The music was too loud.
It always was.
Bass thudded through the house in uneven waves, rattling windows and ribs alike. Someone had turned the volume up past the point of fun, past the point of sense—into that space where noise stopped being music and became pressure. Bodies pressed together in the living room, sweat and perfume blending into something sour. Beer sloshed onto the floor. Laughter cut sharp and careless through the air.
A party for kids pretending they weren't still kids.
Gemma squeezed through the back door with four others, gulping in the cold night air like it might cleanse her lungs.
Stacy nearly tripped on the step.
"Whoa—okay—okay," Stela laughed, grabbing her before she face-planted. "Easy, disaster."
"I told you not to mix drinks," Gemma muttered, half amused, half worried.
"Blah-blah-blah," Stacy slurred, leaning heavily against Stela's shoulder. "You sound like my mom."
"Yeah, well, your mom's right," Gemma said, tugging her scarf tighter.
They walked together for a block, the glow of the party fading behind them. Laughter still lingered, but it felt thinner now—distant. Real life creeping back in.
"Your place is the other way, right?" Stela asked.
Gemma nodded. "Yeah. I'm good. I'll be fine."
"You sure?" someone asked.
She smiled. "I promise."
They waved, her friends disappearing down the street with Stacy between them, still laughing.
Gemma turned the opposite direction.
Alone.
The city at night wasn't silent—it never was—but it felt watchful. Sirens wailed somewhere far off. A car passed, tires hissing against damp pavement. The cold crept into her sleeves, her collar, the hollow just beneath her ribs.
She checked her phone.
6%.
Of course.
She slipped it back into her pocket and kept walking, steps measured, steady. Don't rush. Don't look scared. Her mother's voice echoed faintly in her head—Keys between your fingers. Head up. Trust your instincts.
That was when she heard it.
Footsteps.
Too light to be obvious. Too close to be coincidence.
She told herself she was imagining it. Took another step.
They matched her pace.
Then came the giggle.
Soft. Mean. Wrong.
Gemma's heart lurched.
She turned—
Two men emerged from the darkness behind her, hands in their pockets, eyes bright with something ugly.
Her breath caught. She forced a smile, raised her phone. "Hey—yeah, I'm almost home—"
Another movement.
Two more figures stepped out from an alley ahead of her, blocking the sidewalk.
The night closed in.
"Excuse me," she said, voice trembling despite her effort. "I—I think you've got the wrong person."
They looked at each other and grinned.
"Live around here?" one asked.
She took a step back.
Hands grabbed her arms.
The impact came fast—brick scraping her shoulder, her head snapping sideways. Pain bloomed hot and dizzying. Something wet trickled down her temple.
She slid down the wall, gasping, fingers clawing uselessly at the pavement.
Don't pass out. Don't.
Their laughter rang hollow and distorted, like it didn't belong to real people.
Then—
The night changed.
Not sound. Not light.
Pressure.
Like the air itself had inhaled.
One of the men barely had time to turn before—
SPLAT.
His body collapsed unnaturally, crushed as if something invisible had slammed him into the earth. Blood sprayed the alley wall in a violent arc.
The second man screamed.
The ground buckled beneath him. Flesh tore. Sound cut off mid-cry.
Gemma couldn't breathe.
At the edge of the alley stood a figure.
Tall. Still.
Darkness clung to him unnaturally, moonlight bending around his silhouette instead of touching it. A white mask caught the light—plain, divided by a black cross.
He didn't rush toward her.
Didn't loom.
He knelt slowly, deliberately, as if afraid sudden movement might shatter her.
"It's okay," he said.
His voice was low. Rough. Human.
"You're safe."
Gemma scrambled backward, sob breaking free. "Don't—don't come closer—please!"
He froze instantly.
A pause.
Then a single nod.
"I won't," he said. "Can you stand?"
She shook her head, tears streaking down her face.
"That's okay," he continued softly. "Help will come. Go home when you can."
He stood.
And then he was gone.
No footsteps. No sound.
Just the alley. The blood. And Gemma shaking, alive.
ELSEWHERE
The chamber was cold.
Perfectly ordered.
A fist slammed into marble. The echo rolled like thunder.
"For how long," a voice roared, "were you planning to hide the weapon from us?!"
Hiro knelt at the center of the room, back straight, hands resting calmly on his thighs. His uniform was immaculate. His expression unreadable.
"Speak!"
"…Sir," Hiro said evenly. "I was not hiding him. I was testing him."
A laugh—sharp and humorless.
"And who gave you the authority to decide his worth?"
Hiro lifted his head.
"I accept my punishment," he said. "But the asset will not be lost."
"Asset?" the voice sneered.
Hiro's gaze hardened.
"…His name is Yuri."
Silence fell.
Not anger.
Fear.
"Remember it," Hiro continued calmly. "You will hear it again."
The name settled over the chamber like a prophecy.
Outside, somewhere in the city, the night listened.