The storm had passed, but the city hadn't settled. Morrow's skyline pulsed like a dying heartbeat—neon bleeding through the mist, lights flickering in patterns that felt almost deliberate, almost alive. The rain had stopped, but water still dripped through the cracks, pooling in the streets below.
Inside the Crimson Jacks' hideout, the noise had finally died down. The party was over. The gang had scattered—sleeping, working, vanishing into the shadows to handle business. Only the low hum of generators remained, and the slow, steady rhythm of rain dripping through cracked beams.
Ilias sat alone on a crate near the edge of the upper level, turning a bolt between his fingers. Thinking. About the fight. The warehouse. The explosion. The look on Seraph's face when she realized the tracker had led the Church straight to them. About Kojo. About Mira. About family he didn't know he had, and the weight that came with it. About the fact that, for all their running, for all the chaos—he still didn't know why he was different.
A shadow moved behind him. Kojo.
"You brood too loud, brother," he said, dropping down beside him with the ease of someone who'd spent half his life perched on rooftops and fire escapes. "Even the walls can hear your thoughts."
Ilias smirked faintly. "Maybe they'll give me an answer, then."
Kojo chuckled—low, warm, the kind of sound that felt like safety. He pulled something from inside his coat. Wrapped in black cloth, long and heavy. He set it between them carefully, almost reverently.
"You remember the first time we met?" Kojo asked.
Ilias glanced at him. "Yeah. You tried to rob me."
"And you broke my jaw."
"Yeah." Ilias grinned. "Good times."
They both laughed, and for a moment, the tension dissolved. Then Kojo's expression shifted—serious, weighted.
"Back then, I thought you were just another lost kid trying to survive. But you had something. A hum. Like the world bent a little when you moved. Like gravity wasn't sure what to do with you."
He unwrapped the cloth slowly, revealing what lay inside. Two short batons—black metal, sleek and brutal, etched with faintly glowing sigils that looked like musical notes carved into scars. Each one was about a foot long, perfectly balanced. A magnetic hinge at the end hinted they could lock together into a single staff. The metal seemed to drink the light, reflecting nothing, absorbing everything.
"It's called the Osh'Kora," Kojo said quietly. "The Baton of Pulse. Old tech, older soul. Found it years ago during a raid in the Deep Reaches—ruins from before the Churches, before the Council, maybe even before Elyria itself."
Ilias stared at it. "What is it?"
"A weapon. A conduit. A reminder." Kojo ran a finger along one of the sigils. "I tried syncing with it once. Nearly fried my nerves. Thought maybe it was broken. Or cursed. Or both."
"So why give it to me?"
Kojo looked at him, eyes steady. "Because maybe it's not broken. Maybe I was."
He handed one baton to Ilias.
The moment his fingers touched it—The world shifted. A tremor rippled through the air, subtle but undeniable. The sigils along the metal flared to life, glowing red-gold, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. A soft hum filled the room—not loud, but felt. Like the city's heartbeat had tuned itself to him.
Kojo's eyes widened. "Well, damn."
Ilias stood, instinct guiding his hands. The batons felt right, like they'd been waiting for him. He spun one experimentally—smooth, effortless, the weight perfect. Then he brought them together. They locked with a magnetic snap, forming a single staff. The hum deepened, resonating through his bones, his chest, his soul.
And then—He wasn't in the warehouse anymore. He stood in a desert beneath a sky of stars so bright they looked like fire. A city rose in the distance—towers carved from stone and bronze, drums the size of buildings lining the walls, beating in perfect synchronization. The sound wasn't just noise. It was structure. The rhythm held the city together, kept it standing, kept it alive.
People danced barefoot in the streets—hundreds, thousands—calling thunder from rhythm alone. Every step, every clap, every breath was part of the song. And at the center of it all—A figure. Bronze skin. Eyes like molten gold. Crowned in lightning and smoke. Orun-Fela. The God of Freedom. The Last of the Old Beat.
He turned, and his gaze fell on Ilias. When he spoke, his voice was the sound of drums and thunder and distant laughter.
"They buried the music. But it still lives in your bones."
Ilias tried to speak, but no words came. Orun-Fela smiled. Not cruel. Not kind. Just knowing.
"You are not the first to wake. And you will not be the last. But you—" He stepped closer, and the air shimmered with heat and sound. "You will be the loudest."
Then the vision shattered.
The Return
Ilias staggered back, gasping, gripping the staff like it was the only solid thing in the world. Kojo caught him, steadied him. "Whoa—hey, easy. What happened?"
"I saw—" Ilias's voice was hoarse. "I saw a city. A god. He said—"
He stopped, swallowing hard.
"He said the music is still alive."
Kojo stared at him for a long moment. Then, quietly: "You just did what no one else could."
"I didn't do anything," Ilias said. "It just… answered."
"Then maybe it's been waiting." Kojo placed a hand on his shoulder, grip firm. "Listen, brother. This city—it'll twist you, use you, worship you, or kill you. But that thing in your hands? That's older than all of them. Don't let them make you forget who you are."
Ilias looked at him. "And who's that?"
Kojo smiled—genuine, warm. "The kid who broke my jaw and didn't apologize."
They laughed again, softer this time. Real.
When the others had gone to rest, Ilias sat alone with the staff, turning it slowly in his hands. He could still hear the echoes. Not words. Just rhythm. Each pulse a fragment of something greater, something that felt like home even though he'd never been there.
Seraph watched from the shadows of the mezzanine, arms crossed, face unreadable. She saw not just a boy with a weapon. She saw a force waking up. And for the first time, she wasn't sure if she was supposed to protect him—or protect the world from him.
Meanwhile — The Cathedral of Silence
Deep within the Church's archives, Sister Nira knelt before a mural of the Old Gods. Faceless. Forbidden. Erased from all official records but still remembered in whispers.
The Head Inquisitor stood behind her, robes white as bone, voice cold as silence.
"The resonance has shifted. We felt it."
"Yes, Arch-Lector." Nira's voice was calm, obedient. "A relic has awakened."
"Then the hunt begins anew. No witnesses. No mercy."
"As you command."
The Inquisitor left. Nira remained kneeling, staring at the mural. Her reflection in the polished marble smiled faintly. But the smile didn't belong to her.
Lyra whispered in her mind, voice layered, wrong.
"The song returns. And they still think they can silence it."
Nira's hands trembled. She pressed them to her temples, breathing slow, deliberate.
"Not yet," she whispered. "Not yet."
But the voice laughed, soft and cruel.
"Soon."
The Next Morning
Ilias woke to the sound of laughter. He stumbled out of the makeshift sleeping area, rubbing his eyes, and found chaos in full swing.
Reverb was leaning against a workbench, grinning like an idiot, talking to Mira. She was laughing—genuinely laughing—hands moving as she told some story, eyes bright. And Kojo was glaring.
Ilias blinked. "What—"
"He's hitting on Mira," Kojo growled.
"I'm not hitting on her," Reverb protested. "I'm just—"
"You're absolutely hitting on her," Mira said, still smiling. "And it's adorable. But I'm not interested."
Reverb clutched his chest dramatically. "You wound me."
"You'll survive."
Kojo stood. "No, he won't."
"Kojo—" Mira warned.
But Kojo was already moving. Ilias jumped in, grabbing his arm. "Whoa, whoa—"
"He's disrespecting our sister," Kojo said flatly.
"I'm complimenting your sister," Reverb corrected.
"Same thing."
"It's really not—"
Kojo lunged. Ilias tried to hold him back. Failed. Kojo was big.
Reverb yelped and scrambled backward, tripping over a crate. "I take it back! I take it all back!"
Mira sighed, grabbed Kojo by the ear, and yanked.
"Stop. Being. Stupid."
Kojo froze. "Ow—Mira—"
"Do I need to remind you what happened last time you broke someone's ribs in my clinic?"
"That was different—"
"It was not."
Ilias, still holding onto Kojo's other arm, couldn't help it. He started laughing. And then Reverb started laughing. And then even Mira cracked a smile.
Kojo groaned. "I hate all of you."
"No, you don't," Mira said, releasing his ear.
"Fine. I hate him." He pointed at Reverb.
"Fair," Reverb said, grinning.