My eyes grew tired of the blueish-white light. The smell of antiseptic and decay immediately trademarking the morgue that I stood in. It was a sterile tomb located in New York, belonging to none other than tech billionaire, Jacob Maxwell. My boots echoed on the polished floor, each step a hollow drumbeat in the oppressive silence. Ahead, sprawled across a stainless-steel table like some grotesque offering, lay the body. Ahsan Mohammed, the man who'd turned human insides to molten ruin, a walking plague that had left a trail of liquefied corpses in his wake. His skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched tight over bones that seemed too sharp. An unnatural bulge sat at the side of his neck like a knot that he failed to swallow. But the multiple jagged points reminded me of what I did to contribute to this man's death. I could hardly look away.
A figure hovered over him, gloved hands probing the corpse with a clinical precision that bordered on reverence. He was tall, lean, with dark hair that fell in careless waves over a forehead creased in concentration. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes—storm-gray and piercing—flickered up to meet mine. I felt a jolt, a spark of something primal, but it was quickly smothered by the grating edge of his voice as he spoke.
"Dr. Milo Simms, by the way." he said, not bothering with a handshake. Not that I would care to grab his blood soaked gloves anyway. His tone was clipped, smug, like he was doing me a favor by acknowledging my existence. He looked back down at the body, scribbling notes on a tablet with a stylus that clicked too loudly in the quiet. I stood there, arms crossed, watching him dissect the accidental monster I'd put down. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the corpse's sunken features.
"What are you looking for?" I finally asked, my voice rough, scraping against the sterile air.
He didn't look up. "No idea. Never cut open a freak like this before." His lips twitched, a half-smirk that made me want to punch him. "First time for everything, right?"
I shook my head, the weight of it all pressing down on me—the screams, the blood, the choice I'd made. "I wish you didn't have to cut him open at all."
Milo paused, stylus hovering mid-air. "Heard what happened out there. Sounds like you had to make a tough call."
"No," I snapped, the word bitter on my tongue. "I took the easy way out." The truth clawed at my throat—how I'd hesitated, how I'd let fear guide my hand, how I'd ended him not out of bravery but cowardice. Milo's eyes narrowed, assessing me like I was another specimen on his table.
"Easy or not, you saved millions," he said, his voice softening just enough to irritate me more. "That's not nothing."
I cut him off, stepping closer to the table. "What's your theory, Doctor? What turned him into… that?"
He straightened, enthusiasm sparking in his gaze—too much for my liking.
"Best guess? He tapped into something metaphysical. Physical access to elements beyond our plane. Imagine it—mind, body, spirit, all synced to manipulate the fabric of reality." He gestured wildly, caught up in his own brilliance. "Theoretically, it's a fusion of willpower and physics, a conduit for—"
The words hit me like a fist. Ancient text flashed behind my eyes—yellowed pages, ink bleeding into warnings I'd tried to forget.
"Beware the seekers of dominion, for they shall unravel the world."
My pulse quickened, a cold sweat prickling my skin. I'd seen those words in nightmares, felt their weight in the dark. This wasn't science. This was prophecy.
"What caused it?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended.
Milo tilted his head, studying me. "Radiation, maybe. A metamorphosis triggered by the very force that birthed his power. Like a caterpillar in a cocoon—except this one melted everything it touched." He grinned, a little too pleased with his analogy.
I nodded, the room tilting slightly as I backed toward the door. "Thanks, Doc. That's all I need."
"Wait—" A sudden splash hit my neck, cold and shocking. I whirled, water dripping down my collar, to find Milo holding a soaked rag, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Knew that'd stop you."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snarled, wiping my face.
He shrugged, unrepentant. "Words wouldn't have worked." I muttered a soft grunt, getting irritated at how right he was. "I've got a question before you vanish."
I glared, impatience burning in my chest, but he pressed on. "Dinner. You and me. What do you say?"
I froze, caught off guard. His cocky grin softened into something almost genuine, and despite myself, a reluctant smile tugged at my lips. "Fine," I said, letting my guard slip just an inch. "But only if you can find me first."
Later, I returned to Headquarters. The halls hummed with tension, a labyrinth of shadows and steel buried beneath the city. I strode through its corridors, the doctor's words looping in my mind like a curse. Director Kane waited in his office, a grizzled figure behind a desk littered with maps and glowing screens. His eyes, hard as flint, met mine as I entered.
"It's in the prophecy," I said, voice low, urgent. "What Simms found—it's all there. The man got his power from the Arabian temples. I know it."
Kane leaned back, steepling his fingers. "You're sure?"
"Dead sure. He was there recently. We need a system-wide scan of the Middle East—now."
He frowned. "Why there?"
I swallowed, the ancient text whispering through me again. "It's the precursor. The warning. We can still fix this before it's too late."
He didn't argue. With a curt nod, he tapped out an executive order, his fingers flying over the console. Seconds later, a ping—a junior agent's voice crackled through. "Kaitron anomaly detected, sir. Saudi Arabia."
I straightened, adrenaline surging. "I need to go there."
"No," Kane said flatly. "Military's running experiments in the UAE. We can't risk exposure. But…" He paused, a rare glint of cunning in his eye. "I've got a contact. Someone who can slip you in under the Armed Forces' radar."
"How long?" I pressed, restless.
"You'd be solo. Could take a day, maybe two."
I gritted my teeth but nodded. "Who's the contact?"
Kane's lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. "Jacob Maxwell. And with Simms' research, he's been expecting you."
The name landed like a stone in my gut. Maxwell—the billionaire puppeteer, the man whose lab held the body, whose tower cast its shadow over this mess. Everything had been going wrong since his company, Primotech suddenly discovered how to measure life energy. These Kaitrons, as they call it, have been unravelling our world since 2064. I turned to leave, the weight of the prophecy pressing down, the future teetering on a razor's edge. Whatever waited in the desert, I'd face it alone.
Since Kane was into getting favors from Jacob Maxwell, I was forced to fly out to Los Angeles the following day to discuss the mission. Apparently, he's too good to correspond through email. I gripped the armrests as the plane shuddered, the city sprawling below me like a festering wound—neon veins pulsing through concrete flesh. Primotech Tower, a jagged spire of glass and steel piercing the smog, its peak lost in the haze. I didn't know what awaited me inside, but the uncertainty gnawed at me like a splinter under a fingernail.
The elevator ride up was slow and suffocating. The mirrored walls threw my reflection back at me—sharp cheekbones, eyes like chipped obsidian, hair pulled tight into a bun that felt more like a noose. Wondering how my bronze skin will affect the landscape here. The doors slid open with a hiss, and I stepped into a lobby drenched in excess: marble floors gleaming under chandeliers that dripped crystal like frozen tears, air thick with the scent of pompous arrogance. At the desk sat Maxwell's assistant, a peacock of a man with a colorful afro sculpted into a pompadour and defying gravity. His lime-colored suit, so loud against his dark skin that it could wake a coma patient. His lips curled into a sneer as I approached, his manicured fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on the desk.
"Name?" he drawled, voice dripping with disdain, as if I'd tracked mud onto his pristine little kingdom.
"Tawnie Everwood," I said, keeping my tone flat. "I'm here for Maxwell."
He snorted, a sound like a cat choking on a hairball, and leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with theatrical flair. "Oh, honey, everyone's here for Maxwell. Doesn't mean he's got time for you." His eyes raked over me, lingering on my worn leather jacket and scuffed boots, judgment oozing from every pore. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, and fought the urge to wipe that smirk off his face. Instead, I leaned in, close enough to smell the citrus tang of his cologne, and let my voice drop to a low growl.
"Tell him I'm here. Now."
He blinked, startled, then huffed and jabbed a button on his desk phone with a flourish. A muffled exchange later, he waved me through with a flick of his wrist, like a king dismissing a peasant. "Go on, then. Don't trip over that scowl on the way in."
I shot him a look that suggested he'd be better off fleeing as I approached the office door.
Maxwell's office was a cavern of shadows and luxury, floor-to-ceiling windows framing a city drowning in dusk. The man himself rose from behind a desk that looked carved from crystal, his silhouette backlit by the dying light. He was tall, lean, with brown hair swept back and a smile that didn't reach his eyes—predatory, polished. "Tawnie," he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey, extending a hand. "A pleasure."
I ignored the hand, planting myself in front of him, boots striking the marble floor like a tap dancer. "Let's skip the pleasantries, Maxwell. I'm not here to play nice. Why'd you throw in with the Blackout Alliance?"
He tilted his head, studying me like I was a specimen under glass, then crossed to a bar that occupied the shelving unit behind his desk. Crystal clinked as he lifted a decanter, the amber liquid inside catching the light like liquid fire. "My company found something in the United Arab Emirates," he said, pouring himself a drink with deliberate care. "An energy signature, mythical it seems. Reminds me of Springfield, Massachusetts. You remember that mess, don't you?"
I offered him a half-hazard swing of my head, twisting the edges of my mouth sarcastically.
I did. The air in Springfield had turned thick, electric, the kind of static that made your hair stand on end and your teeth ache. I crossed my arms, the leather of my jacket creaking. "And what's in it for you? Profit? Power?"
He swirled the glass, the ice chiming faintly. "It's unnatural, Tawnie. Something beyond science, beyond us. I'm already looking into the spikes, you are looking into the spikes, so it's only logical for us to collaborate. This deserves study, understanding. Don't you think?"
"No," I snapped, stepping closer, tension rising between us. "Paranormal shit's a Pandora's box. Nature sorts it out, not us!"
His smile tightened, but he didn't flinch. "I'm not asking for your help. I'm offering mine—for a price, of course."
"I'll pay you to back off," I said, voice cold as steel. "But I'm not letting you dig into something that could crack the world open."
He set the glass down with a sharp clink, his patience fraying. "This isn't about you, Tawnie. It's a favor for Toreon Kane. Your boss."
I laughed, a brittle sound that echoed off the glass walls, and turned for the door. "Good luck with that." His voice stopped me mid-step, smooth and insistent.
"Two days, Northern California. Private airfield. You'll meet military personnel there. Find what you're looking for, then we'll talk."
I spun back, eyes narrowing. "You know about the mutations, don't you? The radiation—what it does to people. Springfield proved it. I might be immune, but your soldiers will be infected, and this whole thing goes to hell."
He grinned, pouring another drink, the decanter glinting like a weapon. "My company discovered it, Tawnie. Living life energy—Kaitrons, I named them. Brilliant, isn't it?"
The man took a seat in his chair and glared at me with a lowered chin as if he was ready to strike. "Of course I know about Kaitron mutation. Your team will be comprised of soldiers who all carry a particular mutation. One that will cause them not to react in the presence of that energy."
"Arrogant bastard," I snarled, storming out. The door slammed behind me, and I nearly collided with Dr. Simms in the hall—my eyes widened for a heartbeat because I swore I left him in New York. He chuckled, a nervous edge to it. "Found you, didn't I?"
"Nice try," I shot back, brushing past him. "I found you. Better luck next time."
"That hardly seems fair, Ms. Everwood." He laughed. "You left and I found you."
The look he gave was innocent and accomplished.
"This counts as work for you. I don't think you heard my terms." I smiled as I crossed my arms.
He shook his head slowly. "I'm stationed in New York. I really did come to find you."
Out the corner of my eyes, I saw them—five figures striding through the lobby like they owned it, their presence a dark current cutting through the room. The Sparcone crime family. I recognized the cut of their suits, the glints of gold on their fingers, the way the air seemed to bend around them. Simms paled beside me, tugging at my arm. "You don't want anything to do with them, Tawnie. Move."
"Speak for yourself" I said planting my feet.
"Those are people you don't cross," he hissed, voice trembling. "Let's go."
I didn't budge. The group parted, and she emerged—Leona Sparcone, a vision in crimson, her curves draped in a dress that clung like blood on skin, red hair cascading like a wildfire. Her thugs closed in, a ring of muscle and menace, their breath sour with cigarette smoke and threat. She stopped inches from me, green eyes boring into mine. "Tawnie Everwood," she purred, her voice a milotic tone.
"How do you know my name?" I asked
Her lips curved, dangerous and slow. "You're a target, darling. Powerful people want you—your skill, your fire. But don't get too comfortable."
She circled me, heels clicking like gunfire on the marble, then swept into Maxwell's office, her men lingering like vultures. Simms yanked at my sleeve again, but I shook him off, sizing up the thugs with a grin that felt more like bared teeth. Let them try me.
Outside Primotech, the city swallowed me in its damp, electric hum. I dialed Kane, my boots pounding the pavement, the phone's cold metal pressed to my ear. "I just saw Leona Sparcone in Maxwell's office," I said, voice tight. "One of the most dangerous women alive!"
"Calm down," Kane replied, his tone infuriatingly even, like he was soothing a child. "You're overreacting."
"Am I?" I snapped. "You trust Maxwell when he's in bed with a syndicate that wants to burn the economy to ash for their own gain? What's your angle, Kane?"
He sighed, a crackle of static on the line. "The Sparcones rose from nothing—blood, guts, and deals in the dark. Everyone's tied to them, Tawnie, one way or another. The world's chaos without them."
I went silent, my mind snagging on a fragment of ancient text I'd read years ago, buried in dust and dread: *Seven factions will herald mankind's end pieces on a board I couldn't yet see. I kept that to myself, letting Kane's voice fill the void.
"Stay put," he ordered, sharp now. "Wait for your next move."
I hung up, staring into the city's flickering heart, the weight of it all pressing down like a storm about to break. Two days until Northern California. Two days until I'd face whatever Maxwell and Kane were chasing—something unnatural, something alive, something that could unravel us all. And me? I was the fool caught in the middle, grinning into the dark.