Lucy knew when to shut her mouth. From the moment Flint Voss and his crew had crossed her threshold, she hadn't asked a single question. That was the first rule of the lowlife trade.
This place was merely one of Flint’s many temporary layovers, a safehouse paid for by the day. The less she knew, the longer she would keep breathing. But the Duskwarden showing up at her door earlier that afternoon had shattered her quiet denial.
What kind of mess could possibly drag the Duskwardens into her neighborhood?
She hadn't needed to dig for rumors. One step past her storefront told her everything she needed to know. The cobblestones outside practically crawled with silver-badged Duskwardens and City Watchmen. The gossip had already spread like a plague through the district: Mayor Victor Marlowe’s daughter had been snatched.
Lucy remembered the young girl’s clothes. They were smudged with dirt, but the fabric was tailored for high society. It didn't take a genius to put the pieces together. Flint hadn't just brought in a regular mark; he was harboring the mayor's kidnapped daughter alongside the desperate bastard who had taken her.
A cold sweat broke out across her collarbone. She made her decision right then.
"Fine," Lucy said, her voice tight but resolute.
Flint didn't push. He simply offered a dry, easy smile. "I'll sniff out a new hole. We'll be out of your hair by tomorrow, latest."
"You don't have to—"
"Save it. I've got enough favors to call in. Finding a roof isn't going to kill me." Flint waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, you haven't lost your touch with the shears, Lucy."
Her eyes welled slightly, but she didn't try to play the hero.
In the corner, Dean Brennan watched them in silence. He didn't complain about the sudden eviction, nor did he argue that Flint had made the call without his input. When Flint walked back into the rear room, Dean quietly slipped in behind him.
"We packing up, Flint?"
"Yeah. It's time." Flint's smile vanished, replaced by a heavy sigh. "This one's on me, Dean. Wherever we end up next, I'm waiving my fee."
"Whatever." Dean collapsed backward onto Lucy's bed, completely ignoring her house rules. "Who knows if we'll even survive the week."
"You haven't thought about making a break for it?" Flint asked.
Dean stared at the ceiling, idly flicking his dagger into the air and catching it by the hilt. "I'm not suicidal. Northridge is completely sealed. Trying to leave means two things: fighting through a wall of steel, or forcing open The Passage. I don't have the muscle for either."
"Can't you call in some backup?"
Dean let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Too few men, and we all end up in a ditch. Too many, and the whole district turns into a warzone. That just brings down the heavy hitters." He caught the blade, his eyes shifting to Flint. "But if I do bite it here, you owe me one favor."
"Speak."
"Get word to the network. Tell them Northridge has a active Lampbearer. That's the wildcard that tripped us up."
"Done." Flint didn't even mention the price.
Dean's lips curled into a smirk as he tossed the dagger again. "Just find me a quiet corner to rot in, then get the hell out. Once we're set up, you're off the clock. You've done more than enough."
"I'm a mercenary, Dean, not a saint," Flint grunted, though his tone was soft. "I'll find the spot. Until then, if you need a hand, just say the word."
"Appreciate it."
"Save the thanks."
Outside, Ethan Kane had finished scrubbing the grease off the dinner plates and headed for the back room, but Lucy stepped into his path.
"Let them talk, kid," she said softly. "Give 'em space."
Ethan wanted to listen in—information was the only currency that kept him alive—but Lucy's block was firm. He didn't want to start a fight.
"Fine." He dragged a heavy leather barber chair back and sank into it.
Across the room, Petra Marlowe sat in silence, looking strangely at peace. When you're a pawn in a game this big, worrying about the next move is pointless.
"Hey," Petra called out to Lucy. "Do you have any clothes I could borrow?"
Lucy blinked, studying the girl. Petra didn't act like a hostage. During lunch, she had been snarling and snapping at Ethan just to grab an extra piece of stale bread.
"These clothes are stiff with sweat," Petra muttered, a flush creeping up her neck. "They smell."
"I'll see what I can find." Lucy pushed open the bedroom door. She didn't spare Dean a second glance as he lay on her mattress. "The girl needs to wash up. Finish your business and clear out so she can use the bath."
"On it," Flint replied.
A half-hour later, Petra emerged. Dressed in Lucy’s oversized knit sweater and damp hair clinging to her collar, she looked entirely transformed. The aristocratic grime was gone, replaced by a sharp, clean energy.
She marched straight over to Ethan and pulled a strip of dried beef from the supply box. "Ask your questions," she said, tearing off a bite. "But I'm taking my payment first."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you just gorge yourself at lunch?"
"Are you joking?" Petra shot him a venomous glare. "With the way you shovel food down your throat, 'gorge' is a miracle. I barely got a taste."
Ethan didn't blink. Out here, if you didn't eat fast, you starved. "What do they actually teach you in those high-end academies?"
Petra paused, chewing slowly. "That's it? I thought you'd ask something harder." She swallowed quickly, as if terrified he'd change his mind. "The basic stuff is just history and geography—rote learning. The only real subjects are continental anomalies and Voidstrider taxonomy."
Taxonomy. Ethan's pulse quickened. This was exactly what he needed. "Taxonomy? Break it down for me."
"Well, Voidstriders are categorized into six distinct tiers," Petra said, gesturing with the half-eaten beef. "The higher the tier, the more terrifying they become. Of course, to people like us, even a Tier 1 is an execution sentence."
"People like us?" Ethan echoed. "Even you don't have a way to fight them?"
"Even me?" Petra scoffed. "Please. If you threw my father into the pitch black without a guard, he'd be torn to shreds in seconds." Her voice faltered slightly at the mention of the mayor, but she quickly masked it with a cynical shrug. "To kill even the weakest Voidstrider, you need an active Spark. It's an innate gift. You either have it, or you're bait."
Ethan's eyes darkened. He kept his voice entirely flat, devoid of any curiosity. "What about a Lumcore? Can't a normal person burn them to ash with one of those?"
"A normal person?"
The voice didn't come from Petra. Dean Brennan leaned against the doorframe, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Kid, do you think the dark is that easy to conquer?"
Ethan met Dean's gaze. If Petra had said it, he might have chalked it up to classroom theory. But Dean was a survivor. He lived in the dirt.
Ethan had been struggling with a dangerous theory. He needed to test it without letting them know he had already put a blade through a Voidstrider's skull.
"If Lumcores don't hurt them," Ethan said slowly, choosing his words like stepping stones across a swamp, "then why do they stay away from the light?"
"Because they hate it," Dean said simply. "They don't like the glare."
Ethan's chest tightened. Hate.
He remembered how the sunlight had felt on his own skin back in the open—like a low-grade fever, a burning rash. But as long as he clung to the shadows, it didn't kill him.
If the monsters felt the same way about Lumcores... they didn't disintegrate. They just hurt.
But then, how did I kill that thing?
He had assumed the Lumcore's light had dissolved the beast. If that wasn't true, then what had actually ended its life?
"Technically, you're not wrong," Dean continued, gesturing vaguely toward the humming Lumcore in the corner. "A Lumcore can kill a Voidstrider. Just not these cheap, low-grade bricks. If the garbage we buy on the street corner could kill a monster, humanity wouldn't be hiding behind stone walls."
Dean wasn't mentoring. He was just killing time, letting his tongue loose because he had nothing better to do. High-grade military cores existed, but they were locked away in elite armories, reserved for the lords and armies of the inner cities.
Ethan swallowed the lump in his throat. "So last night... outside my apartment. If we had stayed inside with my Lumcore... they still would have broken through?"
Dean stared back, his dark eyes entirely blank. He didn't need to speak. The silence was a deafening yes.
Dean had left Ethan behind knowing the light wouldn't save him. Ethan didn't feel any righteous anger. In this world, a stranger's life wasn't worth a dime.
"That's... that's not what the texts say," Petra stammered, her brow furrowing. "Lumcores are the ultimate shield of humanity. That is an absolute truth."
"Little Princess," Dean sneered, "your textbooks were written by people who sleep under silk sheets. My brothers bought my lessons with their blood. Besides, you don't even believe your own bullshit."
"I do!"
"Really? Think back to when we dragged you down into that damp cellar. What was the first thing out of your mouth?"
Petra opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat.
Are we really safe with just this tiny bit of light?
In her father's manor, every hallway was flooded with brilliant, high-grade illumination. She had never even heard the scrape of claws against the glass. To her, light was an absolute, unbreakable barrier. But the second she was thrust into the dim, flickering reality of the slums, her instincts had immediately betrayed her education.
"The schools teach you what keeps you compliant," Dean said, his voice dripping with disdain. "The people who can afford tuition never have to see what's scraping at the gates. For ninety percent of the world, the real threat isn't the horror in the dark. It's the bastard standing next to you."
Silence fell over the room.
Dean stretched his arms over his head, a dark, mocking grin on his face. "Thousands of people die in this world every single day. Tell me, kids—do you think more of them die in the jaws of a Voidstrider, or by a human blade?"
The heavy tension slowly dissolved as the afternoon wore on. Dean became uncharacteristically talkative, and Flint paced the room, checking his phone every few minutes. Lucy, seemingly lighter now that her decision was made, even offered to trim their hair. For a brief, surreal moment, they looked like old friends wasting away a rainy afternoon.
Then the sun dipped below the horizon, and the Lumcores flared to life, casting their pale, protective glow across the shop.
Flint's phone buzzed. He looked up, a rare flash of excitement on his face. "I found a place. It's a bit rough—abandoned for a few years, so you might have to share the floor with some rats—but it's secure."
"A roof is a roof," Dean said. "We moving now?"
"No, let's wait for dawn. I'll have a contact scout the perimeter first."
Flint walked over to Lucy, offering a soft smile. "Lucy, if you ever need a favor, you know how to find me. Just because we're not working together doesn't mean we're strangers."
"Thanks, Flint," Lucy said, her shoulders visibly relaxing.
"Don't mention it." Flint grinned, checking his fresh haircut in the mirror. "I'll be back for another trim."
Before Lucy could reply, a voice shattered the quiet from the street.
"Excuse me... are you still open?"
Lucy froze.
Every head snapped toward the heavy metal shutter.
It was past six. The sun was gone. The world outside was pitch black.