Bloodlines Side Stories

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<<link "╰┈➤">><<run Engine.backward();>><</link>>  <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bloodlines-if" target="_blank">Bloodlines</a>  <<link "╰┈➤ˎˊ˗">><<run Engine.forward();>><</link>>

<<link "settings">><<run UI.settings();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>> <<link "saves">><<run UI.saves();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><</link>> <<link "restart">><<run UI.restart();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>> <<link "credits">><<run Dialog.create("Credits").wikiPassage("Credits").open();>><<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">><<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">><<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">><</link>>

<img class="character" src="https://placehold.co/400x600/transparent/FFF?text=L&font=roboto">  <h2>Character Profile</h2> <div id="charInfo" class="character">  Name: Leonora Pronouns: pronoun/pronoun Label: Information  </div> <div id="charBio" class='character'>  ''This dialog is filled with the contents of the //Character Profile// passage.'' Space for a biography, character description/traits, or anything else. Scrolls automatically.  </div>

<ul> <li>//Leonora// UI Template by <a href="https://lapinlunaire-games.neocities.org/" target="_blank">LapinLunaireGames</a></li> </ul> <hr>

<<link "✎ᝰ.">>  <<toggleclass "#menuLinks" "unstow">> <<toggleclass "#header" "shadow">> <<toggleclass "#menu" "glow">> <<run setup.capo();>> <<if not _clicked>> <<run setup.mesura();>> <<set _clicked to true>> <</if>> <</link>>

<div class="intro-image"> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/DJtjeuO.gif" alt="Bloodlines intro animation" class="intro-gif dark-mode-gif"> <img src="https://i.imgur.com/Qq1f3Ps.gif" alt="Bloodlines intro animation" class="intro-gif light-mode-gif"> </div>  <div id="splashLinks"> [[Play|Passage1]] <<if (Save.browser.size > 0)>> <<link "Load">> <<run UI.saves();>> <</link>> <</if>> <<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings();>><</link>> <<link "Credits">><<run Dialog.create("Credits").wikiPassage("Credits").open();>><</link>> </div> <style> .intro-image { text-align: center !important; margin: 20px auto !important; display: block !important; width: 100% !important; } .intro-gif { max-width: 1000px !important; height: auto !important; border-radius: 8px !important; box-shadow: 0 4px 8px rgba(0,0,0,0.3) !important; margin: 0 auto !important; display: block !important; } /* Show dark mode GIF not light mode GIF!!! */ .dark-mode-gif { display: block !important; } .light-mode-gif { display: none !important; } /* In light mode, hide dark GIF and show light GIF!!! */ .lm .dark-mode-gif { display: none !important; } .lm .light-mode-gif { display: block !important; margin: 0 auto !important; } @media (max-width: 600px) { .intro-gif { max-width: 50% !important; } } </style>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">Bloodlines</h1> Corruptio Incipit A Sanguine. <hr> Welcome to //Bloodlines Side Stories ☾𖤓// In Sordia, most stories write themselves in blood. Step into the lives of those who embrace the rot and those who fight against it. WARNING: This collection contains mature, dark urban fantasy content including: graphic violence and gore, murder and death (including young victims), body horror, torture, burning alive, strong language/profanity, blood and medical trauma, supernatural horror, substance use (alcohol, smoking, drugs), emotional abuse, mental health themes, power dynamics and abuse This story explores themes of corruption, mortality, and survival in a decaying city. Reader discretion strongly advised. Not suitable for anyone under 18. <div class="main-button"><<link "Next">><<goto "GenderROChoice">><</link>></div>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">Select RO's Gender</h1> All of your Romantic Opponents (ROs) are gender-selectable. Please set them now :) <ul> <li> <<link "Set them now">> <<set $setNow = true>> <<goto "SetROAce">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">ACE</h1> Andre / Anaya “Ace” Reid — Your best friend, your backup, and one of the few people left who’ll pick up the phone when your name flashes on it. Ace works for the CRD, the folks who handle everything criminally bloodline related. Some say they’re too good for Sordia. You’re just hoping the city doesn’t eat them next. <ul> <li> <<link "Andre Reid (male)">> <<set $aceName = "Andre">> <<set $aceHe = "he">> <<set $aceHim = "him">> <<set $aceHis = "his">> <<set $aceHimself to "himself">> <<set $aceHeC to "He">> <<set $aceHimC to "Him">> <<set $aceHisC to "His">> <<set $aceHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $aceGender = "male">> <<goto "SetROArden">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "Anaya Reid (female)">> <<set $aceName = "Anaya">> <<set $aceHe = "she">> <<set $aceHim = "her">> <<set $aceHis = "her">> <<set $aceHimself to "herself">> <<set $aceHeC to "She">> <<set $aceHimC to "Her">> <<set $aceHisC to "Her">> <<set $aceHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $aceGender = "female">> <<goto "SetROArden">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">DR. ARDEN</h1> Dr. Arden — Dr. Arden runs a neutral clinic in the undercity, patching up anyone who can crawl through the door. They're blunt, cold, and don’t care who you are, only how bad you're bleeding. They don’t take sides, don’t make friends, and don’t ask questions. But if you’re dying, they’re your last best chance. <ul> <li> <<link "Dr. Arden (male)">> <<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">> <<set $ardenHe = "he">> <<set $ardenHim = "him">> <<set $ardenHis = "his">> <<set $ardenHimself to "himself">> <<set $ardenHeC to "He">> <<set $ardenHimC to "Him">> <<set $ardenHisC to "His">> <<set $aceHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $ardenGender = "male">> <<goto "SetROE">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "Dr. Arden (female)">> <<set $ardenName = "Dr. Arden">> <<set $ardenHe = "she">> <<set $ardenHim = "her">> <<set $ardenHis = "her">> <<set $ardenHimself to "herself">> <<set $ardenHeC to "She">> <<set $ardenHimC to "Her">> <<set $ardenHisC to "Her">> <<set $ardenHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $ardenGender = "female">> <<goto "SetROE">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">EGON/EMME</h1> Egon / Emme Han — Heir to one of the most powerful Draegon families in the city, and the youngest CEO to ever make the top board. Sharp suit, sharper tongue. Egon/Emme moves through the world like it owes them something, and maybe it does. They’re arrogant, calculating, and impossible to impress. <ul> <li> <<link "Egon Han (male)">> <<set $eName = "Egon">> <<set $eHe = "he">> <<set $eHim = "him">> <<set $eHis = "his">> <<set $eHimself to "himself">> <<set $eHeC to "He">> <<set $eHimC to "Him">> <<set $eHisC to "His">> <<set $eHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $eGender = "male">> <<goto "SetROLuz">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "Emme Han (female)">> <<set $eName = "Emme">> <<set $eHe = "she">> <<set $eHim = "her">> <<set $eHis = "her">> <<set $eHimself to "herself">> <<set $eHeC to "She">> <<set $eHimC to "Her">> <<set $eHisC to "Her">> <<set $eHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $eGender = "female">> <<goto "SetROLuz">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">LUZ</h1> Lucian / Lucia “Luz” — A crime boss with too much charm and not nearly enough mercy. Luz runs their empire with a grin, a drink in hand, and pink-tinted shades. No one really knows where they came from. All anyone knows is: you don’t cross them, and you don’t ever mistake their smile for kindness. <ul> <li> <<link "Lucian (male)">> <<set $luzName = "Lucian">> <<set $luzHe = "he">> <<set $luzHim = "him">> <<set $luzHis = "his">> <<set $luzHimself to "himself">> <<set $luzHeC to "He">> <<set $luzHimC to "Him">> <<set $luzHisC to "His">> <<set $luzHimselfC to "Himself">> <<set $luzGender = "male">> <<goto "Choose Side Story">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "Lucia (female)">> <<set $luzName = "Lucia">> <<set $luzHe = "she">> <<set $luzHim = "her">> <<set $luzHis = "her">> <<set $luzHimself to "herself">> <<set $luzHeC to "She">> <<set $luzHimC to "Her">> <<set $luzHisC to "Her">> <<set $luzHimselfC to "Herself">> <<set $luzGender = "female">> <<goto "Choose Side Story">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

:: StoryInit <<script>> State.variables.aceName = ""; State.variables.aceHe = ""; State.variables.aceHim = ""; State.variables.aceHis = ""; State.variables.aceGender = ""; State.variables.aceHeC = ""; State.variables.aceHimC = ""; State.variables.aceHisC = ""; State.variables.ardenName = ""; State.variables.ardenHe = ""; State.variables.ardenHim = ""; State.variables.ardenHis = ""; State.variables.ardenGender = ""; State.variables.ardenHeC = ""; State.variables.ardenHimC = ""; State.variables.ardenHisC = ""; State.variables.eName = ""; State.variables.eHe = ""; State.variables.eHim = ""; State.variables.eHis = ""; State.variables.eGender = ""; State.variables.eHeC = ""; State.variables.eHimC = ""; State.variables.eHisC = ""; State.variables.luzName = ""; State.variables.luzHe = ""; State.variables.luzHim = ""; State.variables.luzHis = ""; State.variables.luzGender = ""; State.variables.luzHeC = ""; State.variables.luzHimC = ""; State.variables.luzHisC = ""; /* Fix for any missing showname function */ window.showname = function() { console.log("showname function called"); }; <</script>>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">Side Stories</h1> Which Side Story do you want to read? <ul> <li> <<link "A Day In The Life With Ace">> <<goto "ADITL Ace">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "A Day In The Life With Arden">> <<goto "ADITL Arden">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "A Day In The Life With Egon/Emme">> <<goto "ADITL E">> <</link>> </li> <li> <<link "A Day In The Life With Luz">> <<goto "ADITL Luz">> <</link>> </li> </ul>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">ACE</h1> Content Warning: Child/young adult victim death, graphic crime scenes and burned corpses, combat, themes of failure and survivor's guilt, strong language and violence <hr> The suspect is on the move. Fast. Elusive. Weaving between bodies with practiced ease as rain makes the pavement slick and treacherous. Ace pursues, each footfall measured despite the pace. $aceHisC muscles working overtime. $aceHisC lungs pumping steadily in the toxic Sordia air trying to catch a bloodborn who thinks humans are weak. But humans can be relentless too. "CRD! Move!" Ace shouts, badge flashing as pedestrians scatter like startled birds. Some too slow. Some knocked aside by desperate hands. The gap between agent and prey remains steady at fifteen feet. Not closing. Not widening. "West on Canal!" Ace barks into the comm unit at $aceHis wrist. "Suspect heading toward the market district!" The voice that crackles back belongs to Sherman, Ace's partner. "Copy that. Cutting him off at Mott Street." Rain is pouring down hard. Water beading off the specialized water and heat-resistant uniform that hugs $aceHis athletic frame. $aceHisC eyes never lose focus on Markovich – mid-level enforcer for the Hollow Syndicate and $aceHis best lead to finding Emily Chen alive. Nineteen years old. Missing for thirty-six hours. A window rapidly closing with each passing minute. Markovich glances back, eyes widening at the sight of the CRD agent still on $aceHis tail. Most humans would have fallen behind by now. $aceName isn't most humans. <<if $aceGender is "male">> Ace pushes harder. Each stride eats up pavement, jaw set with determination as $aceHis mind races to calculate angles and intercept trajectories. <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Ace moves extremely fast, $aceHis body a weapon honed through thousands of hours of training. $aceHeC anticipates the suspect's movements, reading $aceHis body language to stay one step ahead of $aceHis escape manoeuvre. <</if>> Markovich veers suddenly, diving between market stalls. Knocking over displays of fruit. Toppling a cart of counterfeit electronics that crash across Ace's path. Ace leaps over the debris without breaking stride. Lands with perfect balance on the other side, hardly registering the startled cry of the vendor. The market looms ahead, a maze of narrow corridors and shadowed alcoves. Perfect for losing pursuers. Markovich knows it well, his smile flashes over his shoulder as he plunges into the labyrinth. "He's entering the market," Ace updates Sherman. "East entrance." "Roger that. Two minutes out." "No time," Ace mutters, more to $aceHimself than the comm. Two minutes might as well be two hours in this chase. Two minutes Emily Chen might not have. The market engulfs them both. An assault of color and sound and smell. Incense mingles and the smell of cooking meat mingles with the rot beneath it all. Bodies press too close. Faces blur. Most turn away when they see Ace's badge. No one wants CRD attention in Sordia. Ace loses visual for three agonizing seconds as Markovich ducks behind a fabric stall. "Bumboclaat!" The curse slips out as $aceHe pushes harder, breaking through the other side just in time to see a flash of movement to the right. This is where bloodlines would use their gifts. Where Ifrit's would use air manipulation or Draegon's would take flight. But Ace has something just as valuable: intimate knowledge of Sordia's twisted geography. "He's trying to reach the tunnels," Ace realizes aloud. The underground maze that runs beneath the market, a perfect escape route for those who know the way. But Ace knows something Markovich doesn't. The route has two entries, not one. Decision made, Ace veers sharply left. Abandons the direct pursuit. Cuts through an alley so narrow shoulders brush brick on both sides. Startles a pair of addicts who scramble to hide their glowing vials. Ignores them. No time. Not when Emily Chen might still be breathing, might still be found if $aceHe can make Markovich talk. Ace runs into the small courtyard that holds the tunnel's second entrance just as Markovich skids around the corner toward the primary access point fifty yards away. Perfect. <div class="main-button">[[Next|A2]]</div>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">DR. ARDEN</h1> Content Warning: Medical procedures and injuries, spiritual possession and communication with the dead, graphic descriptions of cancer and death, supernatural horror elements, themes of mortality and medical trauma <hr> The blood starts flowing at three in the morning. Always does. Like Sordia's violence operates on a schedule, waiting for decent people to fall asleep before spilling its guts across broken pavement. Arden doesn't look up from $ardenHis medical journal when the first patient stumbles through the clinic door, leaving a trail of crimson droplets on cracked linoleum that's seen better decades. "Exam room two," Arden states without lifting $ardenHis eyes from the page about experimental bone grafts. "Strip to the waist. Don't bleed on the equipment." The patient – male, mid-twenties, clutching his side where something sharp has opened him up like a can of soup – staggers toward the indicated room. Amateur. Clean slice, probably a knife fight over territory or drugs or some equally pointless Sordia bullshit. Arden marks $ardenHis place in the journal and rises from the desk. The clinic around $ardenHim hums with the quiet sounds of barely functioning medical equipment – monitors beeping irregularly, air filtration systems cycling with concerning rattles, the soft whir of secondhand centrifuges processing blood samples. Clean despite the age. Organized despite the poverty. $ardenHisC reflection catches in the water-stained window as $ardenHe passes. Pale skin made paler by the harsh fluorescent lighting that flickers occasionally. Black hair falling in precise lines around angular features. Steely gray eyes that miss nothing and forgive less. The high collar of $ardenHis turtleneck hides the worst of the scarring, but Arden knows it's there. Feels it with every breath. Kailani emerges from the supply closet, arms full of fresh bandages. Her stern features softened by exhaustion, dark eyes alert despite the late hour. She's $ardenHis only friend and has been working alongside Arden for years now – the only person who can tolerate $ardenHis abrasive bedside manner and complete lack of social graces. "Knife wound?" she asks, noting $ardenName's direction. "Superficial. Probably territorial dispute." Arden pauses at the examination room door. "The Castellanos woman is scheduled for nine. Ensure the consultation room is prepared." Kailani nods, understanding the requirements. The consultation room needs different preparation than medical examinations. Dimmer lighting. Specific temperature controls. The kind of environment that makes communication with the departed easier. Arden's reputation precedes $ardenHim throughout the city. Known as the most reliable Manitou in Sordia, $ardenHis spiritual communication abilities have made $ardenHim famous among both the desperate poor and the wealthy elite seeking answers from the dead. Exam room two reeks of fear-sweat and cheap synthetic alcohol. The patient has managed to remove his shirt, revealing a torso decorated with amateur gang tattoos and a neat diagonal slice below his ribs. Deep enough to be concerning. Not deep enough to be immediately fatal. "Clearly. Your defensive techniques require improvement." Arden examines the injury with clinical detachment, fingers probing the edges with surgical precision. "Superficial muscle involvement. No organ penetration. You'll live to make more poor decisions." The patient winces as $ardenName begins cleaning the wound. "That hurts, doc." <<if $ardenGender is "male">> "Good. Pain indicates functional nerve response." $ardenName threads a suture needle with mechanical efficiency. "Consider it educational feedback regarding blade-based conflict resolution." $ardenHisC voice carries professional indifference as $ardenHe begins stitching, each movement precise. <<elseif $ardenGender is "female">> "Good. Pain means you're still capable of learning. Though evidence suggests a steep learning curve ahead." $ardenName's tone turns more cutting as $ardenHe threads the needle. "Sit. Shut up. Let me work before you bleed out on my clean floor." <</if>> The patient grits his teeth as the needle pierces flesh. "You always this chatty?" "I'm being positively verbose tonight. Usually I work in blessed silence." $ardenName ties off the first suture with a sharp tug that makes the patient gasp. "What's your employment status?" "What's it to you?" "Payment structure varies based on financial capacity." $ardenName continues stitching with methodical precision. "Rich pay full price. Poor pay nothing or what they can." "I work the docks. When there's work." "No charge then. Consider it investment in Sordia's struggling working class." $ardenName finishes the final suture, applying bandages with efficient movements. Twenty minutes later, the patient is bandaged and medicated, clutching a bottle of antibiotics and detailed wound care instructions he probably can't read. He stares at the "no charge" notation on his paperwork with genuine confusion. "Seriously? Nothing?" "Seriously nothing. Don't make me regret charitable impulses." $ardenName is already moving toward the next room where someone has been waiting with what sounds like a respiratory issue. "Kailani will provide wound care instructions and follow-up scheduling." <div class="main-button">[[Next|AR2]]</div>

<<if $eGender is "male">> <h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">EGON</h1> <<elseif $eGender is "female">> <h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">EMME</h1> <</if>> Content Warning: Substance use (smoking, alcohol), corporate corruption and violence <hr> The alarm sounds at four in the morning. Precise. Punctual. Just like everything else in $eName Han's life. $eName silences it with a sharp gesture, not bothering to open $eHis eyes just yet. The penthouse bedroom remains pitch black, automated blinds blocking out even the persistent neon glow of Sordia. "Lights. Twenty percent," $eName commands, voice rough with sleep. The room illuminates just enough to navigate without being jarring. $eName sits up, golden draconic eyes adjusting instantly to the dimness. The silk sheets pool around $eHis waist, revealing scattered golden scales across $eHis body that catch what little light there is. The empty spot beside $eHim in the massive bed is already cold. Last night's companion knew better than to stay until morning. One of the many unspoken rules when sleeping with a Han. $eName slides from bed, moving with predatory grace across heated marble floors. In the bathroom, $eHe avoids the mirror's reflection while turning on the shower. Some mornings, $eHe can't bear to face $eHimself. Today is one of those mornings. The shower is scalding. Burning. Almost enough to make $eName forget the constant, gnawing sense of restlessness that follows $eHim like a shadow. <<if $eGender is "male">> $eName stands beneath the spray, muscles tensing as $eHe mentally prepares for battle, mind already calculating moves and countermoves for the day ahead. The water falls steady over the defined ridges of $eHis abdomen, over the golden scales that mark $eHim as blessed. <<elseif $eGender is "female">> $eName uses the shower time to center herself, to build the armor of icy contempt $eHe'll need. $eHisC tall, athletic frame betrays none of the vulnerability $eHe allows $eHimself only in these private moments. <</if>> $eName steps out, water evaporating almost instantly from $eHis naturally overheated draconic skin. The morning routine is military in its precision. Exactly seventeen minutes from alarm to fully dressed. <<if $eGender is "male">> The suit is armor. Protection. Black with subtle golden threads woven through imported wool, cut to emphasize symmetry and power. <<elseif $eGender is "female">> The jumpsuit is blood red, a power color that coordinates perfectly with the golden scales at $eName's collarbone. <</if>> Today those scales remain visible. A deliberate choice. Let them see a hint of what you are. Let them fear it. The phone rings as $eName is adjusting $eHis outfit. The specialized screen displays a name that makes $eHis lip curl involuntarily. Jin Han. Cousin. Rival. Obstacle. "Delete," $eName commands. The call vanishes, but the tension it brought remains, settling between $eName's shoulder blades like a knife. $eName moves to the kitchen where the coffee machine has activated precisely on schedule. Black coffee fills a matte gold cup as $eName reviews the day's calendar. 8:00 AM – Board Meeting (Quarterly Projections) 10:30 AM – Termination (Carver, R.) 1:00 PM – Lunch with Mother 3:00 PM – Veridan Presentation Preparation 7:00 PM – Meeting with Luz The last item makes $eName pause. Finger hovering over the entry. The Infernal vermin is unpredictable. Dangerous. Necessary. $eName downs the coffee in three scalding gulps. No breakfast. Food is fuel, and meetings with $eHis Mother always involve performative dining. Calories must be budgeted accordingly. The private elevator descends silently to the garage level. $eName straightens $eHis posture, shoulders perfectly aligned, chin lifted imperiously. The doors open to reveal a gleaming black limousine, the Han family crest – a red dragon – emblazoned subtly on the doors. The driver, Kenji, stands at attention beside the vehicle. His eyes scan $eName briefly before he bows. "Good morning, Director Han," he says, voice respectfully low. "Traffic projections suggest the eastern route would be most efficient today." "The northern route," $eName contradicts without explanation. Taking the eastern route would mean passing Jin's penthouse. Pettiness, perhaps, but $eName prefers to think of it as avoiding unnecessary irritation. "Of course, Director." <div class="main-button">[[Next|E2]]</div>

<h1 style="margin-block-end:0;">LUZ</h1> Content Warning: Graphic torture and murder, people burning alive in detail, psychological manipulation and abuse, strong violence and gore, themes of betrayal and punishment <hr> The penthouse glitters beneath crystal chandeliers. Excessive. Ostentatious. Exactly what Luz wants $luzHis guests to see. To believe about $luzHim. The chandelier alone costs more than what most in Sordia earn in years, and every person seated at the long obsidian table knows it. Feels the weight of wealth pressing down on their shoulders like judgment from a god they stopped believing in long ago. Luz sits at the head of the table, one red eye, one black eye scanning over $luzHis guests with intensity. Twelve of $luzHis most successful lieutenants, dressed in their finest, laughing too loud at jokes that aren't funny. Pink-tinted glasses rest atop $luzHis two-toned hair for now, a rare glimpse at the true Luz for those deemed worthy enough to breathe the same air. The black half of $luzHis hair catches the light differently than the white – one absorbing, one reflecting. A perfect metaphor for how Luz operates in Sordia. Neo stands at Luz's right shoulder. Silent. Their face betrays nothing as they watch the room with eyes that miss nothing and forgive even less. <div class="main-button">[[Next|L2]]</div>

"Another toast!" Luz calls, raising a crystal glass that catches light in fractured rainbow patterns across the black tablecloth. "To the Eighth Street takeover. Cleanest territory expansion in Sordia's bloody history!" <<if $luzGender is "male">> Luz's voice booms across the room, commanding attention, shoulders set wide as $luzHe leans forward to clink glasses with those seated closest. $luzHis unbuttoned collar reveals the edge of a scar that disappears beneath expensive fabric. <<elseif $luzGender is "female">> Luz purrs the words like a promise of something more intimate later, red lips curving into a smile that doesn't quite reach $luzHis eyes as $luzHe raises $luzHis glass with elegantly manicured fingers, each nail sharp enough to draw blood. The dress $luzHe wears dips low enough to reveal the edge of a scar that disappears beneath expensive fabric from between $luzHis breasts. <</if>> Glasses rise. Crystal meets crystal. Twelve voices echo the sentiment with varying degrees of sincerity. "Three million in new territory," Santiago says from halfway down the table. He smiles too wide. "And minimal casualties among our people." "Minimal casualties is still casualties," Luz corrects, but $luzHis tone remains light. Playful. One finger traces the rim of $luzHis glass, producing a haunting note that lingers just a fraction too long. "We can do better next time." Sordia sprawls beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Neon advertisements paint the gathered faces in shifting hues of blue and pink and violent red. The city looks almost beautiful from up here. Like rot seen from a distance. Like a corpse made presentable for an open casket. "To doing better next time," Mara agrees, her glass catching the light as she raises it "And to Luz, who makes it all possible." More agreements. More toadying. Luz basks in it, leaning back in $luzHis chair, $luzHis gaze sweeping over $luzHis collection of killers and dealers and information brokers. Every person at this table has blood on their hands. Some wear it better than others. <div class="main-button">[[Next|L3]]</div>

"You're all too kind," Luz says, setting down $luzHis glass with a precision that draws attention to $luzHis fingers. To the rings adorning each one. Beautiful pieces that double as brass knuckles when needed. "Really. I'm starting to wonder what you want from me." Nervous laughter ripples around the table. They all want something. Always do. It's the nature of power and those who own it. "Nothing but your continued leadership," Anton says, his smile too wide. Too eager. "And maybe that new weapons shipment rumored to be coming in from East City," adds Delia, braver than most after three glasses of wine but the slight tremor in her left hand betrays the nerve damage from a knife fight she barely survived last year. Luz laughs. The sound is genuine. Warm even. It invites others to join, to feel like they're in on the joke rather than being the joke. "There's always an angle with you people," Luz says fondly, as if talking about beloved pets who've performed a particularly amusing trick. "That's why I keep you around. That... resourcefulness." The first course arrives, carried by staff who might as well be ghosts for all the attention they receive. Luz makes a show of inhaling the aromatic steam rising from the soup. "Lobster bisque," $luzHe announces. "Flown in this morning from the coast. The real coast, not that toxic shithole they call a beach on the south side." $luzHeC takes a spoonful, eyes closing briefly in pleasure. When $luzHe opens them again, the red one seems to glow just a little brighter in the low light. "Eat," Luz commands, gesturing generously. "Enjoy yourselves. Tonight is about celebration. About family." The guests dig in, conversation flowing more naturally as expensive wine loosens tongues and lowers guards. The bisque is exquisite. Rich and complex with just a hint of spice that lingers on the palate. Luz moves around the table between courses. Touches Santiago's shoulder while asking about his new territory assignment, fingers lingering just long enough to be intimate without being inappropriate. Leans close to whisper something in Mara's ear that makes her flush despite her reputation for coldblooded efficiency in removing problems. Congratulates Anton to his wedding with a lingering touch that makes the man stammer mid-sentence, pupils dilating with something beyond mere respect. <<if $luzGender is "male">> Luz commands the room with presence alone, filling spaces with confident gestures and friendly banter. $luzHe seems harmless enough but everyone knows who holds the real power here. <<elseif $luzGender is "female">> Luz weaves through conversations easily, leaving people wanting more with each fleeting touch and intimate glance. $luzHis laughter comes easily, but $luzHis eyes remain watchful, calculating even as $luzHe presses a playful kiss to someone's cheek. <</if>> <div class="main-button">[[Next|L4]]</div>

By the main course – a perfectly roasted cut of meat that no one quite recognizes but no one dares question – the atmosphere is relaxed. With the illusion of safety. The wine flows freely. Jokes become cruder. Stories of violence more explicit. Luz encourages it all, drawing out confessions and boasts with well-placed questions and admiring glances. "I've been thinking," Luz says suddenly, cutting into $luzHis meat with precise movements that showcase the perfect medium-rare center, juices pooling red on the plate, "about loyalty." The shift is subtle. The temperature in the room seems to drop by degrees. Conversation stutters, then resumes a fraction too loud, too forced. "It's such a rare commodity these days. So valuable." Luz continues eating as if $luzHe's commented on nothing more significant than the weather. Knife slicing through flesh with effortless precision. "Wouldn't you agree, Tomas?" Tomas, seated three chairs down, nods too quickly. A bead of sweat forms at his temple despite the carefully regulated temperature. "Absolutely. Most valuable thing a person can offer." "Hmm." Luz takes a sip of wine<<if $luzGender is "female">>, leaving a perfect crescent of red lipstick on the glass<</if>>. "And yet some people treat it like it's disposable. Like it's something to be traded away for a momentary advantage." The room grows quieter. Silverware against plates becomes the dominant sound. The scrape of metal. The clink of crystal. The increasingly shallow breathing of twelve people who suddenly remember exactly who they're dining with. "It's disappointing, really." Luz's voice remains conversational. Pleasant even. "When people forget what matters." Across the table, Harris, a recent addition to Luz's inner circle with a talent for laundering money through legitimate businesses, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His fork scrapes against his plate, the sound unnaturally loud. A drop of wine spills on his white shirt collar, blooming like fresh blood. "Are you not enjoying your meal, Harris?" Luz asks, heterochromatic eyes fixing on him with sudden intensity. All pretense of examining $luzHis own food abandoned. "It's excellent," Harris says quickly. Too quickly. His next bite is followed by an odd expression. A swallow that seems difficult. He reaches for his water, hand trembling slightly. Luz smiles. "I'm so glad to hear that. I selected this particular cut especially for tonight." Harris coughs once. Then again. Harder. His hand rises to his throat, fingers clutching at the skin as if something beneath it burns. At first, no one reacts. Just an awkward moment at an elegant dinner. But then he coughs again, and this time, a fine spray of red mists the white tablecloth in front of him, droplets catching the light like rubies. "Oh my," Luz says mildly, taking another bite of $luzHis own meal. Not a trace of surprise in $luzHis expression. "That doesn't look good at all." Harris claws at his throat more desperately now. His eyes bulge as he tries to speak. Blood bubbles between his lips, no longer a spray but a steady stream, dripping onto his expensive shirt. The coughing becomes violent. His entire body convulses. Chairs scrape back as people nearest to him move away. The stench of voided bowels fills the air, mixing grotesquely with the aroma of fine cuisine. No one helps. No one dares. Harris's skin begins to change. Not just flushing with effort, but darkening. Blackening. Starting from the center of his chest and spreading outward like ink through paper. When he tears open his shirt in desperation, everyone can see it. An intricate symbol burned into his flesh. Lines of infernal script curl and twist, glowing red-hot against skin that bubbles and chars around it. He opens his mouth to scream, but only more blood emerges, pouring now rather than dripping. His eyes roll back, showing whites that are rapidly reddening as capillaries burst. Harris collapses forward, face splashing into his plate. Steam rises from the contact point where his burning skin meets fine china. His body convulses once, twice, and then goes still. A final, rattling breath escapes him, carrying with it flakes of charred tissue. The silence that follows is absolute. Luz continues eating. Cuts another perfect bite. Chews thoughtfully. Dabs at the corner of $luzHis mouth with a napkin, the white fabric coming away spotless. <div class="main-button">[[Next|L5]]</div>

"Well," $luzHe finally says. "That was unfortunate timing." Several nervous laughs break the tension. Relief from those who think this was an isolated incident. A coincidence. A tragic medical event during an otherwise pleasant evening. "I was just about to discuss betrayal," Luz continues, voice silky smooth. The same voice that had been complimenting outfits and making flirtatious comments just minutes before. "And here Harris provides such a vivid demonstration." Understanding dawns across different faces at different rates. Fear follows close behind. Napkins are clutched in white-knuckled grips. One glass topples, spilling red across white linen like an omen. "You see," Luz says, setting down $luzHis silverware with precise movements, "Harris made a very foolish decision recently. He thought information about our shipping routes might be worth something to the Mirage Collective." Neo steps forward, placing a small device on the table. It projects an audio recording. His voice, nervous but clear, selling out locations and times. Selling out people seated at this very table. "But Harris wasn't alone," Luz continues as the recording ends. Pink glasses now back in place, hiding the intensity of $luzHis mismatched eyes but somehow making $luzHis expression more terrifying in its impossibility to understand. "Were you, my loves?" Five people at the table exchange glances. Panicked. Caught. Knowing already what comes next. "Let me tell you a little secret about the contracts you all signed when you joined our family," Luz says, twirling a strand of white hair around one finger. "They're quite special. When you cut your palm and pressed it to mine... when you spoke those words of loyalty... you weren't just making promises. You were binding yourselves to me. Literally." Luz taps $luzHis chest, just above the heart. "I feel it, you know. The moment one of you betrays me. A little twinge. Like heartburn, but... deeper. More intimate." <div class="main-button">[[Next|L6]]</div>

Anton is the first to make a move. He lunges for the door, sending his chair crashing to the floor. The sound is jarring in the hushed room. His legs carry him faster than expected. He makes it three steps before dropping to his knees, screaming. His hands claw at his chest as angry red welts form across his skin. Burn patterns in the shape of Luz's flame contract symbol sizzle through his expensive shirt, the fabric melting into his flesh with a sickening hiss. The smell of cooking meat. Different from dinner, unmistakably human, fills the air. "I'm afraid leaving early isn't an option," Luz says, still seated, still calm. Blood begins to leak from Anton's eyes like tears, leaving crimson tracks down his contorted face. "The contracts can't be broken, you see. Not by distance. Not by time." Luz's smile widens, showing teeth that seem just slightly too sharp in the dining room's light. "Only death releases you. Yours... or mine." Mara tries next. Her hand reaches inside her jacket, movements almost too fast to track. "I wouldn't," Luz warns softly. She doesn't listen. The gun clears her holster just as she too crumples, screaming. The weapon clatters to the floor as her skin erupts in the same burning patterns as Anton's. The symbols crawl across her flesh like living things, burrowing deeper with each passing second. Where they pass, skin blackens and splits, revealing muscle beneath that begins to cook from the inside out. "The wonderful thing about infernal contracts," Luz explains to the rest of the room, as if giving a friendly lecture while two people writhe in agony on the floor, "is their clarity. No ambiguity. No room for legal loopholes. You betray me, you burn. Inside and out. I feel your betrayal the moment it happens, and the contract does the rest." Luz gestures to Harris's corpse, still draped across his plate. "Some are quicker than others. Harris's heart gave out before the full effect could manifest. Weak constitution, I suppose." Santiago and Delia remain frozen in their seats, eyes darting between their fallen co-conspirators and the exits. The burning bodies writhing on the expensive carpet. The patterns on Anton's skin have reached his face now. His lips have charred away, revealing teeth in a rictus grin as he continues to scream without sound. "Now," Luz continues, dabbing at the corner of $luzHis mouth with a napkin, "we have two options for our evening's entertainment." <<if $luzGender is "male">> Luz's voice drops to a threatening growl, fist clenching on the tabletop hard enough to make the silverware jump. A vein pulses at $luzHis temple, betraying the rage beneath the controlled exterior. $luzHis red eye gleams like fresh blood under the chandelier light. <<elseif $luzGender is "female">> Luz leans forward, resting $luzHis chin on laced fingers, smile curving with predatory anticipation. $luzHe toys with a dessert fork, running one finger along its tines. $luzHis breathing has quickened slightly, as if excited by the unfolding scene. <</if>> "Option one: The remaining traitors can identify themselves now. Your deaths will be..." Luz pauses, considering, "...relatively quick. A bullet. A blade. Something merciful compared to what Anton and Mara are experiencing." No one moves. No one speaks. Mara's screams have subsided to whimpers. The skin of her hands has blackened completely, fingers fused together into claws. Anton has collapsed fully, body twitching as internal organs cook within his abdomen, which has begun to distend unnaturally. "Option two, my favourite one: We play a game." Luz rises smoothly to $luzHis feet, circling the table like a shark. Fingers trailing across the backs of chairs, across shoulders that stiffen at the contact. "I've prepared a special dessert course. Five portions contain a particular ingredient that reacts... poorly... with the binding contract in traitors' blood." Delia whimpers. Santiago's hand twitches against the tablecloth, fingers scoring gripping the fine material too harshly. "Everyone will eat dessert," Luz continues. "And we'll all watch together to see who starts to cook from the inside out. Much slower than what poor Harris experienced. Much more... informative for the rest of us." Luz leans down to examine Anton's body, which has stopped moving entirely. $luzHe prods it with the toe of an expensive shoe, nodding with clinical interest at how the flesh gives way like overcooked meat. "The contract continues working even after consciousness fades. Fascinating, isn't it? The body destroyed by the very promise it betrayed." "This is insane," whispers one of the guests Luz passes. "You can't—" "I can't what?" Luz stops, turning slowly toward the speaker. The smile is gone now. Nothing playful remains in $luzHis posture. The air around $luzHim seems to shimmer with heat, though the room's temperature hasn't changed. "Protect what's mine? Make examples of rats? Please..." $luzHe gestures expansively. "Tell me what I can't do in my own house." Silence answers $luzHim. The guest shrinks back in their chair, gaze fixed firmly on their plate. "That's what I thought." The smile returns, bright and terrifying. "Now, who's ready for dessert? I promise it's to die for." Luz signals to the staff, who have remained impassive throughout the entire display. They begin to clear plates, stepping around bodies without comment. The professionalism is almost more disturbing than the violence itself. Santiago breaks first. He stands abruptly, chair toppling backward with a crash that makes several guests flinch. "It was Veridan's idea," he blurts. "He approached us individually. Offered double what you pay plus protection from the contract's effects." "Santiago, you fucking coward—" Delia hisses, but her protests die as Luz turns that terrible smile toward her. "Please continue," Luz encourages Santiago. "I find myself fascinated by this little conspiracy. Every detail, Santiago. Names. Places. Exactly what you told them. Nothing less." As Santiago spills everything – names, dates, planned betrayals – sweat pours down his face. The remaining traitor, Tomas, tries to slip away from the table while attention is focused elsewhere. Neo intercepts him without Luz having to say a word. One hand closes around a slender throat, lifting him off the ground with minimal effort. Tomas's feet kick helplessly, inches above the expensive carpet. "Thank you, Santiago," Luz says when he finally runs out of words. "Your honesty has earned you a choice in how you die." The blood drains from Santiago's face. "But you said—" "I said your death would be relatively quick. And it will be." Luz reaches inside $luzHis jacket, withdrawing a sleek handgun that gleams silver in the chandelier light. "Bullet or contract, Santiago? One is messy but instantaneous. The other..." $luzHe nods toward Anton, now nothing more than a blackened husk leaking fluids onto the carpet, and Mara, whose screams have faded to gurgles as the contract burns through her vocal cords. "Well, you've seen the alternative." Santiago's shoulders slump. "Bullet. Please." "As you wish." The gunshot seems impossibly loud in the dining room. Santiago's head snaps back, a perfect hole appearing between his eyes. He crumples like a discarded marionette. Blood and matter splatter the pristine wall behind where he stood. A piece of skull fragments lands in someone's wine glass with a delicate plop. "Anyone else feeling confessional?" Luz asks, turning to the remaining guests. $luzHis voice is light again. Almost cheerful. Gun still smoking in $luzHis perfectly steady hand. Delia is crying now, mascara tracking down her face. "Please, Luz. I have a daughter. She needs me. I can make this right. I can give you names, people higher up in the Mirage—" "You should have thought of her before selling out my western corridor operation." The gun swings toward her almost lazily. "Parents who betray family deserve what comes next." <<if $luzGender is "male">> Luz cocks $luzHis head, the gesture somehow more threatening than any explicit violence. "Your daughter will understand that mommy made a business decision. And business has consequences." <<elseif $luzGender is "female">> Luz sighs, trailing manicured nails along the tablecloth as $luzHe approaches. "Such a disappointment, Delia. I had such hopes for you. All that potential... wasted." <</if>> "Please," Delia tries again, voice breaking. "I'll do anything—" "I think... contract for you," Luz decides, holstering the gun. "Let's see how long you last before you're begging for the bullet Santiago chose. Neo, make sure our guests have a clear view for educational purposes." Luz makes a twisting gesture with $luzHis hand. The symbol on Delia's chest, invisible until now, begins to glow angry red through her dress. She screams, a high, animal sound that seems to go on longer than humanly possible. The fabric smoulders. Then ignites. Revealing the contract mark burning its way through flesh. Unlike the others, Delia's spreads slowly, methodically, the pattern more intricate. More detailed. As if Luz is taking $luzHis time with this one. "Do you see the difference?" Luz asks the table conversationally, as if discussing a fine wine. "I can control the speed. The intensity. Fascinating, isn't it? The bond between contractor and contracted, even in betrayal is amazing, don't you think?" Delia's screams rise in pitch as the burning reaches bone. The sound is inhuman now. Primal. Her body contorts, spine arching impossibly as flames begin to glow within her mouth, illuminating her teeth from behind in a grotesque display. Neo still holds Tomas aloft. The man has stopped struggling, eyes fixed in horror on Delia's torment. "Bullet or contract, Tomas?" Luz asks, not even looking at him. $luzHisC attention fixed on Delia's suffering with something like appreciation in $luzHis expression. "Choose quickly, before I choose for you." "Bullet," Tomas rasps through his constricted throat. "For the love of god, bullet." Luz nods to Neo, who produces his own weapon with his free hand and places it against Tomas's temple. The shot is deafening. Neo drops the body without ceremony, letting it crumple beside Anton's blackened remains. <div class="main-button">[[Next|L7]]</div>

The remaining guests sit in terrified silence as Luz returns to $luzHis seat at the head of the table. $luzHeC picks up $luzHis wine glass, swirling the dark liquid contemplatively as Delia continues to burn, her screams now fading as her lungs cook within her chest. "Let this be a learning opportunity," $luzHe addresses the survivors, voice as pleasant as when $luzHe was discussing the lobster bisque. "You're all still here because you've been loyal. So far." $luzHeC raises $luzHis glass in another toast. After a moment of hesitation, the survivors raise theirs with trembling hands. "To loyalty," Luz says. "May it continue to be profitable for all of us." The dying sounds of the burning conspirator provide a grotesque backdrop to the clinking of glasses. <<if $luzGender is "male">> When Delia finally falls silent, her body nothing more than a charred statue frozen in a position of agony, Luz stands. Adjusts $luzHis immaculate suit jacket. Straightens $luzHis pink glasses. <<elseif $luzGender is "female">> When Delia finally falls silent, her body nothing more than a charred statue frozen in a position of agony, Luz stands. Adjusts $luzHis immaculate suit dress. Straightens $luzHis pink glasses. <</if>> "Well, that was invigorating," $luzHe says, as if $luzHe's just concluded a particularly successful business meeting rather than orchestrated a brutal execution. "But I think we all learned something valuable tonight, didn't we?" $luzHisC gaze sweeps the table, lingering on each surviving lieutenant. "The contract that binds us cannot be broken except by death. I will know the moment you even think of betrayal. And as you've seen..." $luzHe gestures to the carnage surrounding the table. "There is nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No protection that can save you from what comes next." Luz's expression softens suddenly, the shift so abrupt it's almost more frightening than the coldness that came before it. $luzHisC smile returns. Warm. Inviting. As if the last twenty minutes never happened. As if $luzHe isn't standing among corpses and blood spatters in an otherwise elegant dining room. "But why dwell on unpleasantness? The night is young. Dessert is coming. And I promise, the rest are perfectly safe to eat." $luzHeC moves around the table one more time, touching shoulders, pressing a kiss to a cheek here, ruffling hair there. Playful. Affectionate. Completely at odds with the bodies cooling on the floor. "Neo, clean this up, would you?" Luz calls over $luzHis shoulder as $luzHe heads for the door. "And make sure our guests enjoy the rest of their meal. They've earned it." At the threshold, Luz turns back. Blows a kiss to the table with a wink that's visible even behind those pink glasses. "Sweet dreams, my darlings. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." And then $luzHe's gone, leaving behind a room of corpses and traumatized loyalists who sit in stunned silence as servers appear with dessert plates. No one dares refuse when Neo gestures for them to eat. Just another evening in Sordia. Just another dinner with Luz. //END //

The interior of the limousine is a mobile office. Screens embedded in privacy glass display market reports, security briefings, and development updates from Han Tech's various divisions. $eName focuses on the Bloodline Technology Division first – $eHis most profitable and controversial sector. The latest neural inhibitor prototype shows promising results. Police departments across Sordia have already placed orders exceeding production capacity. The ability to temporarily neutralize bloodline powers has made Han Tech essential to law enforcement and feared by bloodlines operating outside corporate protection. $eName scrolls through acquisition reports next. $eHisC military contracts continue to expand, particularly for the draconic-scale armor that can withstand temperatures that would melt conventional materials. A move that gave Han Holdings an unassailable market position. Sordia blurs past the tinted windows. The gleaming upper levels where corporations wage their bloodless wars, the middle zones where everyone pretends decay isn't creeping upward floor by floor. $eName doesn't deign to look at the streets below, the undercity where Luz and others of their ilk carve up territory in messier, more honest conflicts. Han Tower dominates the skyline, a monument to arrogance. Draegon symbol wraps around the building's exterior – a red serpentine form ascending from base to spire. $eName's great-grandfather's idea. Subtle, it was not. Security parts for the limousine without stopping. They know better than to delay the youngest Han. Kenji navigates to the private entrance, where an assistant already waits, tablet in hand. "Director Han," she greets, falling into step beside $eName as $eHe strides through the lobby. "Your cousin attempted to access the Ascension labs last night. Security protocols prevented entry, as instructed." $eName allows a small smile of satisfaction. Of course Jin tried. Predictable. Desperate. The executive elevator awaits, empty as always. $eName's finger hovers over the button for the executive floor, then diverts to sub-basement 3. Better to know what Jin is planning before the board meeting. Knowledge is the only advantage $eName can count on. The research division hums with early morning activity. Scientists snap to attention as $eName strides through, trying and failing to look busy enough to justify their salaries. $eName ignores them. Worthless. Interchangeable. Only one person here matters. "Yara," $eName calls out. Not loudly. $eName never needs to raise $eHis voice to command attention. A woman with pale blue eyes looks up from her workstation, surprise quickly masked by professional detachment. "Director Han. We weren't expecting you this morning." "Evidently," $eName replies, gaze sweeping over the laboratory. Nothing seems amiss, but instinct – the same instinct that has kept $eName alive in boardroom wars – suggests otherwise. "My cousin was here." It's not a question. Yara fidgets, fingers dancing across her keyboard in a nervous rhythm. "Director Jin came by yesterday evening. After hours. He—" "Wanted to see Project Ascension." $eName finishes for her, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Which is under security protocol seven. Meaning even a Han needs clearance, my clearance." <<if $eGender is "male">> $eName maintains $eHis distance, $eHis disappointment somehow more cutting than anger would be. "I selected you personally, Yara. Against Mother's recommendation. Was that a mistake?" <<elseif $eGender is "female">> $eName steps closer to Yara, using $eHis height to loom over her. $eHisC presence fills the space between them, suffocating with silent threat. "And you showed him." <</if>> Yara shrinks. Withers under the golden-eyed stare. Her next words seal her fate. "He said the order came from Matriarch Lin herself. That you were being... evaluated." $eName's face betrays nothing, but acid churns in $eHis stomach. Typical. Predictable. Mother testing loyalties again, using Jin as her instrument. And now this scientist, this asset $eName had cultivated was compromised. "Show me what he saw." Yara hesitates, then brings up a holographic display. Schematics for a neural interface. One designed specifically for draconic physiology, but with modifications $eName has kept secret from everyone but Yara and $eHis team. $eName examines the files, noting which sections Jin accessed. Enough to understand the concept. Not enough for implementation. Small mercies. "Send everything to my private server then clear your desk. Your access is terminated, effective immediately." "Director Han, please—" $eName is already walking away. No time for begging. No patience for excuses. The elevator doors close on Yara's desperate face, cutting off her pleas as efficiently as $eName has cut her from $eHis plans. <div class="main-button">[[Next|E3]]</div>

The board meeting is already in progress when $eName arrives. Being precisely four minutes late establishes dominance without risking genuine censure. Twelve faces turn as the doors open. Eleven show varying degrees of annoyance. One – Jin's – shows smug satisfaction. He believes he's gained an advantage with Project Ascension. Let him believe it. $eName takes $eHis place at the table. Not at the head that belongs to $eHis Mother Lin, currently attending via zoom. The position Jin wants. And $eName too. Jin sits opposite, his suit an ostentatious golden colour that matches his eyes a little too perfectly. Unlike $eName, who keeps $eHis draconic features minimal in professional settings, Jin flaunts his heritage. Red scales gleam at his temples and along his jawline. A display of genetic superiority he never fails to emphasize in people's presence. "Now that we're all here," Lin says, her digital image flickering slightly, "perhaps my child can explain why quarterly projections show a twelve percent decline in Biotech Division revenues." Not a flicker of emotion crosses $eName's face. The use of 'child' rather than $eName's name or title is deliberate. A reminder of expectation. Of lineage. Of the standard $eName is failing to meet. <<if $eGender is "male">> $eName straightens infinitesimally, jaw setting in determination as $eHe prepares to defend $eHis strategic realignment of resources. <<elseif $eGender is "female">> $eName maintains perfect posture, only the slight narrowing of $eHis eyes betraying the calculation happening behind them. <</if>> "The decline is temporary," $eName states, voice carrying easily across the table without needing to be raised. "As outlined in my memo last month, we've redirected twenty percent of Biotech's R&D budget to Project Ascension." Jin's smirk falters. This is not what he expected. "An unauthorized reallocation," he interjects, leaning forward eagerly. "One that should have required full board approval." $eName doesn't even glance in Jin's direction. Looking at an opponent implies they matter. "The reallocation falls within my discretionary authority as Division Director. Page sixteen of the corporate charter, paragraph four. Perhaps if Cousin Jin spent more time reading corporate governance documents and less time making unauthorized visits to secured laboratories, he would know this." The room temperature seems to drop several degrees. Lin's holographic eyes narrow dangerously. "You've been busy, Jin," she says, voice neutral in a way that makes several board members flinch. Jin recovers quickly. Too quickly. He was prepared for this confrontation. "I was conducting due diligence. Given recent... concerns about $eName's decision-making capacity. The report—" "Is fabricated," $eName cuts in, voice like ice. "And inadmissible under corporate bylaw seven-point-three. Medical evaluations must be conducted by the corporate physician, not whatever hack Jin bribed to produce this fiction." $eName slides a data chip across the table. Evidence. Counterattack. The corporate game played at its highest level. "What you'll find there is proof that Jin has been diverting resources from his own division to fund a shadow project with the Mirage Collective. A direct violation of our exclusivity contract with Veridan." The board erupts into murmurs. Lin's picture flickers as she processes this information, her expression unreadable. "We will address these allegations privately," she finally says. "For now, proceed with the quarterly projections." Victory. For now. $eName launches into the presentation, figures and projections flowing effortlessly. The board is captivated, Jin temporarily neutralized. But $eName knows better than to relax. This is merely the first skirmish of the day. The meeting adjourns two hours later. Eleven directors file out, carefully avoiding taking sides in the silent war between cousins. Jin lingers, catching $eName at the doorway. "Clever move with the data chip," he murmurs, voice pitched for $eName's ears only. "The Matriarch was impressed. But we both know your little project is failing because of your inadequacies." The words strike precisely where intended. $eName's careful composure flickers for just a moment, long enough for Jin to see he's drawn blood. "Enjoy your temporary victory, cousin," Jin continues. "I'll be there to console your mothers when you fail. Again." He brushes past, deliberately bumping $eName's right shoulder. The touch feels like contamination. $eName remains perfectly still until Jin is gone. Only then do $eHe allow a single deep breath. Just one moment of a breather. <div class="main-button">[[Next|E4]]</div>

The office of Roland Carver is aggressively mundane. Beige. Inoffensive. Much like the man himself. He rises when $eName enters, a nervous smile already plastered across his unremarkable face. "Director Han, what a pleasant surprise. I was just finishing the presentation for Project Nine. The numbers look very promising for—" "You're terminated," $eName interrupts, not bothering to sit. This won't take long enough to warrant it. "Effective immediately." Carver's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again like a fish suddenly finding itself on dry land. "I... there must be some mistake. My performance reviews—" "Were adequate," $eName agrees coldly. "Your work is competent, Carver. Uninspired, but functional but that's not why you're being terminated." <<if $eGender is "male">> $eName moves to the window, looking out over Sordia rather than dignifying Carver with $eHis full attention. "You leaked information about the Veridan deal to my cousin. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" <<elseif $eGender is "female">> $eName perches on the edge of Carver's desk, invading his space with deliberate casualness. "I pay people to monitor communications, Roland. People much more competent than you." <</if>> "Director Jin said it was approved! That you were working together on—" "So you admit it." $eName's voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You betrayed my confidence based on the word of a rival. Your loyalty is as lacking as your intelligence." Carver's face flushes an unappealing shade of purple. "You can't do this. I have rights. A contract!" "Had," $eName corrects, sliding a document across the desk. "Section twelve, paragraph nine. Termination for cause, specifically corporate espionage. You'll find your access has already been revoked. Security is waiting to escort you out." On cue, two massive security guards enter the office. Special Han Tower security. The kind designed specifically to handle bloodline outbursts. The kind who don't ask questions and don't file reports. "Wait," Carver stammers, desperation rising. "I have a family. A daughter in college. Please—" "You should have considered them before betraying me." $eName turns to leave, then pauses at the door. "Consider yourself fortunate, Carver. In the old days, dragons didn't fire those who betrayed them. They ate them." The guards move forward as $eName exits, closing the door on Carver's continued pleas. Another problem eliminated. Another potential leak plugged. But the termination leaves $eName with a more immediate problem – the Veridan presentation. Without Carver, $eName will need to finish it personally. An annoyance, but perhaps an opportunity as well. Carver's work was mediocre at best. $eName can do better. Must do better, with Jin circling like a vulture. But before that there is one more thing to take care of. Lunch with $eHis mother is a precisely choreographed performance. The restaurant is exclusive, requiring both wealth and connections to secure a table. Lin requires neither. The Han name is enough to clear the entire east terrace for their private use. $eName arrives exactly two minutes early. Not punctual enough to appear eager, but not late enough to show disrespect. Lin is already seated, her posture perfect, not a single hair out of place in her black-silver updo. The red scales at her temples catch the light, more prominent than $eName's, a sign of her purer bloodline. "Mother," $eName greets, bowing precisely. Not too deep – $eHe is in public, after all – but enough to acknowledge her position. "Sit," she replies, not looking up from the menu she doesn't need to read. She's ordered the same meal at this establishment for twenty years. $eName complies, signaling for wine with a gesture so subtle only the most attentive server would catch it. Fortunately, this restaurant employs only the most attentive. "Jin tells me you terminated Carver." Lin sets aside her menu, red eyes – identical to $eName's grandfather – fixing on her child with reptilian stillness. "He was useful." "He was compromised," $eName counters smoothly. "Leaking information about the Veridan deal." "To Jin. Who is family." "Who is competition," $eName corrects. "For the position you yourself said must be earned, not given." A flicker of something – perhaps approval, perhaps amusement – crosses Lin's face so quickly it might have been imagined. "And the board meeting this morning? That display was necessary?" $eName sips $eHis wine, using the moment to carefully select $eHis words. "Jin brought knives to what should have been a civilized discussion. I merely defended myself." "By humiliating him publicly." "By establishing consequences for undermining family interests. Jin's deal with Mirage would have violated exclusivity with Veridan, costing us the entire contract. My methods protected Han Holdings." Lin says nothing for a long moment, studying $eName with the same detached interest she might show a particularly complex financial report. The silence stretches, becoming uncomfortable for anyone with less rigid self-control than $eName. "Dr. Chen's report," she finally says, changing subjects with characteristic abruptness. "His assessment of you. Have you reviewed it?" The words land like a physical blow. $eName doesn't flinch, doesn't allow the pain to show, but something inside withers at the casual cruelty. At the reminder that in Lin's eyes, $eName will always be... insufficient. <<if $eGender is "male">> $eName's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, the only outward sign of the rage building beneath $eHis composed exterior. <<elseif $eGender is "female">> $eName's fingers tighten slightly around the stem of $eHis wineglass, knuckles whitening for just a moment before relaxing. <</if>> "I'll consider his recommendations," $eName replies neutrally. As if discussing a new suit rather than something far more personal. "See that you do. Appearance matters, particularly with the Veridan contract at stake. Speaking of which—" She pauses as their food arrives, waiting until the server retreats before continuing. "I expect your presentation to be flawless. Jin will be watching for any weakness." "Jin will be disappointed, then," $eName says, cutting into $eHis barely-cooked steak with precise movements. The blood pools on the white plate, a vivid reminder of what flows in $eHis veins. Of what makes $eHim both more and less than human. "We shall see." The rest of the lunch proceeds in similar fashion. Verbal sparring disguised as conversation. By the time the check arrives, which Lin pointedly leaves for $eName to handle, $eName's temples are throbbing with restrained tension. <div class="main-button">[[Next|E5]]</div>

Back in the office, $eName locks the door and heads straight for the hidden panel in the bookshelf. It slides open silently, revealing a humidor containing imported cigarettes. The kind banned in most of Sordia due to their unfiltered, chemical-laden composition. The kind that would kill a human in a decade but merely take the edge off for someone with draeconic metabolism. $eName lights one with a gold lighter, inhaling deeply. The burn in $eHis lungs is immediate. Cleansing. One of the few sensations strong enough to penetrate the emotional numbness that has become $eName's baseline state. Smoke curls from $eName's nostrils as $eHe turns to the workstation, cigarette dangling from lips as fingers fly across the keyboard. Carver's presentation appears, mediocre as expected. $eName begins to tear it apart, rebuilding from scratch, inhaling poison with every breath. Three cigarettes later, the presentation is taking shape. Better. Stronger. Almost perfect, but unlike Carver, $eName understands what Veridan really wants. Not just promising numbers, but exclusivity. Prestige. The cachet that comes with Han Holdings' golden seal of approval. The fourth cigarette burns down to $eName's fingers as $eHe becomes absorbed in financial projections, the minor pain barely registering. $eName crushes it out and immediately lights another, not bothering to open a window. The air filtration system will handle it, and the lingering smell is a reminder to others that normal rules don't apply to a Han. The intercom buzzes, an unwelcome interruption. "What?" $eName snaps, not looking up from $eHis work. "Director Han," comes the nervous voice of $eHis assistant. "Mr. Veridan has arrived early for his tour. He's in the lobby." $eName checks the time. Three hours before the scheduled presentation. Not coincidence. Someone – Jin, undoubtedly – has interfered with the schedule, hoping to catch $eName unprepared. "Send him up," $eName replies, already moving to the private bathroom to freshen up. "And have the presentation room prepared immediately." No time to waste on irritation. This is the game. Always has been. Those who cannot adapt do not survive, much less thrive. By the time the elevator announces Veridan's arrival, $eName is composed. Immaculate. Ready. Aleksander Veridan is old money in a city where new money rules. His family controlled shipping lanes before the Blood Recession, and somehow emerged even wealthier after. His suit is understated in a way that only the truly rich can afford – quality so exceptional it doesn't need to announce itself. "Director Han," he greets, extending a hand. His gaze flicks briefly to $eName's posture, assessing, calculating, and then away, too well-bred to stare. "Mr. Veridan," $eName returns, grip firm but not challenging. "You're earlier than expected. I trust that won't be a problem?" The implication is clear: it had better not be. <<if $eGender is "male">> $eName meets Veridan's eyes directly, a subtle dominance display that most humans don't consciously register but instinctively respond to. <<elseif $eGender is "female">> $eName offers a smile that doesn't reach $eHis eyes, $eHis posture subtly shifting to emphasize $eHis height advantage over the older man. <</if>> "Not at all," Veridan replies smoothly. "I'm eager to see what Han Holdings has developed. Particularly given the... interesting rumors circulating about your cousin's activities." So that's why he's here early. Jin's dealings with Mirage have made Veridan nervous. Another fire to extinguish. "Rumors are the currency of the insecure, Mr. Veridan," $eName says, leading him toward the presentation room. "I deal in facts. Contracts. Binding agreements backed by the full weight of the Han name." "And what weight does that name carry these days?" Veridan asks, voice deceptively casual. "There was a time when a Han's word was unbreakable. Now I hear of divided loyalties. Of cousins working at cross-purposes." $eName stops, turning to face Veridan fully. This cannot wait for the presentation. "Let me be perfectly clear. Jin Han does not speak for Han Holdings. $eHisC... explorations with Mirage are unauthorized and will not impact our exclusive arrangement with you. In fact—" $eName withdraws a small data chip from $eHis pocket. "This contains evidence of Jin's communications with Mirage. Evidence I was planning to present to Mother Lin this evening. I'm giving it to you instead, as a demonstration of good faith." Veridan takes the chip, surprise briefly visible before his practiced neutral expression returns. "That's quite a gesture, Director Han. Some might call it betrayal of family." "I call it protecting Han Holdings' interests," $eName replies coldly. "Jin's actions threatened our relationship with a valued partner. That is the true betrayal." Veridan studies $eName with new interest. Reassessing. Recalculating the advantage in this unexpected development. "I see," he finally says. "Well then, shall we proceed with the tour? I find myself quite eager to see what Han Holdings has been developing exclusively for Veridan Industries." The presentation goes flawlessly. $eName speaks for ninety minutes without notes, figures and projections flowing seamlessly. Veridan asks sharp questions, but $eName is prepared. More than prepared, eager for the challenge, for the opportunity to demonstrate superiority. $eName leads Veridan through the advanced bloodline tech division, showcasing the products that have made Han Tech infamous among certain circles and indispensable to others. Neural inhibitors for law enforcement. Enhanced sensory devices that amplify draconic thermal perception for military applications. Defensive shields calibrated to specific bloodline energy signatures. By the end, Veridan is nodding appreciatively. Contracts are signed. Hands are shaken. Another victory for $eName in the endless war for legitimacy. But there's no time to savor it. The meeting with the vermin Luz looms, and that requires different preparations entirely. <div class="main-button">[[Next|E6]]</div>

$eName changes, this time into something less corporate. Still expensive, still perfectly tailored, but cut to intimidate in the undercity rather than the boardroom. Darker colors. Gold accessories kept to a minimum, flashiness in Luz's territory reads as either desperation or stupidity. No one can be as flashy as Luz anyway. $eName activates the secure line to Kenji. "Prepare the car. We're going to Rouge." "The club in the undercity?" Kenji's voice carries a hint of concern. "I'd advise against—" "I didn't ask for advice," $eName cuts him off. "Be ready in ten minutes." The limousine descends through Sordia's levels, each one darker, dirtier, more desperate than the last. The respectable veneer of the upper city gives way to the reality beneath – the rot that feeds the gleaming towers above. $eName makes a final check of the neural dampener, ensuring it's securely positioned and functioning optimally. In Luz's territory, anything less than perfect control could be fatal. Rogue rises from the gloom like a fever dream, neon cutting through haze, bodies writhing in silhouette behind frosted glass. The limousine stops at a discreet distance. "Wait here," $eName instructs Kenji. "If I'm not back in two hours, return to the tower and inform security protocol Lambda." The bouncer recognizes $eName immediately. No words are exchanged. The door simply opens, admitting $eName to the pulsing heart of Luz's empire. Inside is chaos. Beautiful, profitable chaos. Bodies press together on the dance floor, transactions of all kinds happening in dark corners. $eName ignores it all, heading straight for the stairs that lead to Luz's private office. Another bouncer there, this one wearing the new Han Weapon pistol tranquilizer. The dangerous kind. "Director Han," the bouncer acknowledges. "You're expected." The office beyond is different from the club below. Quiet. Tasteful. Unexpectedly refined for someone with Luz's reputation. But then, the most dangerous predators rarely advertise themselves. Luz sits behind an antique desk, heterochromatic eyes – one red, one black – studying $eName with amused interest. "$eName, darling," Luz purrs, rising with liquid grace. "Right on time. So refreshingly predictable." <<if $eGender is "male">> $eName doesn't bristle at the implied insult, maintaining rigid self-control as $eHe inclines $eHis head in minimal acknowledgment. <<elseif $eGender is "female">> $eName offers a cold smile in return, one predator recognizing another across territorial lines. <</if>> "The documents?" $eName asks, not bothering with pleasantries. $eHisC relationship with Luz is transactional. Necessary. Nothing more. "So impatient," Luz replies, circling the desk to perch on its edge. Too close. Deliberately invading $eName's personal space. "Don't you want to catch up first? I hear your cousin has been very naughty, playing with the Mirage Collective behind your back." Information. Always Luz's true currency. $eName doesn't ask how $eHe knows about Jin's dealings. Luz has eyes and ears everywhere, particularly where profit can be made from corporate warfare. "That situation has been handled," $eName says flatly. "Veridan is secured." "So efficient," Luz says, studying $luzHis mismatched nails with exaggerated interest. "And what did that efficiency cost dear cousin Jin?" "His dignity. His credibility with Mother. Potentially his position as heir, though that remains to be seen." Luz laughs, the sound musical and terrifying all at once. "Dragons and your succession games. So much more civilized than how we settle things in the undercity. Though I suppose the body count ends up about the same." $eName doesn't rise to the bait. "The documents, Luz. I've fulfilled my end of our arrangement." "Have you?" Luz moves closer, close enough that $eName can smell the distinctive scent of the vermin – smoke and something sweet like cinnammon. "The shipment arrived damaged. Three crates compromised. That wasn't our agreement." $eName's eyes narrow dangerously. "The damage occurred after delivery. On your territory. Your problem, not mine." "Is that so?" Luz's smile turns predatory. "And if I told you Jin's people were seen near the docks that night?" A chill runs through $eName despite $eHis naturally elevated body temperature. Jin, interfering again. Escalating beyond corporate sabotage to criminal territory. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Not Jin's usual style. "Evidence?" $eName demands. Luz produces a video. The image that appears shows Jin, unmistakably Jin, with his pure golden scales and perfect symmetry, speaking with someone whose face is obscured. The location is clearly the docks. The timestamp corresponds with the night of the shipment. "What does he want?" Luz asks, deactivating the projector. "What game is little cousin Jin playing that's worth risking the wrath of both the Han matriarch and little old me?" $eName's mind races. Jin has always been ambitious, but this is reckless. Unless... "The Ascension Project," $eName murmurs, pieces clicking into place. "He needs tech that can interface with bloodborn physiology. Black market. Untraceable." "Clever," Luz says approvingly. $eName ignores the jab. "Jin is trying to develop a competing neural interface. One that would give him an edge in the succession. Control of the family holdings." "And you know this because...?" "Because it's what I would do," $eName admits coldly. "What I am doing, though through better untracable channels." Luz laughs again, genuine amusement lighting $luzHis mismatched eyes. "Oh, $eName. That's why I like you. So ruthless beneath all that corporate propriety." $eName doesn't acknowledge the compliment, if it even is one. "The documents, Luz. I need to know who Jin is working with." "Information like that is expensive," Luz muses, moving back behind the desk. "More expensive than our original arrangement covered." "Name your price." "Access," Luz says immediately. "To Han Tower. Level fifty-seven. The R&D floor where they're developing the new encoding system." $eName stiffens. "That's classified technology. Military applications." "Is it? How fascinating." Luz's smile widens. "That's my price. One hour of access. No questions asked." The request is outrageous. Dangerous. Possibly treasonous. But Jin's actions have forced $eName's hand. Without proof of his dealings, without knowing who he's working with, $eName cannot neutralize the threat. "Half an hour," $eName counters. "And I escort you personally." "Deal." Luz produces an envelope from a desk drawer, sliding it across the polished surface. "Everything you need to know about Jin's new friends. Including some very interesting financial transfers that I'm sure Matriarch Lin would find... educational." $eName takes the envelope without opening it. There will be time for that later, when $eHe's safely back in $eHis own territory. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, $eName," Luz says, rising to indicate the meeting is concluded. "Do give my regards to your mother. Such a formidable woman. I admire her style, if not her parenting techniques." $eName doesn't dignify the provocation with a response. Simply inclines $eHis head in acknowledgment and turns to leave. "Oh, and $eName?" Luz calls as $eHe reaches the door. "I've always admired how you carry yourself. It takes real strength to maintain such perfect balance in everything you do." $eName freezes, hand on the doorknob. The comment seems innocuous, but with Luz, nothing ever is. Is there hidden knowledge in those words? A threat? Or merely the crime boss's usual mind games? "Save the manipulation for someone susceptible to it," $eName replies without turning around. "We both know I'm a means to an end for you, as you are for me." Luz's laughter follows $eName out the door, down the stairs, through the writhing crowd. Follows $eHim all the way to the waiting limousine, where $eName finally stops. Breathes. The envelope feels heavy in $eName's inner pocket. Weighted with potential. With ammunition for the next round of the never-ending war with Jin. With Mother. With everyone who sees $eName's careful perfection and still finds reasons to doubt. $eName lights a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The smoke burns, grounds $eHim in the present moment. In what needs to be done next. "Back to the tower," $eName instructs Kenji as the limousine pulls away from the club. Sordia stretches before $eHim, a battlefield disguised as a city. By morning, $eName will be ready for the next skirmish. The next test. The next opportunity to prove that $eHe can overcome any perceived inadequacy. For now, $eName exhales smoke into the neon-lit darkness and allows $eHim self one small, vicious smile. Jin doesn't know what's coming. None of them do. //END //

For a crucial moment, Markovich doesn't register the CRD agent standing directly in $aceHis path. His eyes are on the tunnel entrance, on freedom. But he realizes Ace's position faster than expected, too late for a sneak attack. His eyes flare orange. Pupils contracting to pinpricks of fire that illuminate the veins in his irises like molten metal poured into glass. The rain hisses as it evaporates before even touching his skin. "Null freak," Markovic snarls, the words distorted as his temperature spikes visibly. Steam rises from his rain-soaked clothes in thick plumes. Markovic's skin begins to crack along the jaw, revealing the magma-like heat beneath. "Should've stayed with your own kind, human." "Wah gwaan, hothead?" Ace calls out as adrenaline spikes. "Ready to tell me where the girl is, or we doing this the hard way?" Ace's hands move with practiced efficiency. Right to the Static Field Unit at $aceHis belt, left to the specialized Type 4 sidearm holstered against $aceHis ribs. The gear is state-of-the-art, courtesy of Han Tech's bloodline division. Not standard issue, special requisition for agents handling enhanced targets. "Pavel Markovich," Ace continues, voice steady and authoritative. "You're under arrest for the kidnapping of Emily Chen. Last chance to cooperate before this gets unpleasant." Markovich laughs, the sound like stones grinding together. His skin ripples with subsurface heat, water evaporating off him in clouds of steam that distort his silhouette. "The girl? You're probably too late. Hollow wanted to send a message." The words hit like physical blows. Ace's expression hardens, but $aceHe maintains composure. "You're lying." "Am I?" Markovich's grin stretches unnaturally wide, lips cracking to reveal teeth glowing orange from internal heat. "Her last words were probably 'mama.' It was the only word she screamed for days. Touching, really." A cold fury settles in Ace's chest. If Emily Chen is really dead, Markovich will pay. The first fireball erupts from Markovich's palm with a sound like tearing fabric. It hurtles across the courtyard faster than most humans could track, a comet of concentrated heat that would reduce flesh to ash on contact. Ace is already moving, body responding to training that's become instinct. $aceHeC rolls beneath the arc of flame, feeling the scorching heat pass inches above as it impacts the brick wall behind. The wall doesn't just scorch, it liquefies, brick melting into slag that drips like candle wax. "Raasclaat!" Ace curses as $aceHe comes up from the roll. <<if $aceGender is "male">> Ace's voice carries the challenge across the courtyard as $aceHe deploys the Static Field Unit with a practiced flick of $aceHis wrist. "Time to put out your fire, bwoy!" <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Ace's words cut through steam and heat as $aceHe slides the device across the wet pavement, directly into Markovich's path. "Your heat can't save you now, bwoy!" <</if>> The device activates with a high-pitched whine, blue light pulsing outward in concentric circles. Markovich staggers as the wave hits him, his flames dimming as the energy field interferes with his abilities. But the effect isn't complete, his skin still glows with subsurface heat, cracks revealing the molten interior beneath human-seeming flesh. "Han tech garbage," he growls, recovering faster than expected. "You think this can stop me? I was burning men alive when your grandparents were in diapers." He raises both hands, channeling heat that makes the air between them ripple and distort. The Static Field Unit's light flickers, battery draining as it fights the Infernal's natural energy output. The concrete beneath Markovich's feet begins to bubble and pop, releasing acrid smoke. Ace doesn't waste the advantage, however brief. In one fluid motion, $aceHe draws the Type 4 sidearm and switches the ammunition selector to cryo rounds. The weapon feels like an extension of $aceHis arm, balanced, reliable, deadly accurate in trained hands. Three shots in rapid succession. One misses as Markovich twists unnaturally, infernal flexibility be damned. The other two hit – one grazing his shoulder, the other striking center mass. Ice crystals form instantly, spreading across his skin like winter frost on glass, steam rising where heat meets cold. Markovich roars – a sound no human throat could produce. The temperature around him spikes so dramatically that puddles flash to steam in expanding rings. The ice from the cryo rounds turns directly from solid to gas. "I'll cook you from the inside out! And then your family is next" he howls, voice distorted by the heat radiating from his throat. Ace's jaw tightens, but $aceHe maintains focus. Rage is a luxury $aceHe can't afford against a bloodborn, especially not against an Infernal Bloodline type. So instead $aceHe turns to taunting. "You chat too much, fire bwoy. All that hot air and still can't touch me~." Markovich charges, turning himself into a living inferno. Each footstep leaves smoking impressions in the concrete, molten footprints that continue to burn after he's moved on. Heat ripples the air around him, distorting vision like a mirage. <<if $aceGender is "male">> Ace stands $aceHis ground, calculating trajectory and timing with split-second thinking. At the last possible moment, $aceHe pivots like a matador avoiding a bull, drawing the Melee Restraint Tool from $aceHis belt. "Too slow, matchstick!" <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Ace waits until the flaming figure is almost upon $aceHis before executing a perfect evasive roll, bringing the Stick up in a practiced arc. "My grandmadda move faster dan dat!" <</if>> But Markovich has fought humans before. Anticipated the dodge. His arm extends unnaturally, elongating as infernal physiology allows his bones to soften and stretch. His burning hot hand catches Ace's shoulder as $aceHe evades. The heat-resistant uniform prevents fatal burns, but the impact sends Ace spinning into a stack of abandoned crates. Wood splinters as $aceHe crashes through, landing hard on $aceHis side. Pain flares across $aceHis ribs – not broken, but definitely bruised. The shoulder where Markovich touched $aceHim throbs, uniform material charred and smoking. No time for pain. Ace rolls to $aceHis feet, ignoring protesting muscles. The cryo rounds bought seconds at best. $aceHeC needs something more permanent. <div class="main-button">[[Next|A3]]</div>

Markovich closes in, confident now. Steam billows from his nostrils with each breath. The concrete beneath his feet has become a bubbling pool of semi-liquid stone. "I'm going to take my time with you, agent." Ace circles, keeping distance, assessing. The Static Field Unit is fried, its circuitry melted by proximity to Markovich's heat. The Type 4 sidearm still has rounds, but conventional ammunition will do little against an Infernal at full burn. The Series 9 Inhibitor – the "Nine" – at $aceHis thigh is $aceHis best option. Direct tranquilizer injection would shut down Markovich's abilities instantly. But getting close enough to use it means getting within lethal range of $aceHis heat. A plan forms. Risky. Painful. But worth it. Probably. <<if $aceGender is "male">> Ace spits blood from a split lip, feigning more injury than $aceHe actually sustained. "That all you got, hot stuff? My kid sisters hit harder than that." <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> Ace touches $aceHis bruised ribs, wincing visibly to sell the deception. "My kid sisters hit harder than that. Pathetic excuse for an Infernal in my esteemed opinion." <</if>> The taunt land as intended. Markovich's eyes flare brighter, heat rolling off him in visible waves. "I'll show you what a real Infernal can do to fragile human meat!" He lunges, hands extended, fingers elongating into talon-like appendages glowing white-hot at the tips. Ace allows $aceHimself to appear slower than $aceHe is, letting Markovich believe his attack has caught $aceHim off guard. His burning hand closes around Ace's throat. Pain explodes across Ace's neck and jaw as the heat instantly begins to burn through the uniform's protective layers. The smell of singed fabric and scorched skin fills Ace's nostrils. $aceHisC lungs seize as superheated air burns the sensitive tissues. But this was the plan. Now $aceHe's got the little Raasclaat. Markovich's face is inches from $aceHis now, his breath hot enough to blister exposed skin. His eyes are miniature suns, pupils completely consumed by orange-white fire. "Feel that, human? That's how you'll die." Ace can't speak, can barely breathe. $aceHisC vision begins to tunnel as oxygen deprivation sets in. $aceHisC free hand, the one not trapped against $aceHis body by Markovich's grip, moves slightly shaking from the adrenaline to the Nine at $aceHis thigh. "Nothing to say now?" Markovich taunts, tightening his grip. The heat intensifies as he channels more power into his hand, determined to break through the uniform's protection. "Where's that famous CRD training? Where's your—" Ace drives the Nine directly into Markovich's neck. The specialized injector bypasses the Infernal's naturally resistant skin, delivering the Han Tech compound directly into his bloodstream. The effect is immediate. Markovich's eyes widen in shock. The fire within them flickers, dims, extinguishes. His grip on Ace's throat loosens as the tranquilizer seeum floods his system, disrupting his abilities to generate and control heat. Markovic's skin cools rapidly, the cracks sealing as his temperature plummets. He staggers back, clawing at the injector still protruding from his neck. "What... what did you..." "Series 9 Inhibitor," Ace rasps, voice rough from the near-strangulation. $aceHisC neck is blistered beneath the damaged uniform, pain radiating with each breath. But $aceHe's standing. $aceHe's alive. "Newest one on the market. You're done, Markovich." Markovic lunges again, desperation replacing confidence. But his movements are sluggish now, power fading as the compound takes full effect. Ace sidesteps easily, drawing the Stick and extending it with a soft click. A precision strike to the back of Markovich's knee sends him crashing to the ground. Before he can recover, Ace has the Containment Bands around his wrists – the "Cold Cuffs" that will prevent his powers from returning even after the Nine's initial effects wear off. "Pavel Markovich," Ace states formally, breath controlled despite $aceHis injured throat, "you're under arrest for the kidnapping of Emily Chen. You have the right to remain silent..." The Miranda rights flow automatically as Ace secures the prisoner. Markovich struggles weakly against the restraints, all bravado gone now that his powers have been neutralized. "She's not dead," Markovic gasps, eyes darting frantically as the reality of his situation sinks in. "I lied. The girl... she was alive when I left. Hollow wanted her for leverage." Ace's heart rate spikes. A lie? Or truth in the face of capture? Either way, there's no time to waste. "Where?" "…Old textile factory in Garment District, lower level." He croaks pitifully. Sherman arrives as Ace is finishing, eyes widening at the scorched courtyard, the melted concrete, and the subdued infernal kneeling in handcuffs. "Christ, Reid. You actually took him down alone, you're a beast." "He says Chen might still be alive," Ace responds, completely ignoring the compliment while checking the time. "Old textile factory in Garment District. Lower level." Sherman's radio is already out, calling in the location, requesting immediate backup and medical support. "Strike team's twenty minutes out." "Too long," Ace says, hauling Markovich to his feet. $aceHisC shoulder protests, pain shooting across bruised ribs, but adrenaline keeps it manageable. "We go now. You, me, and our new friend here to show us exactly where she is." "Reid, protocol says—" "Done with protocol if that girl dies waiting for backup," Ace cuts in. "Every minute counts. You know that." Sherman hesitates, then nods. "Your call. But Captain's gonna have both our badges if this goes sideways." "Then we don't let it go sideways." Ace shoves Markovich toward the waiting CRD vehicle. "Let's move." <div class="main-button">[[Next|A4]]</div>

The ride to Garment District passes in tense silence. Markovich, subdued by the Nine, stares blankly ahead. Sherman drives, breaking every traffic law Sordia nominally enforces. Ace checks and rechecks $aceHis equipment, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in $aceHis throat and shoulder. Emily Chen is all that matters now. The textile factory looms ahead, a hulking relic from before the Blood Recession. Broken windows like missing teeth in a skull. Graffiti covering every accessible surface. The air around it smells of mildew and desperation. "Lower level," Ace reminds Markovich, jabbing him with the end of the Stick to keep him focused despite the sedative effects of the Nine. "Show us." Inside is worse than outside, floors rotted through in places, machinery rusted to abstract sculptures. Markovich leads them to a freight elevator that shouldn't work but somehow does, groaning as it descends. "End of the hall," he mumbles through drug-numbed lips. "Storage room." Ace moves ahead, Stick extended in one hand, Type 4 sidearm in the other. Sherman follows with Markovich, weapon trained on the infernal's back. The hallway stretches dark and damp before them, emergency lights casting just enough illumination to navigate by. The smell hits them first. Unmistakable. Sickly sweet with underlying notes of charred meat and scorched hair. Ace has encountered it before. Knows what awaits $aceHim. But $aceHe still hopes. The storage room door is metal. Locked. Ace doesn't hesitate, a precision strike with the Stick to the electronic lock mechanism short-circuits it instantly. The door swings open to reveal darkness and the stench of decay. "Emily Chen?" Ace calls anyway, desperately hoping Markovich was lying again. "CRD. We're here to help." No response. Just the drip of water from rusted pipes and the soft hum of the emergency lights. Sherman shines his tactical light into the room, the beam cutting through darkness to illuminate the horror within. Emily Chen is still tied to the chair in the center of the room. Her head hangs forward, chin resting on chest. But it's not sleep. Not unconscious. The burns tell the story Markovich had boasted about, charred flesh where eyes once were, skin blackened and split in elaborate patterns across exposed arms and legs. A message literally burned into her flesh. "Raasclaat," Ace whispers, the curse a prayer now. A lament. "We're too late." Sherman turns away, pressing his sleeve against his mouth. "Jesus. What did they do to her?" Markovich has the audacity to chuckle, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. "Oops seems like you're too late. Hollow sends his regards." Something snaps inside Ace. $aceHeC turns, Stick raised, fully intending to beat Markovich until no teeth remain in his skull. Sherman steps between them, hand firm on Ace's wrist. "Not worth your career, Reid. Not worth your soul. We got him. He's done. Let the system handle it." "The system?" Ace snarls, voice raw with fury and burn damage. "The same system that will have him out in three months because someone bribed the judge!?" "Not this time," Sherman promises, voice steady. "Not with this. Trust me." Slowly, deliberately, Ace lowers the Stick. $aceHisC breathing comes in controlled bursts, each inhale a conscious decision not to lose control. Emily Chen deserved better. Deserved to be found alive. Deserved to go home to her family with nothing worse than bad memories to deal with. Instead, she became another statistic in Sordia's endless ledger of victims. Ace turns back to the body, forcing $aceHimself to look. To witness. To commit every detail to memory. This is why the job matters. This is why $aceHe gets up each morning. This is what $aceHe fights against. "Call it in," $aceHe tells Sherman, voice flat now. Professional. Detached. "Full crime scene team. Medical examiner. The works. We need everything documented." Sherman nods, already on his radio. Ace takes one last look at Emily Chen, at the girl $aceHe failed to save. "I'm sorry," $aceHe whispers, too soft for anyone else to hear. "But I promise you, he'll pay for this." <div class="main-button">[[Next|A5]]</div>

//Later// The Reid family restaurant sits on the corner of Macbean and 43rd, a warm glow emanating from windows decorated with fairy lights year-round. "REID'S AUTHENTIC CARIBBEAN CUISINE" proclaims the sign in bold yellow and green letters, the 'I' dotted with a tiny Jamaican flag. $aceName parks in the alley behind the kitchen entrance. The bruises from the confrontation with Markovich are developing beneath $aceHis clothing, painful but hidden. The burns on $aceHis neck have been treated and covered with a specialized healing patch that $aceHis turtleneck easily conceals. Nothing visible. Nothing that would worry family. $aceHeC sits for a moment in the silence of the car. Breathes. In and out. Forces the day's horrors into a mental compartment labeled "Work." Emily Chen's charred face tries to follow, but $aceName pushes it back ruthlessly. Locks it away. Family doesn't need that darkness. Family gets the best version. The only version that matters. The kitchen door opens before $aceName can reach for it. Anthony Reid's imposing figure fills the frame, his face breaking into a smile that erases decades from his 58 years. "There's my favorite agent!" he booms, pulling $aceName into a hug. "Just in time. The dinner rush is starting and your mother's threatening to quit again." <<if $aceGender is "male">> $aceName returns the embrace with convincing enthusiasm, the smile on $aceHis face showing none of the day's trauma. "Again? What, did somebody ask for ketchup with the jerk chicken?" <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> $aceName laughs as $aceHe hugs $aceHis father, the sound practiced but genuine enough to pass inspection. "Let me guess – someone tried to tell her their aunties recipe is better than hers?" <</if>> "Worse." Anthony's eyes widen dramatically. "Tourist couple asked if we could make the curry 'less authentic.' Nearly had to wrestle the spatula out of her hand." "Lawd have mercy," $aceName says, shaking $aceHis head with exaggerated dismay. "The disrespect. Should've called me in, I'd have arrested them for culinary crimes." Anthony laughs, the sound filling the narrow hallway between kitchen and back door. "Come on, troublemaker. Your sisters have been fighting over who has to work the register, and I'm tired of playing referee." <div class="main-button">[[Next|A6]]</div>

The kitchen beyond is familiar chaos. Steam billows from pots of bubbling stew. The rhythmic thunk of knives against cutting boards provides percussion for the reggae playing softly from old-fashioned speakers. Marcia Reid oversees it all, calling orders and stirring pots and somehow managing to spot her child the moment $aceHe enters. "$aceName! Finally!" She wipes her hands on her apron, hurrying over. Her critical gaze sweeps $aceName from head to toe, motherly radar searching for signs of trouble. $aceName just gives her a huge grin. "You're late. Did they keep you at work again?" "You know how it is, Ma," $aceName responds with practiced ease. "Paperwork never ends. Sherman needed help filing reports, and I'm too nice to say no." <<if $aceGender is "male">> $aceName strikes a heroic pose, one hand on $aceHis hip. "CRD's finest form-filler, that's me. Criminals tremble at my ability to complete documentation in triplicate." <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> $aceName does a little curtsy, $aceHis smile bright. "They're talking about promoting me to Chief Paperwork Officer. Very prestigious. Comes with a special stapler and everything." <</if>> Marcia's eyes narrow slightly – she's never been easy to fool – but she doesn't press. "Mmhmm. Well, Chief Paperwork, wash up and take over for Imani at the register. The poor girl's been doing homework between customers all afternoon." "Yes, Your Majesty." $aceName offers a deep, theatrical bow that makes Anthony snort with laughter from across the kitchen. "The royal curry smells divine this evening." "Cheeky pickney," Marcia mutters, but she's smiling now. "Go on, make yourself useful." The restaurant's main dining area buzzes with Friday night energy. Every table filled with regulars and newcomers alike, drawn by the Reid family's reputation for food that tastes like somewhere better than Sordia. Somewhere with sun and sea and hope. Imani – fifteen – looks up from her textbook as $aceName approaches the register. Her face lights up, then immediately adopts the artificial world-weariness teenagers perfect. "Look what Sordia brought back," she says, but her attempt at disinterest crumbles as she launches into a hug that $aceName returns carefully. <<if $aceGender is "male">> $aceName ruffles $aceHis sister's hair, grinning as she swats at $aceHis hand. "How's school? Still acing everything and making the rest of us look bad?" <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> $aceName hooks an arm around her sister's shoulders, squeezing affectionately. "My genius baby sister. Going to cure cancer while the rest of us are still figuring out the microwave timer." <</if>> "Stop," Imani protests, but she's beaming at the praise. "It's just regular school stuff. Nothing special." "Nothing special, she says," $aceName announces to the empty air. "Just casually taking college-level classes at fifteen. No big deal. Just making Harvard recruiters weep with joy." "You're so extra," Imani groans, but her smile remains. "Just take over the register already. Dad's been telling the same three jokes all night. I'm dying." "The one about the fisherman and the mermaid?" "Twice." $aceName winces in authentic sympathy. "Go finish your homework in the back. I've got this." "You're my favorite," Imani declares, already gathering her books. "Don't tell Tasha or Keisha." "Your secret is safe with the CRD," $aceName assures her with exaggerated seriousness. "We're very good at keeping classified information." The register is simple. Comforting in its straightforwardness. No corruption. No charred corpses tied to chairs in abandoned factories. Just hungry people and good food and the exchange of money. $aceName falls into the rhythm of the family business with practiced ease. Greets customers by name when possible. Recommends the goat curry because Pa made it extra special tonight. Laughs at jokes both funny and terrible because that's what family businesses do. No one here sees the federal agent who took down an infernal trafficking suspect this morning. No one knows about Emily Chen, found too late in a nightmare scene that will join the collection of images that sometimes wake $aceName in the middle of the night. Here, $aceHe's just the Reid's oldest child, home to help with the Friday rush. Tasha emerges from the kitchen with a tray of steaming plates balanced expertly on one arm. At twenty-three, she carries herself with the confidence of someone who knows exactly who she is and where she belongs. "Table six has been asking for you," she informs $aceName as she passes. "Mrs. Henderson wants to know if you've caught any 'interesting criminals' lately." For a fraction of a second, Markovich's face flashes in $aceName's mind – $aceHis eyes glowing with infernal fire, skin cracked to reveal the molten heat beneath. $aceName pushes it away. Buries it. Brings out $aceHis trademark smile. $aceName adopts a serious expression. "Tell her it was a highly classified operation involving fifteen undercover agents and a trained squirrel. Can't share details or I'd have to arrest her." "Sometimes I forget we're actually related," Tasha says, rolling her eyes, but she's fighting a smile. "I'll just tell her you've been busy with paperwork." "Crushing my dramatic moment," $aceName sighs heavily. "This is why you're not the favorite." "Keep telling yourself that, superstar." The evening progresses. The register drawer fills. Empty plates return to the kitchen. Customers leave satisfied, bellies full of food that reminds them of better places, real or imagined. Around nine, Keisha bursts through the front door, her creative writing class having run late. At nineteen, she's all fiery opinions and dramatic declarations, her latest manuscript always clutched to her chest like a shield or a treasure. "The Most Boring Professor in the Universe finally released us," she announces to no one and everyone. "I think he actually died halfway through lecture and we just didn't notice because there was no change." "Keisha," Marcia chides from behind the counter. "Be respectful." "I'm being creative, Mom. There's a difference." She spots $aceName and her entire demeanor shifts. "Hey, supercop! Didn't think you'd make it tonight!" <<if $aceGender is "male">> $aceName spreads $aceHis arms wide, inviting the crushing hug $aceHe knows is coming. "And miss hearing about Professor Zombie? Never. Tell me everything – did his arm fall off mid-lecture? Did anyone check for a pulse?" <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> $aceName accepts her sister's enthusiastic embrace, returning it with equal fervor despite the pain it causes to bruised ribs. "Give me all the details. Was he wearing the same tweed jacket as last week? Did he do the thing where he forgets what century it is?" <</if>> "Worse," Keisha says, launching into a dramatic reenactment of her professor's monotone delivery that has $aceName doubled over with laughter. Her impressions have always been spot-on, a talent that makes even Marcia chuckle despite her attempts to teach her children not to gossip. "You should put him in your next story," $aceName suggests when $aceHe can breathe again. "Undead literature professor who bores students into joining his zombie army." "Already three chapters in," Keisha confesses, patting her manuscript. "Working title: 'Tenure of Terror.'" $aceName clutches $aceHis chest. "That's brilliant. Pure genius. Hollywood's going to be fighting over the movie rights." "Don't even start," Keisha playfully smacks $aceHis arm, but she's glowing at the praise. "Now move over. I need to show Imani how a real professional handles this register." "Professional what? Disaster?" $aceName teases, dodging Keisha's swat with CRD-trained reflexes that come so naturally $aceHe doesn't even register as work-related. "Last time you worked the register we had to issue three refunds because you were too busy flirting with that guy from your writing group." "That was research," Keisha insists with dignity. "Character development. Very important literary process." "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" $aceHis bickering continues as $aceName relinquishes the register. The normalcy of it all like $aceHis sisters complaints, $aceHis father's terrible jokes and $aceHis mother's loving reprimands, wraps around $aceName like a blanket. For a few hours, the job fades to background. Emily Chen's face recedes. Markovich's flames dim. Here, in $aceHis sacred space carved out against Sordia's darkness, $aceName finds the energy to recharge. <div class="main-button">[[Next|A7]]</div>

Later, much later, when the restaurant is closed and cleaned and the younger Reid sisters have gone to bed, $aceName sits with $aceHis parents at the large kitchen table. Anthony nurses a small glass of rum, his massive hands surprisingly delicate around the fragile glass. Marcia folds tomorrow's napkins, a habit she refuses to break even though they could afford the pre-folded kind now. "Rough day?" Anthony asks quietly, his perception sharper than $aceName gives him credit for. His Pa doesn't push for details he knows $aceName can't and won't share, but offers the space to unload what $aceHe can. $aceName hesitates. Almost says it was fine. Almost maintains the lie $aceHe's carried throughout the evening. But something in Anthony's eyes, the understanding, breaks through $aceHis facade. "Yeah," $aceHe admits, voice dropping to near-whisper. "Lost one today. Girl about Keisha's age. Got there too late." Marcia's hands still on the napkins. She makes the small sign of the cross that's automatic after decades of church attendance. No questions. No demands for details. She has given up years ago. "I'm sorry sweetheart," she says simply, reaching across to squeeze $aceName's hand. "Got the one responsible, though," $aceName adds, needing them to know that part. "He won't hurt anyone else." "Good," Anthony says firmly. "That matters." <<if $aceGender is "male">> $aceName nods, a simple acknowledgment of truth. The day's victory, however hollow, settles alongside the loss. "Wish we'd been faster. Maybe if we'd caught him yesterday..." <<elseif $aceGender is "female">> $aceName allows herself a moment of visible grief, secure in the knowledge that here, she doesn't have to be the tough cop. "Wish we'd been faster. Maybe if we'd caught him yesterday..." <</if>> "Don't do that to yourself," Marcia advises, wisdom born of her own experiences. "You can't carry what might have been alongside what is. The burden's too heavy." "Your ma's right," Anthony agrees. "You save who you can. You catch who you can. And you come home to us." The simplicity of it – the truth of it – settles something in $aceName's chest. Not healing, exactly. The wound left by Emily Chen's death is too fresh. "Yeah," $aceName says softly. "Thanks." The conversation shifts to lighter topics. Imani's upcoming science competition. Keisha's latest literary ambitions. Tasha's nursing school challenges. The normal, everyday concerns that can make $aceName relax. Later, in the small bedroom that has remained $aceHis despite adulthood and $aceHis own apartment, $aceName lies awake. Stares at the ceiling where glow-in-the-dark stars – purchased by //him// long ago, still form constellations only //he// understood. Emily Chen's face floats in the darkness. Not accusatory, but waiting. Waiting to be joined by the face of the next victim $aceName will fail to save. And the next. And the next. "I'm sorry we were too late," $aceName whispers to her memory. "But he's done. He won't hurt anyone else. I promise you that." The bracelet on $aceHis wrist, faded with age but still intact, feels warm against $aceHis skin. A reminder of why the work matters because $aceHe made a promise. Tomorrow, there will be more cases. More dangers. More of Sordia's endless struggle. One monster stopped. Countless more to go. The fight continues. It always will. But so will this – the anchor of home and family that keeps $aceHim human in a city that tries to strip humanity away piece by bloody piece. And that, more than anything, is worth fighting for. //END //

The respiratory case is more interesting. Elderly woman, probably in her seventies. Longtime smoker, judging by the staining on her fingers and the wheezing that accompanies every breath. "When did this start?" $ardenName asks, stethoscope moving across the woman's back in systematic patterns. "Three weeks ago," she rasps. "Getting worse. Can't afford the hospital." "Obviously. Otherwise you'd be bothering their competent staff instead of mine." $ardenName's fingers probe the lymph nodes at her neck, checking for swelling. "Any blood in the sputum?" "Some." "Weight loss?" "Maybe." "Night sweats?" "Yeah." $ardenName steps back, removing the stethoscope with a slight frown. It's a story $ardenHe's seen before. Too many times in this neighborhood, where industrial pollution and cheap cigarettes carve years off lives already shortened by poverty and neglect. "I need chest X-rays," $ardenHe states. "And blood work. Full panel." The woman's face falls. "Can't afford—" "Did I ask about your financial situation?" $ardenName interrupts, already moving toward the rusty equipment that's probably older than some of $ardenHis patients. "Remove your jewelry and stand against the wall. Arms up." Ten minutes later, the X-rays confirm what $ardenName already suspected. $ardenHe clips the films to the light board, pointing to the shadowy masses visible in both lungs. "Adenocarcinoma," $ardenHe states matter-of-factly. "Advanced stage. Probably eighteen months, possibly less." The woman stares at the images, trying to process words that carry the weight of mortality. "What does that mean?" "It means you have cancer and it means you're dying." $ardenName's tone doesn't soften. Compassion, in $ardenHis experience, only makes difficult truths harder to accept. "Treatment options are limited given the progression." The woman begins to cry – quietly, brokenly, the way people do when hope drains away all at once. $ardenName watches with clinical interest but no visible emotion. $ardenHe's delivered thousands of death sentences over the years. Reactions vary, but outcomes remain the same. "No charge for the diagnosis," $ardenHe adds, perhaps the closest thing to kindness $ardenHe can manage. By dawn, $ardenName has treated twelve patients. A mid-level Hollow Syndicate courier with infected track marks – charged quadruple the normal rate based on his organization's territorial income. A sex worker with a dislocated shoulder – no charge, plus antibiotics and a safe house contact. Two enforcers with separate gunshot wounds from what appears to be the same incident, both paying premium gang rates despite their injuries. A domestic violence case that the victim insists was a "fall down stairs" – treatment provided along with shelter information and a prepaid comm unit. Gang initiation scarification gone septic on a wannabe member – payment negotiated in information about trafficking routes. A homeless veteran with frostbite – full care provided plus meal vouchers. Three children with various stages of malnutrition whose guardian paid in stolen electronics that $ardenName immediately donated to the local school. Each patient is assessed, treated, and charged according to $ardenName's own moral calculus. Criminal organization members subsidize victims and workers. Corporate executives fund treatment for their discarded employees. The wealthy pay for the privilege of receiving care without questions asked, while the poor receive treatment regardless of their ability to pay. That was $ardenName's way and would always be. The last patient of the shift is familiar. Luz arrives with a lacerated palm that's probably the result of disagreeing with someone using broken glass as a negotiating tool. They enter with characteristic confidence, their unnerving eyes scanning the clinic with predatory assessment. "Dr. Grumpypants," Luz greets with their usual infuriating charm that leaves Arden cold. "Miss me?" "Like a kidney stone," Arden replies, gesturing toward the examination room $ardenHe's used for Luz's previous visits. "What did you break this time?" "Technically, someone else's property. I just happened to be nearby when it became weaponized." Luz settles onto the examination table, extending the injured hand. "Standard corporate disagreement. Nothing personal." Arden examines the laceration with clinical detachment. Deep enough to require sutures, clean enough to heal without complications. The kind of injury that comes from grabbing a blade rather than being cut by one. "Taking knives from people again?" "Someone has to teach them proper weapon etiquette." Luz watches as Arden begins cleaning the wound. "Payment in advance, as usual." Luz produces a credit chip containing significantly more than the treatment costs. Arden doesn't refuse the overpayment. Luz's contributions help subsidize care for dozens of patients who can't afford medical attention. More importantly, the unspoken arrangement between them ensures the clinic operates without interference from rival organizations or opportunistic criminals. Luz's protection extends over the neutral ground $ardenName has carved out, a valuable service that costs far more than any medical treatment. "Your employees continue to require regular attention," Arden observes, beginning the suturing process. "Perhaps consider conflict resolution training." "Where's the fun in that?" Luz's smile doesn't reach their mismatched eyes. "Besides, violence is more honest than negotiation. People say what they really mean when their blood pressure's elevated." <<if $ardenGender is "male">> Arden response is matter-of-fact. "Philosophical differences aside, you should exercise greater caution. The hand contains complex nerve structures that don't regenerate effectively when severed. Repeated trauma could result in permanent functionality loss." <<elseif $ardenGender is "female">> Arden's tone carries subtle criticism. "Philosophical differences aside, maybe consider that your hands are how you make a living. Do you really want to find out what happens when the motor control goes? Or are we pretending that's not a concern?" <</if>> "Noted. Though I should mention – there's been chatter about someone targeting medical personnel. Specifically those who treat... diverse clientele." The warning carries weight coming from Luz. Their information networks span most of Sordia's criminal underground, and their protection of the clinic makes such intelligence particularly valuable. "What manner of targeting?" "Surveillance. Intelligence gathering." Luz flexes their newly bandaged hand, testing the mobility. "Thought you should know. Professional courtesy among people who value discretion." They give Arden a mock salute before they strut out of the clinic. Arden sighs. <div class="main-button">[[Next|AR3]]</div>

At nine o'clock, Miranda Castellanos arrives for her consultation. Expensive clothes. Clean fingernails. The kind of person who usually seeks medical care in the gleaming towers of upper Sordia, not the patched-together clinic of the undercity. But $ardenName's reputation as Sordia's most powerful and reliable Manitou has spread throughout the city's upper echelons. Wealthy clients specifically travel to the undercity seeking $ardenHim out, knowing that $ardenName's spiritual communication abilities are unmatched anywhere in the city. She enters with the entitled confidence of wealth, nose wrinkling slightly at the water-stained walls and mismatched furniture. "$ardenName? I believe you're expecting me." Arden glances at the appointment book, noting the premium rate clearly marked. "Consultation regarding spiritual communication. One hour. Payment in advance." "Of course." She produces a credit chip that probably contains more money than most of $ardenName's patients see in a year. "I was told you could... facilitate contact with the deceased. That your abilities are... exceptional. If you give me what I need I will pay you even more, this place clearly needs some love." Arden ignores the jab against $ardenHis clinic. "Yes, my abilities are exceptional. That's why you're here instead of consulting one of the charlatans in the upper city." "This way," Arden gestures toward the consultation room – one set aside for non-medical purposes. The consultation room is deliberately austere. White walls with hairline cracks that speak of age and limited maintenance budgets. Single table that's been reinforced multiple times. Two chairs that don't match but remain functional. No mystical nonsense or theatrical props, just a space where difficult conversations can occur without distraction. "Who are you attempting to contact?" Arden asks, settling into one of the mismatched chairs. "My daughter. Sofia. She died three weeks ago." Miranda's composure cracks slightly. "The police say it was an overdose, but... something doesn't feel right. She wasn't into drugs. Never showed any signs." Arden studies the woman with clinical assessment. Grief is obvious in her posture, but there's something else. Suspicion. The kind that comes when official explanations don't satisfy parental instincts. "Spiritual communication with recent violent deaths can be... intense," Arden warns. "The departed often retain strong emotional imprints from their final moments. Are you prepared for potentially disturbing information?" "I need to know what happened to my baby." Kailani enters quietly, taking her position in the corner of the room. Her presence serves a dual purpose – moral support for grieving clients and spiritual protection for Arden. Her own Manitou abilities allow her to establish a protective perimeter around the room. "The dead are drawn to active mediumship," Kailani explains softly to Miranda, hands already beginning to glow with subtle spiritual energy. "Without proper protection, $ardenName could be overwhelmed by multiple spirits attempting simultaneous contact." "I understand," Miranda whispers. "Please... try to reach her." Arden closes $ardenHis eyes, settling into the familiar ritual. "Remain silent. Do not interrupt regardless of what you observe." The room grows quiet except for the hum of medical equipment filtering through the walls. Both mediums synchronize their breathing, Arden preparing for possession while Kailani extends her consciousness to ward off unwanted spiritual intrusions. The temperature begins to drop as the veil between life and death grows thin. Kailani's protective abilities create a barrier that keeps most spirits at bay, allowing Arden to focus on one specific soul without being overwhelmed by the desperate multitude of the dead. Arden feels the familiar cold starting in $ardenHis chest – the first sign of approaching spiritual contact. The sensation is deeply uncomfortable, like having ice water injected directly into $ardenHis veins. A body wasn't designed for this, lacks the natural channels that allow spirits safe passage. Every possession feels like violation. "Sofia?" Arden calls out, $ardenHis voice already beginning to change as spiritual energy builds. "Sofia Castellanos?" Through the protective corridor Kailani maintains, one particular spirit draws closer. Young. Female. Recent death carrying overwhelming fear and confusion. The girl's essence presses against Arden consciousness like ice against bare skin. The possession begins slowly, then accelerates. Sofia's spirit doesn't enter gently – she crashes through Arden's mental barriers like a drowning person grabbing for salvation. The impact sends shockwaves through Arden's nervous system. Terror that isn't $ardenHis. Confusion that belongs to someone else. The desperate, clutching need to communicate that overrides every other consideration. "Mama?" The voice that emerges from Arden's throat is higher, younger, trembling with fear that seeps into $ardenHis bones. "I'm so cold, Mama. So scared here." Miranda gasps, reaching toward $ardenName as if she could touch her daughter through proxy flesh. "Sofia! Baby, what happened? Tell me what happened!" The possession deepens with uncomfortable intensity. Sofia's memories don't transfer gently – they explode through Arden's consciousness. Each fragment brings its own payload of emotion: the trust she felt for her friends, the excitement of trying something new, the creeping realization that something was terribly wrong. Arden's body starts to tremble as foreign memories burn themselves into $ardenHis mind. $ardenHeC can feel $ardenHis muscles seizing, taste copper in $ardenHis mouth as $ardenHe bites $ardenHis tongue, but Sofia's desperate need to communicate overrides physical pain. "They said it would be fun," Sofia's voice continues through $ardenName, each word accompanied by waves of agony. "They said everyone was doing it. But when I started feeling sick, they just... they just watched." "Who watched? Who was there?" More memories crash through Ardens consciousness. Faces laughing while she convulsed. Voices discussing how to "handle the situation" while she died on expensive carpet. The suffocating weight of betrayal and fear settling over her. <div class="main-button">[[Next|AR4]]</div>

Arden's vision fractures as Sofia's experiences overlay $ardenHis own perception. For some moments, $ardenHe's not in the clinic – $ardenHe's at a party in an expensive apartment, surrounded by people who value their reputations more than human life. The smell of designer perfume mixed with vomit. The sound of expensive shoes stepping around a dying girl. "Ethan and Hannah," Arden gasps, $ardenHis voice cracking as Sofia's terror bleeds through. "Ethan Kerry and Hannah Link. They gave me the pills. Said they were safe. But when I started choking, they just... they documented it." "Documented?" The memories hit like lightning. Sofia's final moments, experienced through dying eyes that see too much. Friends she trusted recording her death like a scientific experiment. The casual discussion of how to stage the scene. The clinical detachment as they watched life drain from her body. Arden screams – a sound that belongs to neither the living nor the dead, but something caught between both states. $ardenHisC hands claw at the table, nails splintering as her agony floods through every nerve ending. Sofia's death is happening to $ardenHim now, poison burning through $ardenHis veins, lungs refusing to draw air. "They recorded everything," Sofia's voice becomes more desperate as her presence intensifies. "Wanted to see what the new formula would do. I was their test subject, Mama. They watched me die, they could have helped me but they just laughed." Miranda sobs openly, horror replacing grief as the truth unfolds. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I should have protected you." "Not your fault," the spirit insists through $ardenName's form. "But they can't... can't get away with it. Maybe the video is still on Ethan's phone." The possession reaches critical stage. Arden's back arches as $ardenHis nervous system overloads. "I'm scared, Mama," Sofia whispers through lips that turn blue. "So scared. But I had to tell you. I wanted you to know that I messed up and I'm so so sorry." "Sofia, don't go. Please don't leave me again." "I love you Mom," the spirit manages as her connection begins to fracture. "But I think… I think I have to go now. Something is pulling me back… I'm so scared… Mama." The spiritual presence explodes outward. Sofia's essence tears itself free from Arden's consciousness with extreme force, leaving behind psychic wounds that will take days to heal. Arden collapses forward. The room's temperature returns to normal, but Arden continues to shake as foreign memories war inside $ardenHis skull. Sofia's terror, her betrayal, her love for her mother – all of it mixing with Arden's own returning thoughts and memories. "Was that... was that really her?" Miranda whispers. "Spiritual communication is subjective," $ardenName manages through gritted teeth, $ardenHis voice destroyed by channeling another's essence. "I can only report what I experienced." "But she mentioned names. Ethan and Hannah. Those were her friends." "Then perhaps you have information worth investigating and sharing with law enforcement." Arden stands unsteadily, gripping the table for support. "Our session is concluded." Miranda leaves a generous tip in addition to the agreed fee. Guilt money, probably, though Arden doesn't refuse it. Money from wealthy clients funds the clinic's charitable operations, making sessions like this a necessary part of maintaining $ardenHis practice. Two hours later, Arden hunches over the toilet in $ardenHis small bathroom, retching violently as $ardenHis body attempts to purge the spiritual contamination. Nothing comes up but bile and the taste of something that might be grave dirt, but the convulsions continue anyway. Kailani kneels beside $ardenHim, one hand rubbing small circles on $ardenHis back while the other holds a cool washcloth ready. "Easy," Kailani murmurs softly. "Don't fight it. Let your body process what happened." Arden's hands shake as $ardenHe grips the porcelain, knuckles white with strain. The spiritual possession has left $ardenHim feeling hollow, scraped raw from the inside. Sofia's memories still burn behind $ardenHis eyes. "She was so scared," Arden gasps between heaves. "The way she died... I can still feel her confusion. Her terror." "I know, it never gets easier." Kailani places the cool cloth against Arden's neck, trying to ease the fever that always follows spiritual contact. Another wave of nausea hits. Arden doubles over, retching again as $ardenHis body rebels against the foreign memories lodged in $ardenHis consciousness. Years of this, and Kai is right, it never gets easier. If anything, the aftereffects have grown worse as $ardenHis reputation has demanded more powerful spiritual contacts. Kailani helps $ardenHim stand on unsteady legs, supporting $ardenHis weight as they move toward the bedroom. "You need rest. Real rest." As they walk, Arden experiences flashes of Sofia's life – her first kiss behind the school gymnasium, the pride she felt when her mother praised a school project, the crushing embarrassment of falling in front of her crush. Arden absolutely hates it. The bedroom is deliberately dark, heavy curtains blocking out the neon glow of Sordia's nightlife. Kailani guides Arden to the bed, helping $ardenHim lie down despite the tremors that continue to wrack $ardenHis frame. "The shadows are moving again," Arden mutters, eyes tracking something Kailani can't see. "Why are they always moving?" "Residual spiritual energy. It'll fade in a few hours." Kailani pulls a chair close to the bed, settling in for what she knows will be a long night. "Try to close your eyes. Don't focus on what you're seeing." But Arden's eyes remain wide, staring at corners where phantom figures flicker just beyond perception. The aftereffects of spiritual possession always include hallucinations – glimpses of the realm of the dead and memories that don't belong to $ardenHim bleeding through into normal vision. $ardenHeC sees a little girl dancing and laughing as butterflies dance around her, probably Sofia. "Focus on my voice," Kailani urges, sitting beside the bed. "Your breathing. Your heartbeat. Anything that belongs to you." But Sofia's emotional imprints are too strong. "She loved butterflies," Arden says suddenly. Delirious. The words torn from Sofia's memories. "Had a collection of butterfly jewelry her grandmother gave her. She was wearing the silver one when she died – thought it would bring her luck." "Take these," Kailani says, offering medication designed to dull spiritual contamination. Arden swallows the pills with shaking hands, desperate for any relief from the borrowed memories wreaking havoc in $ardenHis skull. "This is why I hate the aftermath. Her entire emotional life is playing out in my head like some kind of psychic recording." $ardenHeC grumbles. The medication begins to take effect almost immediately, creating a buffer between Arden's consciousness and Sofia's lingering emotional imprints. "Sleep," Kailani urges as Arden can barely keep $ardenHis eyes open. "I'll keep watch," she promises, beginning to hum softly. And Arden does. As sleep finally claims $ardenHim, Arden's last conscious thought is of butterflies – Sofia's favorite creatures, now forever lodged in $ardenHis memory alongside all the other borrowed pieces of a dead girl's life. <div class="main-button">[[Next|AR5]]</div>

The next day at the breakfast table Arden feels slightly better. There are still some butterflies flying around in $ardenHis vision but Sofia's emotions have dimmed. "Feeling better?" Kailani asks, noting Arden's drained condition. "The girl was scared. Confused. Recent violent death always complicates communication." Arden accepts another cup of coffee, feeling warmth return to hands still cold from spiritual contact. "But the information was clear. She was killed by her friends." "The mother will pursue it through official channels. Whether law enforcement investigates the suspicious death of a wealthy teenager remains doubtful, but she has resources to apply pressure." Arden sips $ardenHis coffee, the tase strong enough to wake the dead. "And if they don't?" "Not our concern. We provided the service contracted. What clients do with the information is their decision." Arden shrughs detachedly.$ardenHeC is not a good Samaritan and they won't pretend to be. $ardenHeC eats in comfortable silence, reviewing the recent cases while Arden's energy slowly returns. The stabbing victim will heal if he keeps the wound clean. The elderly woman will die regardless of intervention. Miranda Castellanos now has names to give the police, though justice in Sordia is more often purchased than served. "Luz's warning," Kailani says eventually. "About people targeting medical personnel. You think it's connected to the organ trafficking reports?" "Possible. Or random criminal opportunity." Arden pushes $ardenHis empty plate aside. "Regardless, we should implement additional security measures." "Already done. I ordered motion sensors for the clinic and Luz is sending someone over for protection services." "Expensive." "Criminal organization fees cover it along with Miranda's consultation fees." Kailani grins coldly. "Though I still think we should consider relocation." "To where? We've almost died too many times to count. We'll die sooner or later anyway." "But staying might kill us sooner." The point is valid, though Arden refuses to acknowledge it directly. $ardenHeC's spent years building this life, establishing $ardenHis reputation as both physician and the most powerful medium in Sordia, creating a space where medical care is provided based on need rather than ability to pay. The idea of abandoning that work, that life $ardenHe finally built for $ardenHimself makes $ardenHis blood boil. "We stay." Arden stands, beginning to clear the breakfast dishes, ending the discussion. Kailani doesn't argue, but her expression suggests the conversation isn't over. She understands where Arden is coming from. But she also understands the practical realities of survival in Sordia and she doesn't necessarily have a death wish, having escaped death more than once already. The rest of the evening passes in routine preparation for tomorrow's challenges. Medical supplies inventoried and restocked when possible. Patient files updated and secured. Security systems tested and maintained. The countless small tasks that keep a clinic open despite chronic underfunding and the constant threat of violence. As the sun sets over Sordia, painting the sky in shades of pollution and desperation, Arden just wants to sleep. $ardenHeC's tired. But there is so much more work to do. The work never ends. But Arden will take it on. One patient at a time, one crisis at a time, one consultation at a time in the endless struggle to provide medical care without regard for politics, or prejudice that separate humans from bloodborns and bloodborns from other bloodborns in Sordia's ongoing war. The cycle continues. It always does. And Arden goes along with it. Tomorrow will bring new patients, new threats. But that's tomorrow's problem. Right now, the clinic is secure, the dead are quiet, and the living have been served according to their needs. In Arden's eyes, that passes for victory. //END //