Elyria's skyline bled light—searchlights carving through smoke, Church drones humming their mechanical hymns, curfew alarms singing their one-note warning across the districts. The Morrows looked like a wound that refused to close: flickering neon, burnt-out streetlights, fires in oil drums casting shadows that moved like they were alive.
Underneath it all—through cracked tunnels that smelled like rust and old fear, past bridges held together by prayer and stolen rebar—three figures moved through the dark.
Seraph. Ilias. Reverb.
They didn't speak. Couldn't risk it. Just the rhythm of boots on concrete, the faint hum of the blackout generator strapped to Reverb's back, and breathing that sounded too loud in the silence. Every corner felt like it was holding its breath.
"Sector nine's clear," Reverb whispered finally, voice barely audible over the generator's low thrum. "But there's acoustic monitors up ahead. Church-grade. Someone upgraded Rhea's security."
Ilias's jaw tightened. "Doesn't matter. We're getting him out."
Seraph glanced at him—not with doubt, but with something closer to concern. He hadn't slept. Not really. Just sat by that window staring at nothing until dawn broke and Mira finally told him to get moving or she'd sedate him herself. Now his eyes looked hollow. Haunted. A man walking into hell because his brother was there and that was the only reason he needed.
They reached the final barrier—the threshold to Iron Crescent territory. It looked like an empire built from scrap metal and spite. Shipping containers stacked three stories high, welded together into makeshift towers. Floodlights stitched to fallen cranes, casting everything in harsh white and deep shadow. Drone snipers perched on catwalks like metal vultures, red targeting lasers sweeping the perimeter in lazy arcs.
And underneath it all—music. Faint bass lines thrumming through the concrete. Low. Relentless. The heartbeat of Rhea Vance's reign.
Reverb's fingers flew across the portable console, lines of code scrolling too fast to read. He tapped a final command and the security grid flickered—just for a second.
"You've got five minutes before the system reboots," he muttered. "After that, every alarm in this place goes off."
"Then we move fast." Seraph's voice was flat. Military.
They climbed through an exhaust duct—metal groaning under their weight, sharp edges catching on clothes and skin. Ilias went first, staff collapsed and mag-locked to his back. Then Seraph. Reverb brought up the rear, cursing under his breath about tight spaces and why he ever agreed to this.
They dropped into a corridor lined with graffiti—gang tags layered so thick you couldn't see the concrete underneath. Prayers spray-painted in half a dozen languages. Sigils that looked like they belonged to religions that didn't have names yet. The air smelled like burnt plastic and old cigarette smoke.
Ilias pulled the pulse carbine from his shoulder—Kojo's work, built from scavenged Church tech and street ingenuity. It hummed faintly in his hands, still carrying some echo of his brother's resonance.
The first guards went down quiet. Not clean. Nothing about this was clean. But quiet. Seraph moved like water—smooth, efficient, brutal when she needed to be. Two guards rounded the corner and she was already there, disarming the first before he could shout, dropping the second with an elbow to the temple that made a sound like breaking pottery. Ilias caught the falling bodies before they hit the ground.
Reverb just stared. "You're terrifying, you know that?"
"Focus," Seraph hissed.
They moved deeper. Past dormitories where gang members slept—oblivious or pretending to be. Past armories stocked with weapons that shouldn't exist outside military bunkers. Past rooms that pulsed with stored resonance, amplifiers glowing faintly in the dark like dying stars.
By the time they reached the main atrium, the air tasted like ozone and adrenaline and something sharper. Fear, maybe. Or just the electricity of knowing they were walking into a trap and doing it anyway.
The doors opened before they could touch them.
They burst through—weapons raised, ready for anything—and froze.
Rhea Vance sat on her throne of welded steel and torn red velvet, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette glowing between her fingers like a dying ember. She wore black and gold—the Iron Crescent stitched across her jacket in thread that caught the light like liquid metal.
Around her, the gang stood at ease. Not combat-ready. Just waiting.
Tzark leaned against a support pillar, arms crossed. Vess perched on a crate, all four hands in various states of relaxation. Kaela examined her nails, skin shifting from purple to gold. Kemi stood beside Rhea's throne, hand resting on her blade but not drawing it.
And in the center of the room, sitting on a cargo container with his legs dangling, looking exhausted but very much alive and very much not chained—Kojo.
He looked up when they entered. His expression went through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, relief, concern, then something that looked almost like guilt.
"Ilias," he said quietly. "What are you doing here?"
Ilias stared at him. At the lack of chains. At the casual way he sat there. At how Rhea's people weren't restraining him.
"What am I—" Ilias's voice cracked. "We came to get you."
"Get me?" Kojo glanced at Rhea, then back at his brother. "From what?"
"From her!" Ilias gestured at Rhea with his carbine. "She took you. We tracked you here and—" He stopped, confusion replacing anger. "Why aren't you chained?"
Rhea took a long drag from her cigarette. Exhaled smoke that curled lazy toward the ceiling. "Because he's not a prisoner."
"Then why is he here?" Seraph's voice was tight, controlled.
"Because we had things to discuss." Rhea's eyes didn't leave Kojo. "Old things. Unfinished things."
The room went quiet. Tense. Like everyone was waiting for something to break.
Ilias looked between them—his brother and this woman who'd apparently kept him here for reasons nobody was explaining. "Kojo. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." Kojo slid off the container, landing with a wince that said his ribs still hurt. "Really. I'm fine."
"Then why didn't you come back?"
The question hung in the air. Heavy. Accusatory.
Kojo opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Rhea like he was asking permission for something.
She just took another drag from her cigarette. Said nothing.
"Because," Kojo said finally, "I needed to figure some things out. About the gauntlets. About what happened during that fight." He held up the Ọwọ́ Ogun, metal gleaming in the low light. "There's something in these. Something old. And Rhea—" He hesitated. "She's seen it before."
"Seen what?" Seraph asked.
"Divine resonance," Rhea said flatly. "The kind that gets people killed. The kind the Church would level entire districts to contain." She stubbed out her cigarette on the armrest. "Your brother lit up like a fucking beacon when he fought that Entity. Every scanner in three sectors registered it. The Church knows something happened. They just don't know what yet."
"So you kept him here to protect him?" Ilias's voice was sharp. Disbelieving.
"I kept him here because he asked me to." Rhea's eyes were cold. "And because once—a long time ago—I made him a promise. That I wouldn't let him die doing something stupid." She looked at Kojo. "This qualified."
The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Painful.
Tzark rumbled from his position by the pillar. "The mountain learns its weight before it moves. Your brother needed time. We gave it to him."
"And now?" Ilias asked.
"Now he leaves," Rhea said simply. She stood slowly, deliberately. "Because staying longer puts my people at risk. The Church is already circling. Your presence here—" She gestured at the three of them. "—just made it worse."
Kemi stepped forward. "My Queen, if they're here, the Church may already—"
"I know." Rhea's voice was flat. Final. "Which is why they're leaving. Now."
She walked toward Kojo. Stopped a few feet away. For a moment, something passed between them—something old and complicated and painful.
"You good?" she asked quietly.
"Getting there," Kojo said.
"The gauntlets talking to you yet?"
"Starting to."
"Good." She reached into her jacket, pulled out a small data chip. Held it out. "This has everything I know about divine artifacts. Old records. Stolen Church files. Names of people who might be able to help you understand what you're carrying." She paused. "Don't make me regret giving you this."
Kojo took the chip. Their fingers brushed—just for a second—and Ilias saw his brother's expression shift. Soften. Hurt.
"Rhea—"
"Don't." Her voice was sharp. "We're not doing this. Not here. Not now." She stepped back. "You need to go. Your people need you more than I do."
"That's not—"
"It is." She turned away. "Kemi. Escort them to the east tunnel. Make sure they get out clean."
"My Queen—"
"Do it."
Kemi nodded once. Sharp. Professional. But her eyes lingered on Kojo for a moment—protective, concerned—before she moved toward the exit.
Kojo didn't move. Just stood there, staring at Rhea's back.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For leaving. For coming back like this. For—"
"Stop apologizing." Rhea still didn't turn around. "You were always going to leave. That's who you are. A builder. A protector. You don't belong in places like this." She lit another cigarette. "Now go build something worth protecting."
Ilias moved to his brother's side. Put a hand on his shoulder. "Kojo. We need to go."
Kojo nodded slowly. But he didn't move. Not yet.
"Thank you," he said to Rhea. "For keeping your promise."
She didn't answer. Just smoked and stared at nothing.
Kemi gestured toward the exit. "This way. Quickly."
They moved—Seraph first, then Reverb, then Ilias. Kojo went last, looking back one more time at the woman on the throne.
She didn't look at him. Didn't say goodbye.
Just sat there smoking while her empire hummed around her and the man she'd loved once walked away again.
The tunnels were darker than the ones they'd come through. Older. The kind of passages that existed before the city had a name, back when it was just settlements and survival.
Kemi moved fast, boots barely making sound on the cracked concrete. She didn't speak until they were deep enough that the Iron Crescent's territory was just a distant memory.
"She loves you, you know," Kemi said quietly. Not looking at Kojo. "Still. Even after everything."
Kojo was quiet for a long moment. "I know."
"Then why leave?"
"Because love isn't always enough." His voice was rough. "Because she built something here. Something that matters to her. And I can't be part of that world anymore."
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
Kemi stopped. Turned to face him. Her expression was hard to read in the dim light—somewhere between anger and understanding.
"It matters to her," she said. "But I suppose it doesn't matter to you." She pointed down the tunnel. "Keep going straight. You'll hit the river district in twenty minutes. From there, you're on your own."
"You're not coming with us?" Ilias asked.
"My place is with my Queen." Kemi looked at Kojo one last time. "Try not to die. She'd be upset."
Then she was gone—disappearing back into the darkness like she'd never been there at all.
They walked in silence for a while. Just the sound of breathing and footsteps and water dripping somewhere in the distance.
Finally, Reverb spoke. "So. That was intense."
"Shut up, Reverb," Kojo muttered.
"I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying."
They emerged in the river district as the sky was starting to lighten. Gray dawn bleeding through the smoke and smog. The kind of morning that felt too tired to be pretty.
Seraph checked her comm. "We're clear. No pursuit."
"She let us go," Ilias said. Not a question. Just a statement.
"Yeah." Kojo looked back toward the Morrows. Toward the fortress he'd just left. "She did."
"Why?"
"Because that's who she is. She takes care of her people. Even the ones who aren't hers anymore."
They made their way back through the city—moving slower now, less urgency, just exhaustion settling into their bones. By the time they reached the hideout, the sun was fully up and the gang was stirring.
Taren saw them first. He was by the fire, stirring something that smelled like burnt coffee and regret. His eyes went wide when he saw Kojo.
"Well," the old man said. "You're not dead."
"Disappointed?" Kojo asked.
"Relieved." Taren poured him a cup of the terrible coffee. "Mira's been driving us all crazy. Girl hasn't slept in two days."
As if summoned, Mira appeared from the medical bay. She took one look at Kojo and her expression went through several rapid changes—relief, anger, relief again, then something that might have been the urge to hit him.
She settled for hugging him instead. Hard enough to make him wince.
"You're an idiot," she said into his shoulder.
"I know."
"Don't do that again."
"I'll try."
She pulled back. Looked him over with professional eyes—checking for injuries, signs of torture, anything that would justify the medical intervention she was clearly itching to perform.
"You're hurt," she said.
"I'm always hurt."
"Kojo—"
"I'm fine, Mira. Really." He caught her hands. "I promise. I'm okay."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then nodded. "Okay. But you're getting a full scan later. No arguments."
"Yes, ma'am."
The others filtered in—curious, relieved, exhausted. They gathered around the main space, and for a while nobody said much. Just existed together in the quiet.
Finally, Ilias broke the silence. "So. What now?"
Kojo looked at the gauntlets. At the faint glow beneath the metal. At the weight of something ancient and powerful that he barely understood.
"Now," he said quietly, "I figure out what these things are. What they want. And how to use them without getting us all killed."
"That's a terrible plan," Reverb said.
"You got a better one?"
"Not really."
"Then terrible plan it is." Kojo looked around at all of them—his brother, his sister, this strange family they'd built from broken pieces and desperate hope. "We've got maybe a day. Maybe less. The Church knows something happened. They're going to come looking."
"So we prepare," Seraph said. Not a question. A statement.
"Yeah." Kojo flexed his fingers. The gauntlets pulsed once. Faint. Like a heartbeat. "We prepare."
Taren refilled everyone's cups with the terrible coffee. "Then we start at dawn. Tonight, you all rest. Tomorrow—" He looked at Kojo and Ilias. "—tomorrow we see what your gods can teach you."
"Gods?" Mira asked.
Kojo and Ilias exchanged a glance.
"It's complicated," Kojo said.
"It always is," Taren muttered.
They spent the rest of the day in quiet preparation. Checking weapons. Running diagnostics. Mira restocking her medical supplies. Reverb upgrading the security systems—again.
Kojo sat in the corner, the data chip Rhea had given him plugged into an old reader. Files scrolled across the cracked screen—Church reports, historical records, fragments of mythology that read like fever dreams.
The Ọwọ́ Ogun. Forged in the First Age. Worn by warriors who could level armies. Lost during the Silence Wars. Recovered. Lost again. Recovered again.
And underneath it all—one name that kept appearing.
Ogun.
God of iron. War. Creation.
The one who forges and the one who destroys.
Kojo stared at the words until they stopped making sense. Until exhaustion finally dragged him under and he slept—dreamless, heavy, the kind of sleep that felt like drowning.
When he woke, it was night. The hideout was quiet. Most of the gang was asleep.
He found Ilias on the roof, sitting with his back against the ledge, staff across his lap. His brother looked up when Kojo climbed through the access hatch.
"Couldn't sleep?" Ilias asked.
"Slept too much." Kojo sat beside him. "You?"
"Thinking."
"About?"
"Everything." Ilias looked at the staff. At the way it seemed to glow faintly in the darkness. "Taren said there's a god in this. Called it Orun-Fela. God of freedom and rhythm." He paused. "Did you know?"
"I suspected." Kojo held up the gauntlets. "Ogun. God of war. He's been trying to talk to me for years. I just wasn't listening."
"And now?"
"Now I don't have a choice."
They sat in silence for a while. Just two brothers looking at the city that wanted them dead, holding weapons they didn't fully understand, trying to figure out how to survive what came next.
"We're going to be okay," Ilias said finally. "Right?"
Kojo wanted to say yes. Wanted to promise that everything would work out. That they'd win. That nobody would die.
But he'd learned a long time ago that promises like that were just pretty lies.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But we're going to try."
"That's not very reassuring."
"It's all I've got."
Ilias laughed—quiet, tired, but real. "Fair enough."
They sat there until dawn started to break. Until the city began to wake. Until Taren called them down for terrible coffee and worse breakfast.
And then—as the sun climbed higher and the hideout came alive with movement and preparation—Kojo felt it.
A pulse. From the gauntlets. Not random. Deliberate.
He looked down at them. At the metal that seemed to glow brighter in the morning light.
Two pulses. Then three. Then a pattern he almost recognized.
Like a heartbeat.
Like a greeting.
Like the beginning of a conversation he'd been avoiding his entire life.
Mira found him standing there, staring at his hands.
"You okay?" she asked.
"No," Kojo said. "But I think I'm about to be."
She looked at him. At the gauntlets. At the way his brother was doing the same thing across the room with his staff.
"Well," she said. "This should be interesting."
"That's one word for it."
The day stretched ahead of them—twenty-four hours before something they couldn't see was coming. Twenty-four hours to learn what the gods in their weapons wanted to teach them.
Twenty-four hours before everything changed again.
Kojo looked at his sister. His brother. The family they'd built from nothing.
"Let's get to work," he said.
And somewhere in the city—in a fortress made of scrap metal and spite—Rhea Vance stood on her balcony, watching the sunrise, smoking her endless cigarettes.
She'd let him go. Again. Because that's what you did when you loved someone.
You let them become who they needed to be.
Even if it meant they walked away from you.
Even if it broke something inside you every time.
She stubbed out the cigarette. Turned back inside. There was work to do. Territory to defend. An empire to maintain.
And if the Church came looking for the man who'd lit up their scanners like a dying star—well.
They'd have to go through her first.
"Kemi," she called out.
Her lieutenant appeared. Silent. Efficient.
"My Queen?"
"Double the patrols. Upgrade the dampeners. And get me everything we have on Church strike team protocols."
"Are we expecting trouble?"
Rhea smiled—cold, sharp, dangerous. "Always. But this time, I want to be ready for it."
Kemi nodded and disappeared.
Rhea stood alone in her throne room, surrounded by the empire she'd built, the people who'd die for her, the power she'd clawed her way toward.
It wasn't enough. It never was. But it was hers.
And she'd defend it. To the last breath. To the last heartbeat.
Just like she'd defended him—even if he never knew it.
Even if he never came back.
Some promises you kept forever.
Even when they broke you.