similarly motionless despite having heard the confrontation. Whatever Nityen had revealed with those two words had purchased not just cooperation but deference.
As the door closed behind them, Leonhart stood alone in his office. The walls had stopped shimmering, reality reasserting itself, the space returning to normal parameters. He moved to the window, placing his hand on its edge, looking out over Berlin with an expression that mixed satisfaction and concern.
He spoke to the apparently empty air, his voice quiet but carrying clearly. "They also know. Tell Aetherion."
He directed the words downward, toward something at floor level.
An ant crawled across the windowsill. Just one ant, black and ordinary, moving with that purposeful efficiency that characterized its species.
But then a voice emerged from it or rather, two voices speaking in perfect unison, creating a stereo effect that was deeply unsettling. Both voices were the same, identical in pitch and cadence, as if one consciousness was speaking through multiple bodies simultaneously.
"Well, look like some troublesome, isn't it?"
The words came from the ant. From one tiny insect. Or perhaps from many insects, all speaking together, all controlled by a single will that existed somewhere else entirely.
Then the ant resumed its normal movement, disappearing through a crack in the window frame, carrying its message to wherever Aetherion waited.
---
**London - Pranit's Kitchen - Evening**
The restaurant was full, as it always was during dinner service. Every table occupied, conversations creating that pleasant hum of human sociability. The lighting was warm, carefully designed to make the food look appetizing and the diners feel comfortable. Soft music played from hidden speakers—something classical and forgettable that added ambiance without demanding attention.
Pranit moved through the dining room with practiced grace, stopping at tables to check on meals, accepting compliments with humble gratitude, maintaining that perfect balance of attentive service without being intrusive. He wore his chef's whites, immaculate as always, and his expression carried genuine warmth as he interacted with customers.
"Your food is the best as always, Pranit," an older gentleman said from one table, his wife nodding agreement. "We love it. I must bring my children to eat this."
Pranit smiled, that gentle, genuine expression that made people trust him, that made them feel cared for and valued. "Well, thank you, Mister." His voice carried appreciation and humility in equal measure.
Behind his back, concealed by his body and the angle from which the diners could see him, his hand gripped something. Something small and dark and organic. He held it carefully, his fingers positioned to hide its shape, to keep it from being visible from any angle.
The Kālabandha. The thing from India. That aetheorian order him to bring.
He excused himself from the table and moved back toward the kitchen, his movements smooth and unhurried. Just a chef checking on his staff, making sure everything ran perfectly, maintaining the high standards that had made his restaurant legendary.
The kitchen door swung open with a soft sound. Pranit stepped through, already beginning to speak, his voice taking on that professional but friendly tone he used for greeting new arrivals.
"Good afternoon, how may I—"
He stopped mid-word.
Standing in his restaurant's entrance was a woman who didn't belong. Not because of her appearance exactly though that was striking enough but because of something in her presence, something that made every instinct Pranit possessed scream danger.
She wore a white hooded cloak, the fabric clean and expensive, hanging from her shoulders in elegant folds that suggested both simplicity and careful design. The hood was up, shadowing her face, but not enough to completely hide her features.
Her eyes were visible. One yellow, bright as sunlight. One blue, pale as ice. Heterochromia, but more than that each eye seemed to carry its own light, its own presence, as if they belonged to two different people who somehow shared the same face.
Every patron in the restaurant had noticed her. Conversations had faltered, heads had turned, attention had focused on this newcomer with that magnetic pull that exceptional beauty sometimes created. Multiple diners were staring openly, their social training to avoid staring completely overridden by the sheer impact of her appearance.
People whispered to each other. "Is she a model?" "Maybe an actress?" "She looks like an angel." The comments rippled through the dining room, genuine awe in their voices.
But Pranit saw something else. Something underneath the beauty, underneath the carefully constructed appearance. He saw danger. He saw purpose. He saw someone who had come here specifically, intentionally, with full knowledge of what he know her.
The woman's mismatched eyes focused on him with absolute clarity. She spoke, her voice carrying through the suddenly quiet restaurant, each word clear and deliberate.
"Did I come late?"
The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that only Pranit could understand.