The sun broke through the smog for the first time in days. Not strong—just a weak, colorless light bleeding through the haze, painting the skeletal rooftops of the Morrows in shades of grey and rust. The rain had stopped, but the air still tasted metallic, heavy with ozone and old smoke.
They rode in silence. Kojo's cruiser—a battered, retrofitted cargo hauler held together with welds and prayer—groaned as it crawled through back alleys choked with graffiti and dying neon. The engine hummed low, a bass note that vibrated through the seats. Ilias sat up front, hood pulled low over his white hair, golden eyes tracking the streets as they blurred past. His face was still bruised, jaw tight. He looked like someone carrying a weight he couldn't put down.
Reverb sat in the back, hunched over a handheld scanner, fingers moving fast across the interface. "Still no Church signals in this sector. We're good. For now."
Seraph leaned against the door, arms crossed, half-listening. Her mind was elsewhere—replaying the conversation with Ilias, the tracker, the way he'd looked at her when she admitted what she'd done. Then learn. She exhaled slowly, staring out at the city.
"You alright?" Kojo asked, glancing at her in the rearview.
"Fine."
"Liar."
She didn't respond. Kojo smirked but let it drop. He'd been around soldiers long enough to know when to push and when to let them sit with their shit.
They turned a corner into a service tunnel—narrow, dark, the walls lined with exposed piping and old wiring. At the far end, a massive freight door loomed, painted crimson, sealed with mechanical locks that looked older than the district itself.
Kojo rapped twice on the door. Paused. Two more knocks, rhythm deliberate. A slit opened at eye level. Eyes glinted in the dark.
"The hell are you dragging in this time, boss?"
Kojo grinned. "Strays. House-trained. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Better than usual."
The locks thudded open, heavy and deliberate.
Inside the Crimson Jacks' Hideout
Inside was a cathedral of chaos. The Crimson Jacks' hideout was part scrapyard, part nightclub, part fortress. Old machine parts hung from cables like trophies—engines, hull plating, weapons stripped down to their bones. A broken airship engine roared in the center of the space, jury-rigged as a generator, spewing light and heat across the massive room.
Gang members lounged on crates, welding, gambling, laughing too loud. Music played from somewhere—heavy bass, distorted vocals, the kind of sound that felt like a heartbeat. The smell hit immediately: grease, gun oil, burnt metal, cheap alcohol, sweat.
And yet—It felt alive. This was the other side of Elyria's glass perfection. The pulse of the underworld. The place where people came when the city forgot them.
Kojo stepped off the bike, spread his arms wide. "Home sweet home."
Ilias dismounted, scanning the faces around them. Some nodded. Some stared too long. A few whispered.
Reverb muttered under his breath, "If I had a credit for every time I walked into a bad idea…"
Then she appeared. A figure leaning against the upper railing, half-shadowed, arms crossed. The sharp edge of familiarity hit Ilias before his mind could name it.
"No way," he breathed.
She stepped into the light. Lira. Dark skin, black hair with a silver streak cutting through it like lightning. Eyes sharp enough to cut. That same impossible smirk he remembered—half-challenge, half-invitation.
The air between them felt electric and brittle all at once.
"You look worse than I remember," she said, voice low, melodic, carrying just enough edge to sting.
Ilias blinked. "You… you remember me?"
"Hard not to remember the idiot who broke my synth arm and my heart in the same week."
Reverb whistled low. Kojo grinned. Seraph didn't.
"You two know each other?" Seraph asked, voice too flat, too controlled.
Lira's gaze flicked to Seraph—assessing, then dismissing. "Oh. You brought company."
Ilias stepped forward. "Lira, I didn't think—"
"That I'd still be breathing?" she interrupted. "Guess you forgot who taught you how to survive down here."
The gang around them watched like it was a show. Tension hung in the air like static before a storm.
Kojo clapped his hands once—loud. "Alright, lovers' reunion on pause. We've got bigger problems."
He turned toward the group, expression shifting from amused to serious. "Church eyes are everywhere. And word is the Major Families are deploying envoys into the Morrows—each one hunting the same prize."
"The Resonant anomaly," Seraph said.
"Bingo." Kojo's grin faded. "And guess who fits the description?"
All eyes shifted to Ilias. He didn't flinch this time. Just met their stares, jaw set.
"Then we move before they do," Ilias said. "We find out why they want me. And we make sure they don't get me."
Lira tilted her head, studying him with something between curiosity and concern. "You sure you want that answer?"
"No," Ilias said honestly. "But I'm done running."
A door slammed open across the room. Mira stormed in, medical coat flapping, eyes blazing. "Kojo, what the hell did you do?"
Kojo's grin returned, sheepish. "Define 'do.'"
"You blew up a warehouse," she snapped. "Half the Morrows thinks the Sanctifiers hit us. The other half thinks we're at war with the Cult. Do you have any idea how many people showed up at my clinic today because of your stupidity?"
"In my defense—"
"There is no defense!" She grabbed him by the ear—hard—and yanked.
Kojo—six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty pounds of muscle and resonance—yelped like a scolded child. "Ow, ow, ow—Mira, come on—"
"Come on nothing." She dragged him forward, glaring. "You endangered the gang. You endangered the clinic. You endangered family. What were you thinking?"
"I was thinking I'd save my brother!"
"By almost killing him?!"
The room went silent. Mira released him, breathing hard. Kojo rubbed his ear, looking genuinely contrite.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean—"
"I know." Her voice softened, just slightly. "But you can't keep doing this, Kojo. You can't keep throwing yourself at problems like a battering ram and hoping everything works out."
"That's literally my entire strategy."
"I know. And it's exhausting."
Despite everything, Ilias laughed. He couldn't help it.
Mira turned, saw him, and her expression shifted—warm, relieved. "You. Sit. I need to check your vitals."
"I'm fine."
"Sit."
He sat. She pulled out a scanner, ran it over him, frowning at the readout. "Your resonance levels are spiking. Have you been using your abilities?"
"Not on purpose."
"That's worse." She looked at Kojo. "He needs training. Proper training. If he keeps burning through his reserves like this, he's going to overload."
"I know." Kojo crossed his arms. "That's why we're staying."
Seraph blinked. "What?"
"We're not running," Kojo said. "Running just means more powerful people come after us. More people get hurt. We stay. We fight. And we teach him how to survive."
Reverb groaned. "That's a terrible plan."
"You got a better one?"
"No, but—"
"Then shut up and help."
Later that night, in the lower levels of the hideout, Kojo stood in a makeshift training ring—concrete floor, walls lined with scrap metal, a single flickering light overhead. Ilias stood across from him, breathing hard, fists clenched.
"Again," Kojo said.
Ilias lunged. Kojo sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, twisted, and sent him sprawling.
"Too slow. You're telegraphing every move."
Ilias pushed himself up, spitting dust. "I'm trying."
"Try harder."
He lunged again. Kojo blocked, redirected, swept his leg. Ilias hit the ground hard.
"You're thinking like a brawler," Kojo said. "You need to think like a resonance."
"What does that even mean?"
Kojo held up his hand. Around it, the air shimmered, vibrating faintly. "You're not just throwing punches. You're throwing sound. Every movement creates a frequency. Every strike carries a tone. You learn to control that, you control the fight."
He demonstrated—a simple jab, but the air around his fist rippled, distorting like heat.
Ilias stared. "How—"
"Practice." Kojo grinned. "And a lot of pain."
He pulled off his coat, revealing his arms—covered in scars, burn marks, the faint glow of resonance running beneath his skin like veins of light. And on his wrists—gauntlets. Not just armor. Something else. They looked ancient, carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when the light hit them. Gold and black, heavy but elegant, humming faintly with power.
"What are those?" Ilias asked.
Kojo smiled. "These? Family heirloom. Got 'em from Dad before—" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "Before everything."
He raised his fists, and the gauntlets flared, light tracing the patterns like circuitry coming alive.
"They're called òwó Ógun—'power' in Yoruba. Tied to an old god. The one who taught humans how to make sound into will."
The gauntlets shifted, growing, shrinking, floating off his wrists and orbiting him like satellites before snapping back into place.
Ilias's eyes widened. "That's—"
"Impossible?" Kojo grinned. "Yeah. But so are you."
He tossed a smaller set to Ilias—simple, unadorned. "These won't do what mine do. Not yet. But they'll help you focus. Channel your frequency. Stop you from blowing yourself up every time you get emotional."
Ilias caught them, felt the weight, the hum.
"Now," Kojo said, settling into a stance. "Let's see what you've got."