A sudden voice from the street sliced through the tense silence of the backroom.
Dean Brennan and Flint Voss froze, their faces draining of color. But it was Ethan Kane who moved first. Before the others could even process the threat, Ethan was across the room, slipping toward the sleeping girl.
Flint and Dean instantly caught on. Petra Marlowe was fast asleep, her breathing slow and even. But if she woke to the sound of the Duskwarden's voice filtering through the thin walls, what would she do?
Four people, representing four completely different factions, were trapped in one suffocatingly small space. A rogue Nightbound operator, a black-market broker, a desperate survivor, and their high-value captive. Under normal circumstances, the first three shared a basic, survival-driven alignment. But Petra was the wild card. The victim.
That was why Ethan locked his eyes on her. If she so much as gasped, he would pin her down and smother the sound before it could leave her throat.
Thankfully, her chest rose and fell in a steady, unbroken rhythm.
On the other side of the thin wooden door, the cold, sharp edge of the proprietress's temper dissolved into a warm, practiced honey. Lucy beamed at the Duskwarden, her voice dripping with artificial charm.
"Just tell me what kind of trim you're looking for, sir. I’ll make sure you walk out of here looking like a new man."
The man who had stepped in was a Duskwarden in his early thirties. He ignored Lucy’s dazzling smile entirely, his cold eyes sweeping the cramped salon.
"You live in your shop?" He gestured toward the humming Lumcore. Keeping an active core running overnight was a luxury only residents afforded.
"Oh, yes," Lucy said, keeping her composure flawless, her chuckle light and airy. "Saves on rent, you see. It's not easy for a woman making a living on her own these days. Every copper counts."
The Duskwarden's expression remained a mask of professional apathy. Then, his gaze snapped to the door of the backroom.
"Is that your private quarters?" He took a step forward.
A flicker of panic flitted across Lucy’s eyes, but she instantly masked it with a bashful chuckle. "Oh, goodness, is there some kind of trouble?"
The Duskwarden stood directly before the door. He didn't reach for the handle. "Open it."
"Well... a lady's bedroom is a bit private—"
"Open it," the Duskwarden barked, glaring down at her.
Before Lucy could spin another excuse, the door swung inward.
The room was tiny—easily mapped in a single glance, save for the closed bathroom door.
Flint stood in the doorway, shirtless and clad in nothing but a pair of violently bright, floral-patterned boxers. He had a half-burned cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his hair a bird's nest, and his eyes bleary with feigned exhaustion.
"What's all the racket?" Flint grumbled, scratchy-voiced and thoroughly irritated.
The Duskwarden scanned the room. The rumpled sheets, the discarded tissues crumpled on the floor—it didn't take a genius to paint a vivid, sordid picture of what had supposedly been going on.
"Flint?" The Duskwarden recognized him instantly.
"Hale? What the hell is this?" Flint yawned loudly, scratching his bare stomach. "Checking doors at the crack of dawn?"
Hale frowned, his gaze shifting back to Lucy. "What is she to you?"
"What do you think?" Flint sauntered out, slapping Lucy's rear with a sharp, heavy thwack. He threw his arm over her shoulders, pulling her close. "She's the one who keeps me warm."
"Hey! Watch it, you idiot!" Lucy shoved him away, her cheeks flushing a deep, genuine crimson, though she managed to throw him a look of exasperated affection.
"Ha! Come on, you weren't complaining last night," Flint chuckled, winking. "Hale’s one of us. No need to be shy." He reached out, playfully trying to slide his hand under her collar.
"Get off me! Go do your business," Lucy snapped, swatting his hand away before turning to busy herself with the morning prep, her back to them.
Flint watched her walk away, his eyes locked onto her hips, and let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"I didn't know you had a woman, Flint," Hale said, his cold tone cutting through Flint's display of bravado.
"Huh?" Flint blinked, pulling his gaze back with the classic sheepish grin of a rogue. "Oh, we've only been seeing each other a short while. She's single, I’m lonely. Nature takes its course."
Before Hale could probe further, Flint leaned in, lowering his voice. "Look, Hale, between you and me, you guys in the guard take things too seriously. You've gotta live a little, right? Can't let the weight of the city crush you."
"You certainly seem to have it all figured out."
"Hey, what else can I do? There’ve been no Nightharvest contracts lately. A man's gotta find some way to burn off the stress."
Hale didn't offer a reply. He simply turned toward the exit.
"Wait, Hale, what's actually going on out there?" Flint called after him, acting the part of the eager, desperate scavenger. "Any work I can help with? You know, help a brother out?"
Despite Flint being years older, the deferential tone hit the right notes. Hale paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder.
"It's the kind of silver that gets you killed, Flint. You still want it?"
Flint immediately pulled his head back, pulling a face. "Ah, never mind then. No point getting rich if I'm not alive to spend it. But... seriously, any word on when the regular harvests resume? I'm going to be eating dirt in a week."
"I'll let you know when I hear something," Hale said shortly, stepping out into the street.
Flint watched him go. Only when the Duskwarden's shadow fully vanished did he let out a long, trembling breath. He didn't even notice that his cigarette had burned down to the filter, scorching his fingertips.
Lucy walked past him, carrying a bundle of fresh towels to the drying racks outside. She stood there for a minute, scanning the street, before returning and letting the shop's heavy door click shut.
"He's gone," she muttered, her face instantly reclaiming its usual, sharp glare.
Flint turned back to the bedroom. To keep things looking natural, he had left the door wide open.
Inside the cramped bathroom, Dean Brennan stood pressed against the wall, a wicked dagger gripped tightly in his palm, eyes locked on the entryway. Beside him, Ethan was crouched over Petra, his massive, calloused hand clamped firmly over her mouth, pinning her against him.
Petra's eyes were wide. She had woken up the moment Ethan grabbed her, panic surging through her chest. But as she heard the Duskwarden's voice through the door, she realized just how close she was to being rescued.
Yet, to her own shock, she hadn't struggled.
"Clear," Flint whispered, opening the bathroom door. "Get out of there."
Dean slipped out first, his knuckles still white around the hilt of his blade. "Is it safe?"
"Usually, once they sweep a place, they don't double-back," Flint said, rubbing his temple.
Dean let out a slow exhale, tension draining from his shoulders. Watching him, Ethan realized something crucial. Dean wasn't just cautious; he was terrified of the Lampbearers. All that tough talk about taking them on was nothing but a fragile front.
The sheer authority of the Lampbearers must be absolute. And right now, the very man who commanded that authority was standing inside Ethan's old home.
Felix Grayson stood in the damp, half-buried basement apartment. His pristine white uniform was a stark contrast to the grime of the room. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to block out the sour, stagnant stench as his eyes swept the squalor.
"Mr. Grayson," a Duskwarden said, entering the room. The man grimaced at the smell, mimicking Felix's hand-over-nose gesture.
"Did you get the names?" Felix asked, his voice flat.
"Yes, sir," the officer reported. "Three children lived here. The oldest is Ethan Kane. Then there's Ryan Cross, and the youngest is a girl named Chloe Hart."
"Chloe Hart?" Felix turned, his eyes sharpening. "Spell that."
"C-H-L-O-E. Chloe."
Felix went quiet for a moment. Then, a slow, dark smile crept onto his face. It was his first genuine smile since he’d been assigned to this miserable kidnapping case.
"Sir? Do you think these gutter-rats are involved in Miss Marlowe's abduction?" the officer asked, misinterpreting the grin.
Felix ignored the question. "Where are they now?"
"Vanished," the officer said, gesturing toward the empty street outside. "All three of them are gone."
Felix scanned the small, filthy room once more. He could feel the residual trace of the Nightbound. More importantly, he knew they had been right here when he spoke to them on the communicator. The sudden Voidstrider surge must have forced them to flee through a Passage.
And now, the kids were gone.
Felix knew where one of them was—or at least, he had a lead on her. But the other two? Were they even still breathing?
He wondered if the Nightbound had chosen this basement by chance, or if it had been pre-planned. According to the city records, these kids were nothing but bottom-tier scavengers who survived on trash. They didn't have the leverage or the brains to involve themselves with high-level criminals. A temporary hideout of convenience seemed far more likely.
But just as Felix was about to order a wider search grid, a detail clicked in his mind.
"Who led the Nightharvest at the Westside Processing Plant two nights ago?"
"Kieran Thorne, sir."
"Bring him to me."
"Understood."
"Did you have to squeeze me so damn hard?" Petra grumbled, rubbing her tender cheeks. She glared at Ethan, her eyes flashing with resentment. "Look at my face!"
Ethan's grip had indeed left faint, reddened finger marks on her pale skin. He looked at her, noting her indignation. He didn't offer a half-hearted apology. Instead, he reached into his ration pack, pulled out a thick slab of dried beef, and dropped it into her lap.
Petra blinked, staring at the meat.
She knew how Ethan valued food—it was his lifeblood, his currency. Giving this up was his version of a peace offering. Her anger deflated. Realizing that a piece of cured meat was far more valuable than an empty apology, she tore open the plastic.
"I'm not stupid, you know," she muttered quietly, her eyes fixed on the beef. "If I had screamed back there, I wouldn't have been rescued. I'd be dead."
Had this happened a few days ago, she would have trashed the room to alert the guards. But after witnessing Dean's cold brutality, she knew that the moment the door broke down, her throat would be slit. Neither her father nor Felix Grayson would be fast enough to save her from a desperate man's blade.
Her survival instinct had overridden her hope. Her body had chosen the safest path before her mind could even process the fear.
She took a large bite, the rich, salty flavor filling her mouth.
"You're eating now?" Ethan asked, raising an eyebrow. "You just woke up."
"My business!" Petra snapped, chewing aggressively. "Who knows how long I’ve got left to live? I might as well eat."
Ethan didn't argue. Once the food was hers, she could do whatever she wanted with it.
By midday, the heavy, mouth-watering aroma of home-cooked spices drifted into the backroom.
The door creaked open, and Lucy poked her head in. "Food's ready. Get out here." She turned and walked away without waiting for an answer.
The three of them exchanged glances, then checked the clock. It wasn't even one in the afternoon. Going out into the main shop now felt incredibly exposed.
Flint led the way, stepping out to find the shop's heavy metal shutters rolled halfway down, blocking out the bright noon light.
"Not opening today?" Flint asked, eyeing the four steaming dishes laid out on a small table.
"The Duskwardens and the City Watch are crawling over every block," Lucy said dryly, setting down the last plate. "Who’s going to come in for a haircut? I'm taking the day off."
Flint grinned, waving the rest of them over.
The spread was spectacular. It was hard to believe such rich, fragrant food had come out of the makeshift, burner-less hotplate in the corner of the tiny salon.
"This smells incredible," Petra said, her eyes lighting up. For someone who had survived on stale military rations for days, this was heaven. "Thank you, Lucy."
Lucy glanced at the girl. Perhaps it was Petra’s genuine praise, or perhaps it was just the relief of seeing a young girl safe, but a faint, soft smile touched the older woman's lips.
"Eat up," Lucy said quietly.
The meal passed in relative silence, but the heavy, suffocating tension that had hung over them for days finally began to thaw. The only hitch was Ethan. He ate like a starving wolf, clearing plates so fast that the more refined Petra barely managed to snag a few bites before the food vanished.
Once they finished, Ethan immediately gathered the dirty dishes and began washing them. He knew he was the least valuable member of this little crew; staying useful was his only currency.
Across the room, Lucy sank into a chair, crossing her legs and lighting a thin cigarette. Since she wasn't working, she had tied her hair back in a loose, casual bun. She usually kept it styled to maintain the salon's professional image, but today, she didn't care.
"Flint," she said, her eyes drifting toward the shuttered window. "After this job, I'm out."
Flint, who was busy picking his teeth with a toothpick, froze. "What do you mean? You're closing the shop?"
"Don't play dumb," Lucy said softly. "You've got connections. You can find another safehouse. You don't need me anymore."
Flint's lazy smile vanished. He took out his own pack, sparking a cigarette. "We've had a good run. Why quit now?" He paused, studying her face. "Is it the cut? I can talk to the guys—"
"Flint, I’m grateful to you. Truly," Lucy interrupted, turning to look him in the eye. "After my husband passed, you and the boys looked out for me. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have this shop. I probably wouldn't even be alive."
Flint stayed quiet. He didn't try to deny it, nor did he boast.
"But I just want a quiet life now," Lucy said with a faint, tired laugh. "You guys are playing a game that's getting too big for me. I'm terrified, Flint."
She gestured toward Petra, who was currently hovering near Ethan, trying to help with the dishes but looking entirely out of her depth.
"You went and snatched the Mayor's daughter," Lucy whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "I don't have that kind of ambition, Flint. And I definitely don't have the stomach for what happens when they catch you."