***
???
***
Thursday.
2:03 a.m.
Rain slicked the rooftops of Tendan, turning slate and tile into a dark, shining sea—until violet flame tore through the night and scattered shingles across the street like shrapnel.
A man vaulted from roof to roof in the wake of the blast. The ends of his black jacket hissed, rimmed in purple heat.
He landed cleanly and kept moving without hesitation.
The moment he cleared the next ridge, warmth and wetness flooded his right shoulder.
It got through the reinforcement.
He shifted his angle, slid down the slope, and sprang to the next roof.
From the crater of the explosion emerged a woman whose eyes radiated violet. In one hand, she held a brush; in the other, a transparent pane of glass the size of a parchment sheet. The emblems of the Holy Scales and the Imperial Army gleamed on her chest, both rendered in gold.
"How beautifully you run!" she called, her voice thrilled and strangely soothing all at once.
Her brush flashed purple as the fugitive passed into the frame of her glass "canvas." With a sharp stroke, she painted across it—just as he slipped behind a nearby chimney.
A chunk of brick tore free as if fired from a sling. It shattered with the force of falling stars.
"Don't let me catch you!" she laughed, eyes bright with delight.
The brush flared again. A line she drew between two roofs hardened into a bridge, and she sprinted across it in an instant.
The man scanned for his next route.
Come on…
He jumped again, feeling her breath at the back of his neck. Ahead, the Temple of Vashara rose in the distance—his only clear landmark.
When he broke into open space again, she was already winding up another stroke.
Like clockwork, he drew a peculiar pistol from his holster and aimed straight at her. A crystal seated in the slide caught the light—then the glow ran into the barrel. The gun spat a short, pale-blue lance of aether toward her just as she finished her cut.
The beam split on the line of her stroke, cleaving into two and chewing through the roof she stood on.
Her manic laughter ricocheted through the streets.
"How else will you hide, dearest?!" she cried, rapturous, as he slipped out of sight again.
Ding.
The spent crystal popped free of the slide. In one smooth motion, he caught it and snapped a fresh, full one into place. His eyes lit faintly blue—and the empty crystal in his hand began to tint, slowly drinking color back in.
Three hundred meters tops.
Violet fire burst again, kicking roof tiles up just above his head and forcing his momentum to stutter.
She glanced around, and her grin only widened.
"Clever." Her glass canvas flickered. "Will you reach the temple before I catch you?"
Another cut passed through the pane and drove itself into the roof beside him.
Talks too much.
He hit a wider intersection—a web of high bridges stretched over the street, linking larger buildings together. One acrobatic leap gave him a clean line; he fired midair.
Split again.
Ding.
This time, the crystal ejected downward with far more speed, struck the stone, and rebounded straight up. On his last twist, he landed—and caught the empty crystal at the apex of its bounce without breaking stride. Reloaded. Sprinting.
The temple gates were right there.
She didn't let up. Her first stroke nicked his calf; the second became a slanted chute, and she slid down onto the bridge in pursuit.
Her walk at first was calm—almost leisurely—but with every step she accelerated, as if her body couldn't contain itself.
The expression on her face defied description. She devoured him with her eyes.
Her brush and her gaze flashed as the man slammed his shoulder into the temple doors and stumbled over the threshold. She stopped short.
He faced her, breathing hard, one hand clamped to his side. Injured or not, his stare stayed razor-focused.
"Wonderful," she said brightly. "We wouldn't want to cause a scandal—attacking someone on holy ground."
She giggled, clapping her hands a few times like an audience member begging for an encore.
"And how wonderful that you got away. What do you think our next chase will feel like?"
He didn't look away.
In the glow of the nearby lanterns, her long, lustrous black hair shone like the finest silk. Heavy bangs softened the edges of her eyes—eyes you could drown in if you forgot to breathe. Her wide smile, despite the last few minutes, looked almost welcoming. Almost gentle. And her figure… men had written songs for less.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" she asked, patience thinning at the edges.
The man stayed silent.
After a beat, her expression darkened. She snapped her brush across the glass—fast enough to make the air ring—and a cut ripped through the bridge right in front of the gate, right at his feet, before he could react.
"I asked you a question," she said, voice low and irritated. "Just because I shouldn't… doesn't mean I wouldn't enjoy that kind of scandal."
"You're Nero," the man said evenly. "Aren't you?"
At that, her mood flipped like a coin.
"Oh!" she gasped, delighted, pressing both hands to her cheeks. "You know me. That changes things."
She's bizarre.
"Then you should find me next time," she continued, practically purring. "Hunt me. Chase me. Just don't tell me where or when."
She spun on her heel.
"I love surprises."
As she walked away, a group of acolytes stepped out of the temple and headed toward the gate.
He watched Nero until she vanished into the rain and shadow. Then he stared at the spot where she'd disappeared, as if the air might betray her.
Finally, he let himself breathe—only for it to catch on a small, involuntary groan.
He looked down at the hand pressed to his side.
Blood. All over his palm.
She must've clipped me during one of the slides.
"Sir—are you all right?" one of the acolytes asked.
"Sir!" another yelped. "You're bleeding!"
"Do you have a coagulant?" the man asked.
"We have bandages and sutures. Please—quickly. Can you walk?"
He waved off their support and went with them into the temple under his own power.
***
"She's taking more and more liberties," an acolyte muttered as he finished stitching the man's side. "And the Consortium keeps saying they're investigating."
The man didn't answer. He studied the inventions displayed along the temple walls—each one angled, at least partly, toward the bust of a four-armed, masked woman at the far end of the hall. Her face wasn't carved; in its place was a flat veil painted like a star-filled sky.
"One moment," the monk added. "Forgive how long this is taking. We're still trying to get permission to stock Lady Akari's coagulant. The Consortium insists it's a district invention and should only be purchased for the temple over there." He wrung a blood-soaked cloth into a basin. "But these days, making it widely available for monks and priests would save lives."
The dumbest law in Tendan.
"And it isn't cheap," the man said, starting to rise.
"Which is why they don't want to pay for it at scale." With a practiced hand, the monk pressed him back down and began wrapping the final bandage over the stitches.
"How many would you want on hand?"
"Even ten," the monk said after a moment. "Ten people saved, compared to the growing number of victims… that's at least a scrap of hope. The Empire has the money, so why is the Consortium stalling?" He finished, disappointed.
The man gave a faint nod and eased off the table with a quiet hiss of pain. He pulled on his shirt and jacket.
"Thank you," he said, and headed for the exit.
"Careful," the acolyte warned, escorting him. "Don't let the stitches tear. And please—take care of yourself."
The corners of the man's mouth lifted, barely, into a knowing half-smile. He stepped out through the gate and looked up.
Lanternlight drowned out the stars.
A long way to go.
But the night was still young.
***
A key turned. The lock gave.
He entered a dark corner building and secured the door behind him.
Blind, but with well-worn familiarity, he reached for the knob on the wall by the entrance. With a circular twist of his hand, the ceiling bulb brightened slowly, revealing counters and cabinets packed with ampoules, vials, and copper-sheathed cylinders fitted with needles—those last ones kept behind reinforced glass.
He moved straight to the back room. Apart from a few chairs and cupboards, it looked empty.
He gripped one of the stair balusters leading up, pressed it subtly downward—once.
A hidden catch released beneath the stairs. A door you wouldn't notice until it moved swung open.
He killed the shop lights with the back-room switch.
Behind the door: stairs.
He went down, steady despite the slight limp.
The deeper he descended, the more copper piping crawled along the stone walls—looping and overlapping like veins, like something alive. The corridor widened, and an argument echoed from ahead, tight with tension.
At this hour?
He didn't slow. The voices grew louder.
"It's like searching for a needle in a haystack," a high, muffled male voice snapped. "There's probably nothing left to recover."
"Don't you dare say that," a woman shot back, furious.
"We're being realistic," another man said—lower, flatter.
"I'll double the next shipment!" the woman snapped.
"Akari, we're not going to waste—" one of the men started.
"I'll triple it." She slammed something on the table, and the room fell silent.
Long enough for the limping traveller to push the door open and step inside.
Desks. Worktables. Strange apparatus scattered everywhere—simple alembics beside intricate metal frameworks.
The woman's mouth fell open when she saw the battered man.
Across from her, backs to the exit, sat two men in adjustable chairs—one bald, one blond—dressed in blue over black, their leather gloves nearly white from the runes carved into them.
The Consortium.
"Keegan. Satoshi," the man greeted, calm as ever, with a small nod.
"Mostly intact," Keegan replied in an amused baritone. "Healthy enough."
"Out," the woman barked.
"What about that triple shipment?" Satoshi asked, unbothered.
"Move!" she snapped, tossing each of them a single copper-bound cylinder as payment. "For your trouble."
They rose and headed out, brushing past the wounded man.
"tHeRe'S nOtHiNg LeFt tO rEcOvEr," she mocked in a warped sing-song as they left.
The moment they were gone, she lunged for the man.
"Gods, Kaishi!" she exclaimed, grabbing his shoulders, then his cheek—earning a hiss of pain. She punched him in the chest, then immediately apologized through tears when she felt how much it hurt him. "I can handle bruises, but—what did you do to yourself? Do you have any idea how worried I was?"
"Worried enough to offer a triple shipment of coagulants?" Kaishi smiled, warm despite everything, and pulled her in at the waist. "That's a lot of money."
"They've been greedy lately." Her voice shook with anger. "Keegan's losing his mind—says they're tormenting the Blood Progenitor again, forcing him to fix his own bones."
"That makes no sense," Kaishi said.
"Apparently, they break his legs and wait for him to set them himself." She swallowed hard. "They need coagulant in mass quantities just to keep him functional."
"About that," Kaishi murmured, reaching for the cabinet full of coagulant cylinders.
He drove the needle into his forearm and injected the contents. His shoulders loosened as he exhaled in relief.
***
Kaishi
***
Thursday.
4:17 a.m.
As the coagulant spread through his body, he felt his wounds begin to seal—slowly, reluctantly.
Five minutes.
"Did you get her?" Akari asked, worried.
"No chance," Kaishi said, heading for the chairs. "She showed up exactly where it was supposed to be safe."
He sat while Akari shut the cabinet behind him. A red tank top and black leather pants suited her; her dark, high ponytail—with a few loose strands—sharpened the edge in her face.
"What are you staring at?" she snorted.
Kaishi's eyes swung around her in such a wide arc they practically left the room. Heat climbed into his cheeks.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he stammered.
"Wait—what about that woman?" Akari stepped in close, quick as a blade. "Did you like her? Is she as pretty as everyone says?"
"It was dark," Kaishi muttered, refusing to meet her gaze. "I didn't see."
"So how have you been managing in the dark up to now?" she pressed, wagging a finger in his face.
"I shoot blind." He shrugged.
Akari leaned back and dropped into the other chair, her tone easing. "So what's your plan?"
"I'm going to her exhibition," Kaishi said, as if it were a fact. "She expects me to track her down."
"Now?"
"No. During the day."
Akari's brows drew together. "Isn't midday too dangerous? On her territory?"
"You'll help me more by taking these stitches out than by worrying, Akari." Kaishi placed his hand lightly on her knee—steadying, calming—then shrugged off his jacket and shirt. Some of the wounds had already scarred; others were still webbed with fresh sutures.
Akari pulled a small pair of scissors from a nearby drawer.
"One day, your ideas are going to give me a heart attack."
Kaishi chuckled and lifted a shoulder. "Half the time they're your ideas."
"Don't move." She swatted his uninjured shoulder.
The laugh didn't last long.
Because the question still hammered inside his skull:
What do you think our next chase will feel like?
I don't know what it'll feel like.
But next time, I take your head.