Chapter 24: Scarlet Air
The rooftop dents where she lands.
Not cracks.
Dents.
Concrete compresses under her boots like it's remembered softer days and is trying to return to them.
She doesn't look at me right away.
She inhales.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like she's tasting the city.
"So this is Carter street," she says. "Smells… anxious."
Her voice is calm. Light. Almost bored.
Below us, the street is wreckage—shattered glass, cratered asphalt, bodies breathing but broken. Sirens echo somewhere far away. Too far.
Mia is behind me.
I don't turn to check. I don't need to.
I can feel her there.
Scarlet's eyes finally lift.
They settle on me.
Not assessing.
Not measuring.
Enjoying.
"You're quieter than the footage," she says. "I expected… more bravado."
"I don't perform," I reply.
She smiles at that.
Not wide. Not sharp.
Interested.
"Good," she says. "Neither do I."
The air shifts.
Not pressure this time.
Something thinner.
Sharper.
I recognize it a fraction of a second before Mia coughs.
Once.
Dry.
My body moves before thought finishes forming.
I pivot, drag Mia tighter behind me, one arm bracing her chest, the other snapping my jacket collar up over my mouth and nose.
Scarlet watches.
Doesn't interrupt.
Doesn't rush.
"Already?" she says mildly. "That was barely a greeting."
I exhale through my nose.
The air tastes wrong.
Metallic.
Chemical.
Not choking gas.
Not nerve.
Something subtler.
Something that builds.
"Don't breathe," I murmur to Mia. "Short steps. Stay close."
She nods.
Again—I feel it.
Scarlet tilts her head.
"You recognized it," she says. "Most don't. They panic first."
"I've met worse," I say.
She laughs softly.
"Have you?"
Then she moves.
No warning.
No sound.
She's just....
There.
Her fist comes in low, compact, fast enough that the air cracks behind it. I block with my forearm.
Impact slams through me.
Not pain.
Weight.
I slide half a step back, boots grinding against concrete.
Scarlet's eyebrow lifts.
"Oh," she says. "You are interesting."
She follows with a knee.
I twist, catch it against my hip, redirect, pivot out.
Our movements mirror each other—tight, controlled, efficient. No wasted motion. No flourish.
Below us, Scarface watches.
He doesn't speak.
He doesn't blink.
This is above him.
Scarlet presses.
A flurry—three strikes, each angled to test a different guard. I block two, evade the third, counter with a palm strike aimed for her sternum.
She absorbs it.
Slides back.
Smiles wider.
"That felt… restrained," she says.
"Careful," I reply. "You might mistake discipline for mercy."
She laughs.
Then she exhales.
The rooftop fogs.
Not visibly.
But my lungs feel it immediately—tightness, resistance, like breathing through silk soaked in oil.
I adjust my breathing.
Slow.
Measured.
Mia shifts behind me.
I step sideways without looking, placing my body fully between her and Scarlet.
Scarlet notices.
Of course she does.
"Ah," she says softly. "That explains it."
I don't answer.
She spreads her fingers.
A thin hiss fills the air.
This one is different.
Not airborne.
Aerosolized microcapsules—contact-triggered. Skin exposure. Slow absorption.
I tear my jacket off in one motion and fling it outward, snapping it through the air like a whip.
It disrupts the cloud.
Buys time.
Scarlet darts in, capitalizing on the opening.
She goes for my ribs.
I catch her wrist.
She twists.
Bone doesn't snap.
She's reinforced. Conditioned.
I shift grip, torque her elbow instead.
She counters by slamming her forehead into mine.
Stars flicker at the edge of my vision.
I don't fall.
Neither does she.
We separate.
For the first time, her breathing changes.
Not heavy.
But sharper.
Engaged.
"Even with distractions," she says. "You're keeping pace."
"I told you," I reply. "I don't perform."
She grins.
"I do."
She snaps her fingers.
The rooftop vents erupt.
Green-gray vapor billows upward, fast and thick, rolling across the surface like a living thing.
Mia gasps.
I grab her, lift her without slowing, and move.
Scarlet doesn't pursue immediately.
She watches me relocate Mia behind a concrete access structure, sealing her between solid barriers.
I pull a cloth from my pocket, soak it with water from a shattered pipe, press it into Mia's hands.
"Breathe through this," I say. "Count with me."
Her eyes are wide.
But steady.
She nods.
Scarlet claps once.
"Efficient," she says. "Most men choose rage. You choose logistics."
I straighten.
Turn back toward her.
The gas eats at my skin—itching, burning, invasive. Not lethal yet.
Designed to weaken.
"Your specialty," I say.
She bows slightly.
"Poisons are intimate," she replies. "They don't rush. They convince."
She comes at me again.
This time, faster.
She doesn't hold back.
Neither do I.
We collide mid-rooftop—strike for strike, block for block. Her strength is real. S-rank real. Every blow carries force that could shatter bone.
Mine meets it.
Not overpowering.
Not yielding.
Even.
She sweeps low.
I jump.
She grabs my ankle midair.
I twist, land awkwardly, roll, absorb the shock.
Concrete cracks.
She's already on me.
A punch slips past my guard and slams into my shoulder.
Pain flashes.
Sharp.
Focused.
I rotate with it, reduce impact, counter with a knee to her abdomen.
She exhales hard.
Slides back.
Eyes bright.
"You're still protecting," she says. "Even now."
"I told her I'd keep her safe."
Scarlet's gaze flicks—just briefly—toward Mia.
That's all I need.
I'm there in an instant.
My fist stops a centimeter from her throat.
Not by hesitation.
By choice.
The air between us hums.
She freezes.
Then laughs.
A real laugh this time.
"Oh," she says. "You really don't know, do you?"
I step back.
"Know what?"
She doesn't answer.
Instead, she presses a thumb against her wrist.
The gas changes.
It thickens.
Heavier.
The pressure in my chest deepens, subtle but cumulative.
Scarlet moves again, slower now—but heavier.
Every strike feels denser.
Gravity leans in.
I adapt.
Shorten movements.
Redirect force.
I don't escalate.
I don't need to.
Minutes stretch.
The fight becomes rhythm.
Breath.
Impact.
Adjustment.
Scarlet's smile fades—not into anger, but focus.
Confusion.
"Why aren't you breaking?" she asks.
"I am," I reply. "Just not where you're looking."
She studies me mid-fight.
Then her eyes widen.
She sees it.
Mia.
Still breathing.
Still conscious.
Unaffected beyond mild exposure.
Scarlet clicks her tongue.
"Clever," she mutters. "You're filtering the worst of it."
"I said I'd keep her safe."
She exhales slowly.
The gas begins to dissipate.
Not gone.
But thinning.
Scarlet steps back.
Rolls her shoulders.
The rooftop beneath her cracks again.
"You could end this," she says. "If you wanted."
"So could you."
She smiles.
"That's what bothers me."
Silence stretches between us.
Sirens are closer now.
Scarface speaks quietly into his comm, urgency threading his tone.
Scarlet doesn't look away from me.
"Another time," she says.
Then she leans closer.
Voice low.
Private.
"When you finally stop holding the world in place for others… I want to see what spills."
Before I can answer—
She's gone.
No sound. No ripple. Just absence.
The pressure doesn't fade immediately.
It lingers—like a hand that just let go of your throat but hasn't left the room yet.
I turn.
"Mia."
She's looking at me.
Too intently.
Not coughing. Not gasping.
Her pupils are slightly dilated.
My chest tightens.
"Mia," I say again, sharper this time. "Talk to me."
"I'm fine," she says quickly. Too quickly. "I just feel a little… dizzy."
That's when I see it.
A faint discoloration along her wrist.
Barely visible. Almost nothing.
Scarlet's voice echoes in my head.
Poisons don't rush. They convince.
My jaw locks.
I scan the rooftop.
The vents. The cracks. The air.
Too late.
Below us, Scarface lowers his comm slowly.
Not panicked.
Satisfied.
"She tagged you," he says quietly. "Didn't she?"
I look back up at the skyline.
At the rooftops.
At the place Scarlet stood.
The night feels different now.
Closer.
"Heavy."
I pull Mia fully against my side.
My voice stays calm.
But something cold settles behind my eyes.
"Stay awake," I tell her.
She nods.
Slow.
And somewhere above us...
Something moves.
Not fast.
Not loud.
Just… deliberate.
The night tightens.
Not pressure like Scarlet.
Not weight.
This is different.
This is the feeling you get when prey instincts wake up before the mind understands why.
Scarface freezes.
Not stiffens.
Freezes.
His hand lowers from his comm.
Slowly.
"…He's here," he says.
No rank.
No codename.
Just that.
Mia shifts against me. Her fingers curl weakly into my jacket.
"Evan…" she whispers.
I don't answer.
Because for the first time tonight, my instincts aren't telling me how to fight.
They're telling me how much time I have left.
A figure stands on the far rooftop.
Tall.
Still.
No stance. No killing intent leaking. No aura to warn you.
That's what makes it wrong.
Scarlet didn't move like this.
A-ranks couldn't move like this.
This man isn't measuring distance.
He already knows it.
His gaze drops.
Not to me.
To Mia.
Then back to me.
A decision completes.
Scarface swallows.
"Asset… Obsidian," he says quietly. "Stand by—"
The figure steps forward.
The building doesn't crack.
It doesn't dent.
It simply accepts him.
And I understand.
Scarlet wasn't sent to win.
She was sent to see
if they were allowed
to use him.