The first thing Kojo felt was wrong.
Not pain—that came later, sliding in like a knife between ribs. This was something else. A pressure behind his eyes. A weight in his chest that had nothing to do with breathing.
Then: vibration.
Low. Constant. Like standing too close to a subwoofer at a concert, feeling the bass work its way into your sternum until your heartbeat matched the rhythm. Except there was no music. Just the throb of something alive beneath his skin, coiling through muscle and bone.
His eyelids cracked open.
Corrugated metal ceiling. Rust bleeding through the seams like old wounds. Water dripped somewhere to his left—plink, plink, plink—each drop marking time he couldn't account for. The air tasted like salt and motor oil, cigarette smoke and something sharper. Ozone, maybe. Or blood.
He tried to move.
The chains sang.
High, crystalline notes that cut through the fog in his head. Magnetic restraints, the kind that hummed with stored resonance. They wrapped his wrists, his ankles, anchoring him to the chair like he was something worth containing.
Still alive, he thought. Barely.
"You always wake up like you're starring in something."
The voice slid through the darkness—smooth as whiskey, sharp as glass.
Kojo turned his head. Slowly. Everything grinding.
Rhea Vance sat ten feet away, one leg crossed over the other, smoke curling lazy from the cigarette between her fingers. The light from somewhere above caught the gold threaded through her braids, the rings glinting at her ears, the sharp angle of her jaw. She wore black leather lined with gold—the mark of the Iron Crescent stitched across her shoulder like a brand.
She looked exactly the same.
Still beautiful in that dangerous way, like staring at a loaded gun.
Kojo's throat felt like sandpaper. "You're... a hell of a hallucination."
"Good." She took a drag, eyes never leaving his. "Means your brain's still working."
She stood, and the shadows shifted around her. The leather jacket caught the light differently now—scuffed at the elbows, worn at the seams. Battle-scarred. Like her.
"You fell out of the sky, Kojo." Her voice stayed level, but something underneath it wasn't. "Lit up half my territory like a dying star. Church dogs crawling everywhere, Cult freaks vanishing into the walls, people screaming about divine intervention." She flicked ash onto the floor. "You've got explaining to do."
He tested the restraints. They buzzed, resisting. "What, no 'welcome home'?"
"You don't get welcomes. You get interrogations."
"And chains?"
"Standard procedure for ex-boyfriends who bring god-level explosions into my city."
Her eyes softened—just fractionally. Just enough to hurt.
"You almost died, Kojo."
"Wouldn't be my first rodeo."
Silence stretched between them. The kind that made you aware of your pulse, your breathing, the space where words used to fit.
Then a new voice cut through—rough, female, carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too much and stopped caring about politeness.
"Boss, you want me to rough him up a bit? Make sure he's not Church?"
Kojo's eyes shifted to the doorway. A woman stepped into the light—tall, broad-shouldered, with scars that told stories across her dark skin. Her hair was shaved on one side, braided tight on the other, and her eyes held the kind of cold assessment that came from years of deciding who lived and who didn't.
Kemi. Rhea's second-in-command.
Rhea didn't look away from Kojo. "If he was Church, he'd be in pieces by now. You know that."
"Just checking." Kemi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. She studied Kojo like he was a puzzle she was deciding whether to solve or smash. "He looks different. Softer."
Kojo snorted despite himself. "Soft. Right."
"Softer than dead," Kemi corrected. "Which is what you should be, according to the scans." She pushed off the wall, walking closer. Her boots were steel-toed, reinforced at the heel—the kind you wore when you expected to kick through bone. "That Entity should've erased you. Instead, you're here. Breathing. Annoying us."
"It's a gift."
"It's suspicious." Kemi crouched down, meeting his eyes at level. Hers were gray—storm-cloud gray, with flecks of something darker. "I've seen people touch divine power before. Watched it burn them from the inside out. But you?" She tilted her head. "You're still whole. That means either you're tougher than you look, or something's keeping you alive for a reason."
"Maybe I'm just lucky."
"Luck's a myth sold to people who don't understand probability." She stood, glancing at Rhea. "You sure about this?"
Rhea finally looked away from Kojo, meeting Kemi's gaze. Something passed between them—years of trust, battles fought side by side, decisions made in the space between heartbeats.
"I'm sure," Rhea said quietly.
Kemi nodded once, then turned back to Kojo. "You hurt her again, I don't care what gods live in your fists. I'll break you myself."
Then she was gone, boots echoing down the corridor.
Rhea took another drag of her cigarette, smiling faintly. "She's protective."
"She's terrifying."
"That too."
Rhea moved to a control panel on the wall, fingers dancing across buttons. The magnetic restraints hissed, loosening slightly—not enough for freedom, but enough that Kojo could shift without the metal biting into his wrists.
"Tell me what happened," she said, voice softer now. "All of it."
So he did. The Entity. The silence that wanted to consume everything. Ogun's awakening. The fight that had nearly killed him. The Church's arrival.
When he finished, Rhea was quiet for a long time.
"So you're hosting a god now."
"More like he's tolerating my presence."
"And the Church knows."
"They suspect. Can't prove anything yet."
"They will." Rhea crushed her cigarette under her boot. "And when they do, this whole district becomes a war zone."
"Then maybe I should leave."
"Maybe you should shut up and let me think."
The room fell silent again. Somewhere deeper in the complex, Kojo could hear voices—low, arguing, layered with accents he didn't recognize. The aliens Rhea had recruited over the years. He'd heard stories but never met them.
As if summoned by his thoughts, footsteps approached. Heavy. Deliberate.
Tzark ducked through the doorway—had to, because the frame wasn't built for someone his size. He straightened to his full height, and Kojo had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.
The alien was massive. Eight feet tall, maybe more, with skin like cracked obsidian and veins of molten orange pulsing beneath the surface. He looked like a volcano given humanoid shape—powerful, ancient, patient in the way mountains were patient.
"So," Tzark rumbled, voice like stones grinding together. "This is the one who made the sky scream."
Kojo grinned despite everything. "Guilty."
Tzark studied him with eyes that glowed faintly from within. "You're smaller than I expected."
"I get that a lot."
"And chained."
"Temporarily."
Tzark's mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. "Rhea says you can fight."
"She's not wrong."
"Good." The alien crossed his arms—each one thick as tree trunks. "When you're free, we'll test that. See who hits harder."
Kojo's grin widened. "You're on."
"Tzark," Rhea warned. "He just survived an Entity. Don't break him."
"I won't break him." Tzark's eyes glinted with amusement. "Just... test his durability."
Kojo laughed—rough, painful, but real. "Big talk for someone who's never taken a punch from divine gauntlets."
"Big talk for someone currently in chains."
"Temporary chains."
"We'll see."
Another voice cut in—softer, layered, calculating. "You assume he'll be unchained."
Vess appeared from the shadows like they'd always been there. Four arms moved in subtle, independent patterns—one adjusting their collar, another resting on their hip, the third and fourth clasped in front. Their pale blue skin seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and their entirely black eyes tracked everything with unnerving precision.
"Probability suggests the Church will locate him within seventy-two hours," Vess continued, voice calm and clinical. "If he remains here, we become complicit. If we release him, we lose leverage. The optimal solution is—"
"To keep him alive long enough to be useful," Kaela finished, materializing beside Vess with a grin that showed too many teeth. Her skin shifted colors as she moved—purple to green to gold—and her eyes were entirely too amused by all of this. "Which means we get to play with him first."
Tzark grunted. "I called dibs."
"You can't call dibs on a person," Vess said flatly.
"Watch me."
Kojo looked around at the assembled aliens, then at Rhea. "Your crew's interesting."
"They're effective," Rhea corrected. "And loyal. Which is more than I can say for most humans."
Tzark moved closer, looming over Kojo's chair. "Tell me, human. When you hit things, do they stay broken?"
"Depends on what I'm hitting."
"Concrete?"
"Dust."
"Steel?"
"Scrap."
"Bone?"
"Powder."
Tzark's grin widened. "And if I hit you?"
"You'd regret it."
"Bold claim for someone who can't move."
Kojo tested the restraints again, feeling them resist. "These won't hold me forever."
"They don't need to hold forever," Tzark said. "Just long enough for me to win our bet."
"What bet?"
"The one about who hits harder." Tzark tapped one massive fist against his palm. The sound was like a hammer on an anvil. "Since you can't demonstrate while chained, I win by default."
Kojo's eyes narrowed. "That's cheating."
"That's strategy."
"That's bullshit."
Tzark laughed—deep, rolling, like thunder underground. "I like him. Can we keep him?"
Kaela circled the chair, studying Kojo from different angles. "He's damaged goods. Might break under pressure."
"Everything breaks under enough pressure," Vess observed. "The question is whether he breaks in useful ways."
"I'm right here," Kojo muttered.
"We know," Kaela purred. "That's what makes this fun."
Rhea finally stepped in, voice cutting through the banter. "Alright, that's enough. Tzark, go check the perimeter. Vess, run probability scenarios for Church movement patterns. Kaela—" She paused. "Just... don't cause problems."
Kaela's grin was pure mischief. "No promises."
As the aliens filed out, Tzark paused at the door. "When those chains come off, human, we finish this conversation."
"Looking forward to it."
"You shouldn't be."
Then he was gone, and Kojo was alone with Rhea again.
She lit another cigarette, taking a long drag. "They like you."
"They want to break me."
"Same thing, for them." She exhaled smoke. "Tzark's people value strength above everything. Vess respects intelligence and survival instinct. Kaela just enjoys chaos." She met his eyes. "If you can earn their respect, you'll be safer here than anywhere else in the city."
"And if I can't?"
"Then Kemi was right to be suspicious."
Kojo leaned back as much as the chains allowed. "You've built something here, Rhea. Something real."
"We built something," she corrected quietly. "Before you left."
The words hung between them like smoke.
"I know," Kojo said finally. "And I'm sorry. For leaving. For not explaining. For—"
"Don't." Her voice was sharp. "Don't apologize for surviving. That's not what I'm angry about."
"Then what?"
"The fact that you thought you had to do it alone." She crushed her cigarette under her boot. "We could've fought those demons together, Kojo. All of them. But you decided I wasn't strong enough to stand beside you."
"That's not—"
"It is." She turned away, shoulders tight. "You wanted to protect me. I get it. But you don't protect people by pushing them away. You protect them by trusting them to fight."
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
Then footsteps—quick, urgent. Kemi burst back into the room, face tight.
"Boss. We've got movement. Church drones doing sweep patterns three sectors over. They're getting closer."
Rhea's expression hardened. "How long?"
"Hour. Maybe less."
Rhea nodded once. "Pull everyone back to secondary positions. Activate the dampeners. If they scan, I want them to see nothing but ghosts."
"And him?" Kemi gestured at Kojo.
Rhea looked at him for a long moment. Then she moved to the control panel and pressed a sequence of buttons. The magnetic restraints hissed, falling away completely.
Kojo stood slowly, testing his legs. They held.
"You're free to go," Rhea said quietly. "There's an exit through the eastern dock. Take it. Disappear. The Church won't find you if you move fast."
He stared at her. "You're letting me go?"
"I'm giving you a choice." Her eyes were hard, but something underneath them wasn't. "Stay and risk everyone here. Or leave and handle your shit alone. Like you always do."
Kojo flexed his hands, feeling Ogun's power stirring beneath his skin. He could run. Should run. Every logical part of his brain screamed at him to take the out.
But he looked at Rhea—at the woman who'd saved him, hidden him, given him a chance when she had every right to let him die—and something in his chest tightened.
"I'm not running," he said.
"Kojo—"
"I'm done running, Rhea." He met her eyes. "You were right. I pushed you away because I was afraid. Afraid I'd get you killed. Afraid I wasn't strong enough to protect you." He took a step closer. "But I'm not that kid anymore. And I'm not leaving you to face the Church alone. Not again."
For a long moment, she just stared at him.
Then she smiled—small, bitter, beautiful.
"You're an idiot."
"Yeah. But I'm your idiot."
"Not anymore."
"Then let me earn it back."
Rhea held his gaze, and something shifted in the air between them. Years of hurt, anger, love—all of it colliding in the space where their broken promises used to live.
Finally, she nodded. Once. "Alright. But if you get my people killed—"
"I won't."
"You better not."
Kemi cleared her throat. "Boss? The drones?"
"Right." Rhea turned, all business again. "Kojo, you're with me. We need to move the heavy equipment before they get eyes on it. Kemi, get Tzark and the others. Full lockdown protocol."
As they moved toward the door, Kojo caught Kemi's eye. She studied him for a moment, then gave a slight nod—not friendship, but acknowledgment. He'd passed some test he hadn't known he was taking.
They rushed through corridors lined with stolen tech and makeshift defenses. The Iron Crescent's base was a maze—deliberate, defensive, designed to confuse invaders. But Rhea moved through it like she'd built every wall herself.
Which, Kojo realized, she probably had.
They reached a cargo bay where Tzark and Vess were already working, moving crates with practiced efficiency. Kaela lounged on a stack of containers, watching with lazy amusement.
"Cutting it close, boss," Tzark rumbled.
"When don't we?" Rhea shot back.
Kojo moved to help, grabbing a crate. It was heavier than it looked—resonance equipment, judging by the hum. Tzark appeared beside him, lifting an identical crate with one hand.
"Still think you hit harder?" the alien asked, grinning.
"Ask me when I'm not recovering from fighting a god."
"Excuses."
"Facts."
They worked in silence for a moment. Then Tzark spoke again, quieter this time.
"You care for her."
It wasn't a question.
Kojo didn't answer immediately. Just kept moving crates.
"She's been waiting," Tzark continued. "Five years. Never said it. Never showed it. But she's been waiting for you to come back."
"I know."
"Then don't waste it." Tzark's eyes glowed brighter. "On my world, we have a saying: 'The mountain does not apologize for standing. But it mourns the valleys it cannot reach.' You understand?"
Kojo met his eyes. "Yeah. I do."
"Good." Tzark clapped him on the shoulder—hard enough to make Kojo's knees buckle. "When this is over, we'll finish our conversation about strength."
"Can't wait."
By the time they'd moved everything and activated the dampeners, Kojo was exhausted. His body still hadn't recovered from the fight, and every movement felt like dragging himself through concrete.
But he stayed upright. Stayed moving.
Because Rhea was watching.
The Church drones passed overhead, scanning, searching. But they found nothing. Just ghosts in the machinery. Just shadows where a god had fallen.
When the all-clear signal finally came through, Kojo leaned against a cargo crate, breathing hard. Rhea approached, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You did good," she said. Not warm. Just factual.
"Thanks." Kojo straightened despite the pain. "So I guess I'm free to—"
"No."
He stopped. "What?"
"You're not leaving." Rhea's voice was flat, final. "Not yet."
Kojo stared at her. "Rhea, the Church didn't find me. Your people are safe. I should—"
"Should what? Walk out of here and lead them straight to your brother? To whoever else you're protecting?" She stepped closer, eyes hard. "You lit up my territory, Kojo. The Church knows something divine happened here. They're going to keep looking. And if they catch you in the open, they'll take you apart to figure out what you are."
"So you're keeping me prisoner?"
"I'm keeping you alive." Her jaw tightened. "You don't know what you're carrying. That power—Ogun, or whatever it is—it's not stable. You barely survived using it once. What happens when it wakes up again and you can't control it?"
Kojo wanted to argue. Couldn't. Because she was right.
"How long?" he asked quietly.
"Until I'm satisfied you're not a threat. To my people. To yourself." She held his gaze. "Until I understand what you've become."
"And if I leave anyway?"
"Then you make an enemy of the Iron Crescent. And you don't want that." But something in her expression softened—just slightly. "I'm not doing this to hurt you. I'm doing this because I'm not watching you die twice."
Kojo exhaled slowly. Looked around at the fortress that had become his cage. At Tzark, who gave him a slight nod. At Vess, calculating. At Kaela, still grinning. At Kemi, watching with those storm-cloud eyes.
"Alright," he said finally. "But when my brother comes looking for me—"
"Then we'll deal with it." Rhea turned away. "Get some rest. You're going to need it."
She walked away, and Kojo was left standing there—free of chains, but not free to leave.
Tzark approached, massive and quiet. "She cares," he rumbled. "That's why she's keeping you."
"I know," Kojo said.
"Then be patient. Prove you're not a danger. Earn her trust again." The alien's eyes glowed faintly. "Or don't. Either way, the mountain does not apologize for standing."
"Yeah." Kojo smiled faintly despite everything. "I'm starting to get that."
Somewhere deep beneath the aches and the exhaustion, Ogun's power hummed—patient, waiting, caged.
And in the depths of the Iron Crescent's fortress, two people who'd once promised forever stood in the same space again—older, scarred, still breathing.
Still fighting.
But not yet together.
Not yet free.