Nine years had passed.
The surface world Violet once knew had fractured in ways she could barely comprehend. A small civil war had erupted across the upper sectors around her own. Nexus forces cracked down hard to stop the chaos, but not before a chunk of districts burned. Violet, now twenty-three, had been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. A raid on her family's estate. Screams. Purple mist flaring wildly as she teleported through collapsing walls, through fire, through the screams of people she had once called neighbours.
She emerged in the Kings Gambit, bleeding from a gash across her arm, lungs burning with smoke. The entrances had sealed behind her she had no map, no plan, only the instinct to keep moving downward. Deeper. Darker.
Weeks blurred into months of scavenging. The underground sprawl was vast, a labyrinth of forgotten maintenance tunnels, abandoned mining shafts, and stranger things: glowing fungal caverns, rivers of black water that tasted of iron, marketplaces lit by bioluminescent algae, it was like its own backhand kingdom, run by the lost, the broken and the evil, they had their own laws, own systems, a world similar yet different to her own.. She learned quickly. Steal small. Move fast. Never stay in one place longer than a night.
Her power had grown sharper with desperation. The purple mist no longer required perfect recollection of a place; she could pull fragments from memory, bend distance in short, painful jumps. Enough to slip into a vendor's stall, lift a loaf or a strip of dried meat, and vanish before anyone turned.
That was how Silvester found her.
She had just phased into the back of a cafe, fingers closing around a half-wheel of cheese wrapped in waxed cloth. The mist still clung to her sleeves like faint perfume when a voice cracked the silence.
"Well, fuck me sideways. That's one hell of a party trick, princess."
Violet spun.
Leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, was a boy her age, maybe a year older, with blonde hair streaked with white. A grey biker jacket hung open over a faded black shirt, jeans ripped at the knees, heavy boots scuffed to hell. A compact rifle was slung across his back, barrel down, casual as a backpack. He grinned wide, teeth flashing in the dim glow of a nearby algae strip.
She froze, mist already coiling at her fingertips.
He pushed off the wall. And glanced at the gash on her arm. "Ooo bleeding are we, wasn't aware it was that time of the month, guess that's a no on the one liner. Name's Silvester Park. Most people just call me Sly, boss calls me his least favourite, funny way to spell Silvester I know, or it's 'cause I'm a bastard who won't shut up. Pick your poison." He laughed—loud, barking, like the situation was the funniest thing he'd seen all week. "You gonna stare or you gonna try to smoke-bomb me outta here? 'Cause if it's the second one, I gotta warn ya, I'm faster than I look and stronger, built like a twing but I got that gene in me. Get it, got that gene in me, geeze you're dry."
Violet's voice came out low, edged. "Leave me alone."
"Nah." He took a step closer. "See, I been watchin', stalker style. You hit three stalls in two days without leavin' footprints. Which should be impossible considering you still walked but then again I seen a guy spit his stomach out once so the worlds a crazy place. No noise. No witnesses. Just—poof—gone. That's talent, sweetheart. Raw, messy talent. I like talent, my boss likes talent, my mama likes talent, and in this world you got the talent every criminal gang wants, every bad biscuit, so how about joining the good guys instead." He leaned in and covered his mouth slightly, "I'll even throw in the handicapped parking spot, shush don't tell anyone I made this generous author."
She felt the mist thicken, ready. "I said leave… and it's pronounced offer not author."
He raised both hands, still grinning. "Easy, easy. If I wanted an English lesson, I'd be up there with Nexus having pizza for lunch and playing football after. I'm not here to rat you out. I'm here to offer you a job. Pays well, just look at my teeth, pearly whites, dental care ain't cheap you know," he flashed a grin, "You got skills. I got drafted into a group of dickheads and we could use a teleporting girl with trust issues, and we got a king who likes useful people. Simple math, judging by your presence you're from up there, the nice nice posh land, so how bout using those rich skills to make the right decision and join up."
Violet lunged.
Not a teleport this time—just raw speed, mist trailing like comet fire as she closed the distance and drove a knee toward his gut. He twisted at the last second, caught her wrist, used her momentum to spin her into the wall. Hard. Her shoulder hit stone; pain flared bright.
"Shit, you're quick!" he laughed again, breathless. "Almost had me. Almost. Should've teleported princess."
She snarled, mist exploding outward in a choking cloud. He slapped on a pair of silver cuffs with a white shard embedded in it, and her powers seemed to die down. "hell, your strong, cuffs tweaking out, they should've blocked your powers." He yanked the rifle free in one smooth motion. Not to shoot. He reversed it, drove the butt into her stomach just hard enough to fold her double.
Air left her in a whoosh.
Before she could recover he had her arms pinned behind her back, knee in the small of her spine—not cruel, just firm. "Breathe, princess. You're good. Real good. But I'm better at close quarters. It's not even my shit, I know, I'm amazing."
She struggled once, twice. Pointless. He was stronger than he looked.
"Listen," he said, quieter now. "Down here you either run forever or you find people who run with you. I don't like walking let alone running but I'm offerin' the second one. My crew's tight. We eat. We don't starve. And the king? He don't ask stupid questions. He just nods, and shit happens. And why you may wonder? It's cuz we get shit done, end of the day we work our keep."
Violet went still. Her ribs ached. Her pride ached worse.
"...Why me?"
"'Cause you look like someone who hates bein' alone more than she hates bein' used." He loosened his grip slightly. "And 'cause teleportation is op, you're hot, seem like ya decent at fighting, and did I mention you're hot. Sue me."
Silence stretched.
Then, grudgingly: "Fine. Get off me."
He did. Immediately. Stepped back with both hands raised again, that stupid grin back in place. "Attagirl. Now come on. King's waitin', and he hates tardiness. Makes him all broody and silent. More silent than usual, I mean."
He turned and started walking. Didn't look back to see if she followed.
She did.
***
The journey took hours.
Silvester led her through passages that twisted like intestines—narrow crawlways, rusted maintenance ladders. He talked the entire way. Nonstop.
"So this one time, right? Me and Jax—we're scoutin' the eastern blocks, lookin' for runners, scrappers and basically anyone stupid enough to experiment on the good folk. Jax trips over his own damn feet, faceplants into a pile of bat shit. Literal bat shit. I'm laughin' so hard I almost piss myself. Then the bats wake up. Hundreds. Thousands. We run screamin' like little bitches. Fun times. Bat lovely aren't they, big enough to bite your ass, small enough to be somewhat immune to the gene."
Violet said nothing. Just followed, arms crossed, trying to memorize turns.
Another tunnel. "You ever wonder why they call this place the King's Gambit? 'No? me neither mate, god knows what goes through people's heads, heard a kid say it's because the king likes chess."
A ladder up a vertical shaft. "Watch your step. Third rung's loose. I keep meanin' to fix it. Never do."
At the top, a narrow catwalk along a cavern wall. Far below, lights flickered, strung like stars. Buildings rose in jagged tiers, carved from stone and steel. A castle-like structure dominated the center: dark spires, arched windows. Two guards stood at the front, one in gold and the other in silver.
"Home sweet fuckin' home," Silvester said, spreading his arms. "Welcome to the heart of it."
They descended watchtowers—spiral stairs inside hollowed stone—through alleys hung with lanterns, past doorways where faces watched from shadow. No one stopped them. A few nodded at Silvester. One called, "Sly, you bringin' strays home again?"
"Only the pretty ones!" he shot back.
Violet's face burned.
Finally, massive double doors of blackened iron. Guards in blood red and jet black armour stepped aside without a word. Inside: a dining hall vast enough to swallow sound. A long table of dark wood. Benches. Chandeliers of salvaged crystal dripping light. At the far end, raised on a step, a throne of obsidian, bone and what seemed to be hardened gems.
And the king.
He sat motionless as always. Pale hands—long, elegant fingers—rested on the arms. Golden robes pooled around him. A white mask covered his face completely: smooth, featureless except for faint carvings that might have been eyes if you stared too long. No mouth. No expression. Just blank perfection.
Silvester strode forward without hesitation. Violet followed, slower.
"Kingsley," Silvester said cheerfully. "Brought you a present. Meet Violet. Teleports like a ghost. Steals like a dream. Fought like Maxine when shes drunk when I tried recruitin' her. Hot as hell. She's perfect."
The king didn't move. Didn't speak. Just tilted his masked head slightly.
Silvester kept going. "I want her on the team. Not as the leader of course, I'm still going for that spot. But recon. Extraction. Whatever needs doin' fast and quiet. She's got the juice."
A long pause.
Then the king leaned back in his throne. Slow. Deliberate. One gloved hand lifted, palm up, then settled again.
Yes.
Silvester whooped. "That's what I'm talkin' about! Welcome to the crew, Vi. Drinks on me tonight. Well—drinks on whoever's buyin'."
Violet stared at the masked figure. Something about the stillness made her skin crawl. Not fear, exactly. Recognition. Like looking at a mirror that refused to show her reflection.
Before she could speak, the doors at the side of the hall burst open.
A messenger, young, breathless, uniform torn, stumbled in. "Breach! Far left quadrant—sector nine! Raiders with Nexus, they seem to have found dirt. Armed. Heavy. They're pushing hard!"
The hall went still.
Silvester's grinned. "How many?"
"Thirty. Maybe more. Got explosives. They're blasting through the old quarantine seals."
The king lay back, head craned slightly up. Silent. Robes whispering. He pointed one long finger toward the doors. "Kill them and connect me to the head of Nexus now."
Silvester cracked his knuckles. "Right. Time to earn your keep, princess." He glanced at Violet. "Paint em purple."
She looked from the masked king to the panting messenger, then back to Silvester's expectant face.
The mist stirred at her feet, unbidden.
"Yeah," she said quietly.
Silvester laughed—loud, reckless, delighted. "That's the spirit! Let's go fuck up some intruding assholes."
He clapped her shoulder once, hard enough to sting, then turned toward the doors.
Violet followed.
Behind them, the king watched. Silent. Still. The white mask giving nothing away.