The transport van pulled into the Navy Yard facility, and Luna was out the door before Reeves had even fully stopped.
She didn't look back. Didn't say anything. Just slammed the van door hard enough to rock the vehicle on its suspension and stalked toward the facility entrance, her cat-ear beanie disappearing through the door a moment later.
The door slammed again behind her. The sound echoed across the empty parking lot.
Jax sat in the back seat, watching her go.
"She always like that?" he asked.
Reeves killed the engine. "Yep."
"Great."
Jax climbed out of the van and found a bench near the facility entrance; one of those industrial metal things bolted to the concrete, the kind that wasn't designed for comfort so much as durability. He sat down heavily, letting out a long breath, and stared at his hands.
They were still covered in demon blood. Dirt caked under his fingernails, smeared across his palms. His knuckles were scraped raw from hitting the floor when Luna had blasted him. His back ached. His mouth still tasted like copper.
What the fuck is going on, he thought.
Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been lying on his mattress in North Philly, staring at a water stain shaped like Florida, trying to figure out how to make twelve bucks stretch into rent money. Now he was sitting outside a secret government facility, covered in monster guts, apparently part of a demon-hunting team that hated his guts.
He looked at his hands again. Turned them over. Studied the lines of his palms, the veins visible beneath the skin.
Redline Reincarnation.
That's what Emil had called it. His ability. The thing that had brought him back from the dead and turned him into... whatever he'd become in that warehouse. The red glow, the impossible speed, the hunger.
So why hadn't it happened back there? In the print shop, when Luna had blasted him across the room, when the demon had charged, why hadn't he felt it? Why hadn't the engine kicked in?
Was it because he hadn't died? Did he have to actually die to trigger it?
That was a fucked-up activation condition. "Sorry, you have to be clinically dead before your superpowers work." What kind of bullshit was that?
He flexed his fingers, half-expecting to see red light crack through his skin. Nothing. Just blood and dirt and exhaustion.
"Hey."
Jax looked up. Reeves was standing a few feet away, that same tired expression on his face.
"Emil wants to see you. Briefing room."
"I don't know where that is."
Reeves stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed a deep, weary sigh that suggested this was somehow the most annoying thing that had happened to him all day, which was saying something given the van ride.
"Follow me."
The briefing room looked different with people in it.
When Jax had been here earlier, it had just been Luna ignoring him and the awkward silence of a failed first impression. Now the lights were brighter, there were papers spread across the table, and two people were waiting for him.
Emil sat at the head of the table, relaxed and cheerful as always, those purple eyes bright with something that might have been amusement. He was leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, looking like a man who'd never experienced stress in his entire life.
Zion sat across from him.
The field team leader was not relaxed. His posture was rigid, his jaw tight, his hands flat on the table in front of him like he was physically restraining himself from punching something. The energy spear wasn't on his back anymore, probably stored somewhere, but he looked just as dangerous without it.
When Jax walked in, Zion's eyes snapped to him. Something flickered in his expression; frustration, maybe, or resignation, before he sat up straighter and went carefully, deliberately blank.
"Jax!" Emil spread his arms wide, that golden-retriever grin splitting his face. "There he is! The man of the hour. Come in, come in, have a seat."
Jax hesitated in the doorway, looking between Emil and Zion.
"...Is this a good time?"
"Perfect time. Best time. We were just talking about you, actually." Emil gestured to an empty chair. "Please. Sit."
Jax sat.
The silence stretched for a moment. Emil seemed perfectly comfortable with it. Zion did not.
"So," Emil said, clasping his hands together. "How did it go? The job with Luna. Your first official DCB mission. Give me the highlights."
Jax considered lying. Considered spinning some story about teamwork and cooperation and professional synergy.
Then he thought about Luna blasting him into a wall and calling him homeless gutter trash.
"It was a disaster," he said flatly.
Emil's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"
"She wouldn't talk to me. She wouldn't let me help. When I tried to engage the demon, she literally used her powers to throw me across the room." Jax gestured vaguely at his torso. "Pretty sure I've got bruised ribs."
"And the demon?"
"Dead. I killed it."
"You killed it? Not Luna?"
"She was about to get her face eaten. I tackled it, stabbed it in the throat." Jax shrugged. "She's pissed about it. Called it 'stealing her kill' or something."
Emil nodded slowly, that amused glint still in his eyes. "Interesting. And your ability? The Redline?"
Jax's jaw tightened. "Didn't use it."
"Didn't? Or couldn't?"
"Couldn't. I don't—" He stopped, frustrated. "I don't know how to turn it on. It just happened in the warehouse. I didn't do anything."
Zion made a sound. Not quite a word, more like a sharp exhale through his nose. Everyone looked at him.
"Something to add?" Emil asked, his voice still pleasant.
Zion's jaw worked for a moment. Then: "This is exactly what I'm talking about."
"Zion—"
"No. You need to hear this." Zion leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Emil. "This is your pattern. You find these strays, these kids with unstable powers and no training, and you bring them in thinking you can fix them. Thinking they'll fall in line. Thinking it'll all work out."
"I wouldn't say 'pattern'—"
"It's a pattern. And it always ends the same way." Zion's voice was hard, controlled, but there was something underneath it that sounded almost like pain. "They get themselves killed. Or they get someone else killed. Or both."
The room went very quiet.
Emil's expression didn't change. But his eyes did; that purple glow brightening, just for a moment, just enough to be noticeable.
Zion saw it. His mouth snapped shut, his posture shifting slightly, like a soldier remembering who outranked him.
"I appreciate your concern," Emil said softly. "I do. But perhaps we can table this discussion for another time. Preferably one where our newest team member isn't sitting right there listening to you explain why he's going to fail."
Zion didn't respond. He just sat back in his chair, his face carefully blank, his eyes fixed on some point on the far wall.
Emil turned back to Jax, and just like that, the cheerful mask was back; so seamlessly that Jax almost wondered if he'd imagined the tension.
"Now then! Let's talk about the fun stuff. Employment terms."
He slid a folder across the table. Jax caught it, flipped it open. Pages of dense legal text, paragraphs of fine print, sections with headers like COMPENSATION and BENEFITS and LIABILITY WAIVER.
"As team lead and director, Zion and I need to finalize your terms before we can make anything official." Emil steepled his fingers. "The short version is this: you work for the DCB. You hunt demons when we tell you to hunt demons. You submit to regular medical evaluations so we can monitor your condition. In exchange..."
He paused, that grin widening.
"How does $150,000 a year sound?"
Jax's brain stopped working.
"...What?"
"$150,000. Annual salary. Plus bonuses for meeting your demon quota; we track kills by class, with higher-tier demons earning more. Housing stipend, health insurance, access to the facility cafeteria." Emil ticked the items off on his fingers. "Oh, and we'll clear up that little issue with the unlicensed contracting. No charges, no record. Clean slate."
Jax stared at him.
$150,000.
The number didn't even seem real. It was like someone had told him he'd be paid in moon rocks or dinosaur bones; a unit of measurement so far outside his experience that his brain couldn't process it.
He made maybe $3,000 a year. On a good year. Killing demons for pocket change, scraping by on classified ads and luck. He'd never had more than a few hundred dollars at one time in his entire life.
$150,000 was... he couldn't even do the math. It was more than he'd made in his entire life combined. It was more than everyone he knew made. It was a number from a different world, a different life, a different person's story.
"There are details in the contract," Emil was saying. "Terms and conditions, standard stuff. You're welcome to read through it, take your time, consult a lawyer if you—"
Jax grabbed a pen from the table and signed the last page.
He didn't read the rest. Didn't even look at it. Just found the signature line and wrote his name in handwriting that was barely legible.
Emil blinked. Then he laughed that delighted, golden-retriever bark.
"Oh, that's wonderful. That's absolutely wonderful." He looked at Zion, still grinning. "See? Isn't he funny?"
Zion's expression suggested he did not find Jax funny. Zion's expression suggested he found Jax deeply concerning on multiple levels.
"So what now?" Jax asked, setting the pen down. "What do I do? Can I get paid now? I need to pay my landlord."
Emil laughed again, harder this time, like Jax had just told the best joke he'd heard all week.
"Pay your—" He wiped at his eyes. "Jax. Our agents don't live in dingy rowhomes. You won't be going back to..." He waved his hand vaguely. "Whatever that place was."
"Hey." Jax sat up straighter, suddenly defensive. "That's my home. And Mrs. Reyes, my landlord, I owe her $1,400. I can't just—"
"Handled."
"What?"
"Handled." Emil smiled. "We sent agents to settle your outstanding debts this morning. Your landlord has been paid in full, plus a little extra for her trouble. Your lease has been terminated. And your belongings..." The smile turned into something closer to a smirk. "Are being delivered to your new apartment as we speak."
Jax felt his face go hot. "You went through my stuff?"
"Our agents are very thorough."
"My—my personal belongings—"
"All of them, yes." Emil's smirk widened. "Including that very... well-loved magazine collection under your mattress. The one with the—"
"OKAY." Jax's face was on fire. "Okay. Stop. Please stop."
Emil was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Even Zion let out a long, exhausted sigh, the kind of sigh that suggested he'd seen Emil do this before and was very tired of it.
"Where," Jax said through gritted teeth, "am I living?"
Emil composed himself, wiping tears from his eyes. "The Rittenhouse Arms. It's a lovely building; Rittenhouse Square, very upscale, doorman and everything. We keep a few units reserved for agents who need housing. You'll be on the eighth floor."
Rittenhouse Square. Jax didn't know much about Center City neighborhoods, but he knew that one. Rich people. Fancy restaurants. The kind of area where his hoodie alone would probably get him stopped by security.
"That's..." He shook his head. "That's crazy. That's—"
A strangled sound came from across the table.
Jax looked at Zion. Zion's eyes had gone wide. His jaw was hanging open. He looked like someone had just told him his car had been filled with bees.
"The Rittenhouse Arms," Zion said slowly. "Eighth floor."
"That's right," Emil said pleasantly.
"Eighth floor."
"Mmhmm."
"That's—" Zion's composure cracked. "That's my floor. That's where I live. That's where Luna lives."
Jax felt his stomach drop. "Wait. What?"
"Unit 808," Emil said, now grinning so wide it looked painful. "Right between Zion's unit and Luna's. Isn't that convenient? You'll all be neighbors!"
"No," Jax said.
"Absolutely not," Zion said at the same time.
They looked at each other; the first moment of genuine agreement they'd had since Jax walked into the building.
"I can't live next to her," Jax said, turning back to Emil. "She literally tried to kill me today. Multiple times."
"I can't be responsible for him outside of work hours," Zion said, talking over Jax. "I didn't sign up to babysit—"
"—and she called me homeless gutter trash, which, okay, maybe technically accurate but still—"
"—this is a liability issue, Emil, you can't just put three agents who clearly have personality conflicts in adjacent units—"
"—and she blasted me into a wall, man, like with her powers—"
Emil clapped his hands together. The sound was sharp, final; cutting through both of their objections like a knife.
"So let it be written," he said cheerfully, "so let it be done. You're neighbors now. Congratulations. I'm sure you'll all become the best of friends."
He stood up, gathering the signed contract.
"Now, shall we go see the new digs? I'd love to give you the grand tour."
The Rittenhouse Arms was the nicest building Jax had ever been in.
Which, admittedly, wasn't saying much; the nicest building he'd been in before this was probably the DCB facility, and before that, maybe the public library on Vine Street. But still. The lobby alone had marble floors, actual chandeliers, and a doorman who looked at Jax's bloodstained hoodie with the kind of polite horror usually reserved for roadkill.
"He's with me," Emil said breezily, steering Jax toward the elevator. "New resident. Unit 808. You'll be seeing a lot of him."
The doorman's expression suggested he was not looking forward to that.
The elevator ride was silent and awkward. Jax stood in one corner, Zion stood in the other, and Emil stood in the middle, humming cheerfully to himself like he wasn't sandwiched between two people who clearly wanted to be anywhere else.
The doors opened on the eighth floor.
"Here we are!" Emil stepped out, spreading his arms. "Home sweet home. Zion, you're in 806. Luna's in 810. And Jax, you're right here in the middle, 808."
He produced a key from his coat pocket and unlocked the door.
The apartment was...
Jax didn't have words for what the apartment was.
It was bigger than anywhere he'd ever lived. Bigger than his whole floor in the North Philly rowhome. There was a living room with actual furniture; a couch, a coffee table, a TV that had to be at least 40 inches. A kitchen with a full-size refrigerator and a stove that wasn't held together with duct tape. A bedroom with a bed frame, an actual bed frame, not just a mattress on the floor. A bathroom with a shower that looked like it had water pressure and everything.
And in the corner of the living room, piled in a sad little heap, were his belongings.
It wasn't much. A garbage bag full of clothes. His mattress, propped against the wall. A cardboard box that probably contained everything else he owned, which, based on the size of the box, wasn't much.
His entire life fit in a corner. It looked even smaller here, surrounded by all this space.
"The TV is smart," Emil was saying, pointing things out like a real estate agent. "Internet's included. Fridge should be stocked with basics; milk, eggs, bread, that sort of thing. If you need anything else, there's a grocery store two blocks east."
Jax wasn't listening. He was staring at the TV. At the couch. At the windows, which had glass that wasn't cracked and actually looked out onto something other than a brick wall.
"I'll leave you to get settled," Emil said, heading for the door. "Zion, make sure he doesn't burn the place down. I'll check in tomorrow."
Zion, who had been standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, let out a grunt that might have been acknowledgement or might have been disgust. Hard to tell.
"Welcome to the team, Jax," Emil said, pausing at the threshold. Those purple eyes glittered. "I have a feeling you're going to do great things."
Then he was gone.
Zion looked at Jax. Jax looked at Zion.
"Don't," Zion said.
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're about to do. Don't." He turned and walked out of the apartment. "I'll see you at the facility tomorrow. Six AM. Don't be late."
The door to unit 806 opened. Closed. The lock clicked into place.
Jax was alone.
He stood in the middle of his new apartment, his apartment, that was going to take some getting used to, and tried to process everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
Yesterday: broke, starving, four months behind on rent, scraping for classified ad jobs.
Today: $150,000 salary, government employee, living in Rittenhouse fucking Square.
Also today: died and came back to life, discovered he had superpowers, got yelled at by two different people who hated him, and found out he was going to die at fifty.
It was a lot.
He walked over to the couch and sat down. It was soft. Softer than anything he'd ever sat on. He could feel himself sinking into it, the cushions molding around him, and it was so comfortable it almost made him want to cry.
He looked at the TV. It was huge. Flat-screen. The kind of thing he used to see in store windows and know he'd never be able to afford.
He didn't turn it on. Just sat there, staring at the black screen, at his own faint reflection in the glass.
He looked like shit. Bloodstained hoodie, tangled hair, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like exactly what Luna had called him; a sad, wet rat that had crawled out of a storm drain.
A shower. He needed a shower. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had access to hot water and actual water pressure.
He got up and walked to the bathroom. It was pristine; white tiles, glass shower door, a stack of fluffy towels on a rack. There were bottles of shampoo and body wash already in the shower. Little soaps shaped like seashells on the counter.
He stared at the shower controls.
There were... a lot of knobs. And buttons. And what looked like a digital display. This was not like the showers he was used to, where you turned one thing and water came out (or didn't, depending on whether the building's plumbing was working that day).
He turned a knob. Nothing happened.
He pushed a button. A light came on, but still no water.
He turned another knob. The digital display flickered to life, showing a temperature reading, but the shower remained stubbornly dry.
"What the fuck," he muttered.
Five minutes later, after trying every possible combination of knobs and buttons, Jax found himself standing in the hallway outside unit 806, banging on Zion's door.
"Hey!" Bang bang bang. "Hey, Zion! I need help!"
Silence from the other side.
"I know you're in there, man. I just watched you go in. Come on." Bang bang bang. "How do I use the shower?"
Nothing.
"There's like eight knobs and a computer screen! I don't know what any of them do!" Bang bang bang. "Zion! Zion!"
The door stayed closed.
"I will stand here all night!" Jax yelled. "I haven't showered in like a week and I'm covered in demon blood! Is that what you want? You want me to just marinate in this?"
From somewhere inside the apartment, muffled but unmistakable, came Zion's voice:
"Go away."
Jax let his forehead thunk against the door.
This was going to be a long assignment.