The dream came again.

  Not a nightmare. Worse. A memory.

  Zak stood in that room—the grey walls, the flickering screens, the smell of old gunpowder and burnt wiring. His father's office. The place he'd visited a hundred times as a kid, drinking bad coffee and listening to his dad complain about paperwork.

  But this time, his father was in the chair.

  Head tilted back. Eyes open. That dark stain on his chest, spreading like a flower blooming in poison.

  Zak wanted to move. To scream. To close those eyes. But his feet were nailed to the floor. His throat was full of glass.

  Zak.

  His father's voice. From somewhere. Nowhere.

  Zak, wake up.

  The eyes blinked.

  Wake up, son.

  Zak's eyes opened to darkness.

  For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The ceiling was wrong. The cot was wrong. The silence was wrong.

  Then he remembered. Fix's apartment. The corner they'd given him weeks ago. The blanket that smelled like antiseptic and old paper.

  The dream was still there. Clinging to him like wet clothes.

  He sat up slowly. Pressed his palms to his eyes. Saw the funeral anyway. Rain falling on that hilltop cemetery. His mother's hand gripping his so hard her nails left crescents in his skin. Anne's face—sixteen years old, already learning how grief looked.

  "Don't cry in front of them," his mother had whispered. "Don't give them that victory."

  He hadn't cried that day. Not once.

  He hadn't cried since.

  What would Dad think of me now? The thought came unbidden. What would he think of the killing? The mask? The black?

  No answer. There never was.

  But for the first time, Zak realized: maybe the question wasn't what would Dad think. Maybe the question was what do I think.

  And he didn't have an answer for that either.

  The clock on the wall said 5:47 AM.

  Zak stood. Dressed. Left without waking anyone.

  The city was grey and quiet, still asleep. Zak ran.

  Not fast. Not training. Just moving. Letting his feet choose the path while his mind circled the same questions.

  He passed streets he'd played in as a kid. Passed the corner store where his father used to buy him ice cream after school. Passed the park where he'd taught Anne to ride a bike, one hand on her seat, running beside her while she shrieked with laughter.

  All of it still there. All of it waiting for people who would never come back.

  But I'm still here.

  He ran until his legs burned and his lungs screamed and he couldn't think anymore. Then he found a bench in an empty square and sat down hard, head in his hands.

  Think.

  Jon Reed. Former Lynx. A man who had been part of the machine. Now he sat in the same room as Zak. Drank the same coffee. Wore a mask with his dead wife's color.

  I should hate him.

  He didn't. That was the problem. Jon wasn't the killer. He was just another piece—a man who signed shipment orders, not death warrants.

  Erik.

  Now there was someone he could hate. The man who ran the Lynx.

  But Erik was here. In the city. And Zak had seen what he could do. Those claws. That speed. That power.

  I can't beat him.

  The thought sat in his chest like a stone.

  Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  And then there was Son. The other leader. The ghost. Zak didn't even know his face.

  How do I take revenge on people I can't reach? People who are stronger than me, faster than me, smarter than me?

  He looked up at the grey sky. No answers there.

  I've lost my way.

  The thought was quiet. Honest. It hurt more than any wound.

  He'd started this to avenge his father. But somewhere between the training and the fighting and the masks and the allies, he'd forgotten. The goal had blurred.

  Dad would be disappointed.

  Or would he? His father had made him promise never to use the black sigil. Never to let it out. Zak had kept that promise for sixteen years. He was still keeping it. Fighting it every day.

  Is that what you wanted? For me to fight forever? To never become what I am?

  No answer.

  Just the grey sky and the empty square and the cold.

  Zak stood. His legs ached. His heart ached more.

  He started walking back.

  Meanwhile, beneath the city.

  The tunnels swallowed sound. Swallowed light. Swallowed everything except the pulse—that low, terrible beating that seemed to come from the earth itself.

  Ron hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. About those green eyes. About the way she'd touched his mask. So when the city slept, he went back. Not looking for Erik. Looking for her.

  He moved through the darkness, one hand on his sword, the other touching the wall to guide him. The tunnels grew stranger as he went deeper. Brick gave way to stone. Stone gave way to something he couldn't name—walls that seemed to drink light, air that tasted like nothing he'd ever tasted. Old. Ancient. Wrong.

  Then he felt it. Not just the pulse anymore. Something else. Something moving.

  He rounded a corner and stopped.

  Rensira stood at the end of the tunnel, facing a wound in the world.

  It was beautiful and terrible at once—a vertical tear in reality, maybe two meters tall, pulsing with light that was somehow both black and white. It breathed like a living thing. Like a heart. Like a door waiting to open.

  She turned when she heard him. Those green eyes found his mask, and for a moment, she looked almost... relieved.

  "You came back."

  "Couldn't sleep."

  She almost smiled. "Neither could I."

  Ron walked toward her, stopping close enough to see the pale skin, the small lips, the weight in those ancient eyes. Close enough to feel the energy radiating from her—enormous, like standing next to a bonfire.

  "What is it?" he asked, nodding at the rift.

  "A crack between worlds." Her voice was quiet. Serious. "I felt it days ago. That's why I came."

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  "And something's coming through?"

  "Always." She touched it gently. The light pulsed where her fingers met it. "The question is when. And what."

  As if in answer, the rift tore open.

  Not slowly. Not gently. One moment it was a wound. The next, it was a mouth—ragged and screaming, spitting darkness into the world.

  Five shapes emerged.

  The first two were small—dog-sized, if dogs were made of living shadow. They moved on four legs, too fast, too wrong. Their bodies flickered like flames made of darkness.

  "Level ones," Rensira said quietly, watching them circle. "Mindless. Hungry. They don't think. They just feed."

  The other three were larger. Human-shaped but not human. They stood on two legs, heads turning as if smelling the air. One had too many joints in its arms, bending where they shouldn't bend. Another seemed to shimmer, disappearing and reappearing a foot away. The third—the largest—simply stood there. Watching. Waiting. Learning.

  "The larger ones are level two," Rensira continued. "They can plan. Wait. If a level three comes, we run."

  Ron drew his sword. His hand was shaking. He didn't know why.

  "Stay behind me," Rensira said.

  "The hell I will—"

  The two small ones attacked.

  They moved like nothing Ron had ever fought. Faster than anything. Their bodies flickered, making it impossible to track them. One lunged at his throat. He dodged—barely—swung his sword, felt it cut through... something. The creature shrieked. Not a sound. Something worse. Something that drilled into his skull and made his vision blur.

  The second came from the side. He blocked, stumbled, felt its claws rake across his arm. The wound burned. Not like normal pain. Like something eating into him. Like fire and ice and nothing all at once.

  He swung again. Missed. The creature circled, too fast, too smart.

  The first one came back.

  Ron fought. God, he fought. He moved faster than he'd ever moved, yellow sigil burning, sword flashing. He cut one—actually cut it—and it screamed and recoiled. But the other was there instantly, claws tearing at his side.

  He was bleeding in three places now. His arm was going numb. His vision was blurring from the pain—not just physical, something else. Their attacks did something to him. Made him feel hollow. Made him feel weak.

  I'm going to die.

  The thought was cold and clear.

  I'm not strong enough. I'm yellow level two. That's all I am. That's all I'll ever be.

  One of the creatures lunged for his throat. He tried to block. Too slow. His arm wouldn't move fast enough.

  Weak.

  The word echoed in his head. Not from outside. From inside.

  I'm weak.

  And then—

  A flash of purple light.

  The creature in front of him dissolved. Just... gone. The second was lifted off the ground, held by something invisible, then crushed into nothing.

  Ron turned.

  Rensira stood in the center of the tunnel, surrounded by blue light that shimmered like water. In her hand, a spear of pure purple energy crackled and hummed. The three larger creatures circled her, wary now, hesitant.

  She moved.

  The spear flew, impaling the shimmering one. It screamed—that same silent scream—and dissolved into shadow. The one with too many joints charged. She caught it with her bare hand, blue light flaring, and it froze. Then shattered like glass.

  The largest one—the watcher—tried to flee back through the rift.

  Rensira was faster. The purple spear reformed in her hand. She threw it once more. It pierced the creature's back an instant before it reached the rift.

  Silence.

  The rift pulsed once, twice. Then sealed itself, leaving nothing but ordinary stone.

  Ron stared.

  Rensira stood there, breathing harder than before, the blue light fading from her skin, the purple spear dissolving into nothing. She looked... human. Tired. Almost fragile. Blood—not hers—spattered her clothes.

  Then she turned to him, and those green eyes were sharp with concern.

  "You're bleeding."

  Ron looked down at himself. His arm was a mess. His side was worse. The wounds were ugly—dark edges, strange texture, pain that didn't feel normal.

  He tried to speak. Couldn't. His legs gave out.

  Rensira caught him before he hit the ground.

  "Easy," she said softly. "Easy."

  She lowered him gently, then knelt beside him, examining his wounds. Her touch was light. Careful. Her hands moved with the confidence of someone who had done this before. Many times.

  "These are bad," she said quietly. "Their claws carry something. Void corruption. It spreads."

  Ron looked up at her. At the pale skin, the green eyes, the small lips pressed together in concentration. She was close. Close enough that he could see the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks.

  "Why do you care?" he whispered.

  She met his eyes. For a moment, something flickered in hers. Something ancient and sad and very, very human.

  "A thousand years," she said quietly. "A thousand years of people bowing, people fearing, people wanting something from me. My power. My title. My crown." She paused. "And then you come along. Wearing a mask with a crack in it. Calling yourself 'Ostrich.' Making me laugh." Her lips curved. "You looked at me like I was just a woman. Do you have any idea how rare that is?"

  Ron tried to smile. "So I'm special?"

  "You're an idiot." But she almost smiled when she said it.

  She tore a strip from her own clothing—simple, practical, nothing royal about it—and began wrapping his wounds. Her fingers were gentle. Steady.

  "The corruption will take time to heal," she said. "Days, maybe. You'll need to rest. Keep the wounds clean."

  "Fix'll fix me," Ron mumbled. "That's literally his name. The universe has a sick sense of humor."

  She almost laughed. "Go. Before more come."

  Ron didn't move. "The way you fought... that purple light... the blue shield... how?"

  She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Two sigils." She met his eyes. "Blue for defense. Purple for attack. Most people spend their lives mastering one. I've had a thousand years to master two."

  "Two?"

  "A long story." She stood, offering him her hand. He took it. She pulled him up easily—stronger than she looked.

  Ron swayed on his feet. The world spun for a moment, then steadied.

  "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

  "Not tonight." She pulled her hood up, hiding that pale hair. "Go. Get treated. And don't come back here alone."

  "Why do you care so much?"

  She looked at him. Those green eyes held his for a long moment.

  "Because when you left last time, I stood here for an hour. Alone. Waiting to see if you'd come back." She paused. "No one's ever come back for me before."

  Then she turned and walked into the darkness.

  Ron watched until she disappeared.

  Then he started the long walk back.

  He found Zak at Fix's apartment an hour later, arm wrapped, side bandaged, looking like he'd crawled through hell.

  Fix took one look at Ron's wounds and swore under his breath. "What did you fight?"

  "I don't know," Ron admitted. "But it wasn't human."

  Fix's eyes narrowed, but he didn't ask more. He just started working.

  Zak watched in silence as Fix stitched and wrapped. When he finished, Ron sat back, pale but alive.

  "Thanks," Ron muttered.

  Fix grunted. "Try not to make a habit of this."

  When Fix retreated to his corner, Zak sat beside Ron.

  "What happened?"

  Ron told him. Most of it. The rift. The creatures. The fight. The way Rensira had saved his life. He left out the way she'd looked at him when she said no one's ever come back for me before. Left out the way his chest still felt strange when he thought about it.

  Zak listened without interrupting. When Ron finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

  "So the Queen," he said slowly, "has two sigils. Blue and purple. And she's been fighting monsters from another world for... how long?"

  "A thousand years. Probably."

  "And she saved your life."

  "Yeah."

  Zak looked at him. Really looked. "You like her."

  Ron blinked. "What? No. I just met her. She's a thousand years old. She's the Queen."

  "You like her."

  "I don't—" Ron stopped. Rubbed his neck. "She's... interesting. Okay? She laughed at my jokes. She touched my mask. She saved my life." He paused. "And she has these eyes, Zak. Green like... I don't know. Like forests. Like something you could get lost in."

  Zak stared at him.

  Ron sighed. "Shut up."

  "I didn't say anything."

  "You were thinking it."

  Zak shook his head slowly and walked to the window. He looked out at the sleeping city. "First Erik. Now an immortal queen. What's next? A dragon?"

  Ron snorted. "Don't give the universe ideas."

  The door opened. Jon walked in, mask off, looking like he hadn't slept either. He had papers in his hand—old papers, yellowed with age.

  "Zak." His voice was quiet. Serious. "We need to talk."

  Zak turned from the window. "About what?"

  Jon set the papers on the table. "I've been digging. Since the harbor. Since we talked about your father." He paused. "I have contacts. People who owe me favors. People who were in the Lynx long before I came to this city."

  Zak moved closer. "And?"

  Jon met his eyes. "Son ordered it."

  The room went very still.

  "Son," Zak repeated. The name tasted like poison.

  "Three months before your father died. Son personally signed the order." Jon pushed a paper toward him. "I couldn't get the original—those files are buried deeper than I can reach—but my source saw it. Confirmed it."

  Zak stared at the paper. Didn't touch it. "Why?"

  "That's the question." Jon's voice was tired. "Why would Son—the man who runs the Lynx's dirtiest operations—care about a guard at a barracks in a nothing city? Your father wasn't political. Wasn't important. Wasn't a threat."

  "Then why?"

  Jon shook his head slowly. "I don't know. My source didn't know either. The order came down, and that was it. No explanation. No reason given."

  Zak's hands curled into fists. "Son killed my father."

  "Yes."

  "And Erik?"

  "Erik runs the Lynx. He signs the big orders. But Son..." Jon paused. "Son is the blade. The one who does the things Erik doesn't want to know about. If your father was killed and made to look like suicide, that's Son's work."

  Zak stood very still. His face was pale. His eyes were empty.

  Fix spoke from the corner. "Zak."

  No response.

  "Zak."

  He blinked. Looked at Fix.

  Fix moved closer. "You heard him. You have a name now. Son. That's your target."

  "Son," Zak repeated. "I don't even know his face."

  "You will." Fix's voice was calm. Steady. "But first, you need to be ready. And you're not."

  Zak's jaw tightened. "I've been training for months. I fought Erik. I—"

  "You fought Erik and lost." Fix's words were blunt but not cruel. "You held your own for a few minutes against a man who's been fighting for forty years. That's impressive. But it's not enough."

  "Then what is?"

  Fix met his eyes. "Erik is coming. Not in weeks. Not in days. Soon. And when he does, he won't hold back. Can you say the same?"

  Zak said nothing.

  "You're using your sigil. Better than before. But you're still holding back. Still fighting it. Still keeping it caged." Fix's voice softened. "Your father made you promise something when you were nine years old. He was trying to protect you. But your father isn't here anymore. And the world has changed."

  Zak stared at him.

  "You're not a monster, Zak. The black isn't evil. It's just power. What matters is what you do with it." Fix paused. "But until you stop fighting it—until you let it become part of you completely—you'll never reach the level you need."

  The room was silent.

  Ron watched from his chair, not speaking. Jon stood by the table, papers in hand. Fix waited.

  Finally, Zak spoke.

  "How?" His voice was quiet. Rough. "How do I stop fighting something I've been fighting my whole life?"

  Fix almost smiled. "You start by admitting you want to win."

  Later, after Jon had gone and Ron had drifted off to sleep on the couch, Zak stood at the window.

  The city was dark now. Lights flickered in distant buildings. Somewhere out there, Erik was waiting. Somewhere out there, Son was planning.

  Is this what you wanted, Dad? For me to stay weak forever?

  No answer.

  But for the first time, Zak wondered if maybe the question was wrong.

  Maybe his father hadn't wanted him to stay weak. Maybe he'd just wanted him to stay him.

  And maybe—just maybe—Zak could be himself without being afraid.

  He closed his eyes.

  The night held its breath.

  Waiting.