11 February 2000
14:00
Paris, France
The afternoon sun slanted through the shattered windows of an abandoned Parisian hall, scattering fractured light across stone walls veined with decay. Dust shimmered in the still air like suspended ash, stirred by each cautious footstep that echoed through the corridor. The scent of rain-soaked stone, rusted iron, and forgotten parchment hung heavy, a library of ghosts left behind by time.
Tiffany Luna Clark led the way.
Every motion was deliberate, measured. She carried herself with the quiet precision of someone who had mastered both fear and power. Her tactical suit, the deep orange-red of a dying sunset, caught the fractured beams of light, and the stitched phoenix on her shoulder glowed faintly gold, a living ember in the gloom. Her long braid moved with her stride, the faint rhythm of discipline against the crunch of shattered glass beneath her boots.
Behind her came Rook, restless energy contained within a soldier's frame, his blue eyes sharp beneath the fire of his hair. His hand hovered near his weapon, as if ready for the world to explode.
Dean followed last, silent and steady. Older, fast, yes, but every step was purposeful. The air itself seemed to yield around him.
At the corridor's end, a faint metallic hum broke the silence. Half-buried beneath rubble, a steel panel jutted from the stone like a forgotten tomb. Tiffany knelt, brushing away dust. Her gloved fingers traced faint sigils etched into its surface, ancient runes of the Order, older than any living member.
A soft press on the edge, and a hidden seam hissed open, releasing a sigh of stale air. Inside, a dim biometric scanner pulsed like a heartbeat. Tiffany laid her hand against it.
The mark beneath her skin, a V intersected by an L, crowned by a tiny sun, flared gold.
"Welcome, Luxa. Daughter of the Phoenixmoon Bloodline," said the smooth synthetic voice.
The steel door split apart with a hiss, golden light spilling over her face.
Rook's turn came next.
"Welcome, Star-Lord. Son of the Starbloodline."
Then Dean.
"Welcome, Mute. Son of the Woodbloodline."
The voice softened on his name. Dean's only answer was silence.
Beyond the gate lay the heart of the Via Lucis, the Parisian Sanctuary, built beneath the veins of the city. The light here wasn't electric; it was alive, coursing through the walls like veins of molten gold. Warriors moved in silent formation, their armor reflecting the soft luminescence. The air smelled of oil, steel, and ozone.
As Tiffany entered, conversations faltered. Soldiers straightened. Some bowed their heads.
The Golden Girl.
The one who burned and lived.
She despised the title.
They followed the marble corridors to the War Room, a vast dome where celestial runes pulsed faintly along the curved ceiling. At its center floated a holographic map of Paris, alive with shifting energy signatures, crimson zones marking the recent attacks.
Lance Lukyan stood over the projection, blond hair tousled, his jaw tense in concentration. Ruan Lang worked beside him, calm and precise, his fingers gliding over the control pad.
Across the table, Steve Lukyan looked up from a weathered dossier. His once-golden hair was fading to silver; the lines on his face were carved deep by years of command and grief.
"Glad you made it," Steve said, voice rough from too many nights without sleep. "They're spreading faster than expected. Smarter. Coordinated."
"That's why you called me," Tiffany replied evenly. "You need someone who finishes what they start."
Steve's gaze sharpened. "Still the same arrogance."
"Confidence," she corrected, tone calm, sharp. "It's what separates the living from the dead."
Lance's smirk flickered. Rook tried not to grin. Dean said nothing.
Ruan rotated the holographic map. Scenes flickered: claw marks gouged into concrete, bodies half-wrapped in black mist, traces of celestial residue glowing faintly in the dark.
"Two more attacks last night," he reported. "Eiffel District. Victims drained. Organs removed, surgically precise. Same pattern as before."
Tiffany leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Then it's him. Gordon's using the Mimcro Monstro again, gatherers. We strike before he completes the ritual."
Lance nodded. "He's collecting purity, celestial essence bound within organic matter. Building a vessel."
"Exactly," she said. "Something that should never exist in this world."
Steve's jaw tightened. "You're making assumptions."
"No," Tiffany said, locking eyes with him. "I'm reading the signs you keep refusing to see."
The air in the dome tensed. The silence between them was thin as a blade.
Rook shifted uneasily. Dean crossed his arms, exhaling through his nose. Lance took a half step closer to Tiffany, quiet allegiance.
Steve broke the moment by slapping a photo onto the table. A grainy image: a figure vanishing into a warehouse.
"Gordon," Ruan murmured. "Sri Lanka. Five potential sites. Confirmation expected within seventy-two hours."
Lance frowned. "Fifth sighting this month. He's slipping up."
"Or he's close," Tiffany said. "Closer to finishing what he started in Berlin."
Steve's expression hardened. "Berlin isn't relevant."
Tiffany's eyes turned cold. "It's always relevant. I nearly died because of Antonio's betrayal. And Gordon's signature was on every trace of dark matter that night. Don't you dare tell me it's irrelevant."
Lance stepped in, his voice low. "She's right. Berlin was a trial run, and he failed. He's been escalating ever since."
Steve's gaze snapped to his younger son. "Watch your tone."
"I'd say the same to you, Commander," Lance replied. "You forget who led the Phoenix Protocol when the rest of you were still arguing over jurisdiction."
Tiffany said nothing, but the quiet heat in her stare carried more weight than any weapon.
Steve exhaled, tired, furious, grieving. "You both think I don't carry the cost of this war? You think I don't see their faces every night? You think I wanted your brother, James, to,"
He stopped himself.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Tiffany's voice broke it, soft, lethal. "You don't get to speak his name."
Steve froze, startled by the edge in her tone.
She reached into her coat and placed a small photograph on the table. The paper was old, worn thin by memory: a golden-haired boy holding a dark-haired girl asleep in the sunlight.
"You and my father let him believe I was dead," she said, voice trembling between fury and grief. "You called it protection. But it was a lie. He mourned me while you built walls around the truth."
Steve's tone softened. "Your father did it to save you. Gordon would never have stopped hunting you. You remember the estate,"
"I remember everything," she snapped. "James held me when the ceiling fell. We were children, and you were too busy playing gods with our lives. When I woke, my mother told me I'd never see any of you again."
Her voice faltered, the first crack in the armor. "And when you finally came for me, it was too late. They'd already found me. Killed my mother. My first love was killed. Two weeks in their hands before Lance and Ruan pulled me out. I was seventeen, terrified, and cursed with wings I didn't ask for."
Steve's expression softened with old regret. "No one understood what you were becoming. You were the first of your kind, a girl born of light itself. We feared what might happen if,"
She laughed bitterly. "You feared me. You feared what you couldn't control. You caged me in ranks and missions, hid me behind false names. You turned me into your weapon."
Lance's voice sliced through, steady but dangerous. "She's not your soldier, Dad. She's the reason any of us are still alive."
Steve turned on him. "And she's reckless. Berlin proved that."
Tiffany's gaze sharpened to flame. "Berlin proved I can survive what you couldn't."
The room went deathly still. Even the light seemed to dim.
Ruan looked away. Rook clenched his jaw. Dean remained motionless, the still point of the storm.
Finally, Lance broke the silence. "Enough. Gordon's still out there. The Monstro are spreading through Paris, and while we argue ghosts, he's moving closer to the endgame."
Steve's shoulders sagged. The fight drained from his voice. "Fine. Paris first. But this ends my way. Full coordination. You answer to me."
Tiffany lifted her chin. "I answer to the Light, not to you."
Her words rang through the dome, and the gold runes above them pulsed brighter, as if the Light itself acknowledged her defiance.
Steve stared at her, frustration barely masking the flicker of pride beneath.
"Just don't die," he muttered.
Tiffany turned away, the faintest smile ghosting her lips. "Not my plan."
As she and Lance headed for the corridor, Ruan called, "We move at sundown. All teams prepare."
The War Room emptied.
Steve lingered alone, staring down at the faded photograph she'd left behind. His thumb brushed the boy's smiling face.
"Damn it, James," he whispered. "If only you knew how close she's standing to your shadow."