The amber sun bled through the slanted glass of Noriko's office, casting fractured light over the floor. Shadows pooled long and deep. Noriko sat behind her desk, a statue in violet silhouette, hands folded atop glass like a queen waiting for judgment. The moment the door slid open, her eyes shifted—no more.
Malik stepped in, his coat still stained from the soot of earlier battle. He didn't wait to be asked.
"The targets are still active. Still unpredictable," he said, slumping lazily into the chair across from her. "It's kind of fun, actually. I almost feel bad." He chuckled, dry and sardonic.
"Well, don't," Noriko said. "Those who defy my authority ought to pay a fitting price."
"Sure," Malik said. "Just seems like overkill for some flashy upstarts blowing holes in abandoned factories."
Noriko said nothing, her gaze heavy as stone.
"They're not just doing that, though," Malik continued. "They've saved civilians. They all fought like it mattered."
He paused, his voice sharpening.
"We also had company. Some thing named Onnyx."
Noriko didn't flinch. Not fully. One finger curled slightly, tapping once against her desk. Malik noticed.
"That wasn't a slip," he said. "Project REV-0K. Still kicking. Tearing through the east quadrant like a thunderstorm. Almost left a whole plaza in flames."
He leaned forward now, voice low.
"We fought him. Me and Zteel. Together."
Noriko exhaled through her nose. Not surprise—something closer to irritation.
"So he's finally surfaced," she said.
"You knew?" Malik asked.
"I never forget what I bury," she replied coldly. Then, after a beat: "Onnyx wasn't built to sleep forever."
Malik stared at her, not hiding the edge in his tone.
"If I may, Director, why are the Zteel such a concern, anyway? What are you afraid they'll become?"
"Don't be stupid," she snapped, and the silence that followed burned hotter than her words. Then her voice cooled again—clipped and composed.
"It's not what they'll become. It's what they represent. The illusion that chaos can masquerade as freedom. That power should ever exist without permission."
He raised an eyebrow. "Sounds personal."
Noriko didn't answer.
Malik's gaze drifted across her desk—half-consciously at first—until it landed on something unusual. A fractured globe rested near her lamp, clear glass with continents marked in faint golden lines. But it wasn't whole. Shattered pieces sprawled across the stand beneath it like remnants of a cracked egg.
"What's with the globe?" Malik asked.
Noriko glanced down at it, then back at him with a shrug.
"A side project. Something to fiddle with when I'm bored and have too much time on my hands."
He scoffed faintly. "Right."
He stood, brushing invisible dust from his coat. "Well. Consider your update delivered." Without waiting for dismissal, he turned and exited.
Noriko didn't watch him go.
A moment passed. Then another.
She turned toward the desk, picked up a tiny, jagged fragment of the glass globe, and quietly fitted it into place. A whisper of glue, a firm press. The piece settled. Still, dozens more waited to be reattached.
She stared at it for a long time.
Down in the elevator, Malik stood alone. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing him in a quiet box of dim light and polished metal. Floor numbers blinked above him in descending order.
He exhaled through his nose, head tilting back until it rested lightly against the cold wall.
The hum of descent filled the silence. It was too quiet—like the city outside had gone mute, waiting for something to fall.
His reflection stared back at him from the metal panel across the way. A little battered. A little tired. His collar was torn. The bruise on his cheekbone from Onnyx still throbbed. But what held his attention most was the shift in his own eyes—how much they didn't look like a hunter anymore.
They looked like someone starting to ask why.
He crossed his arms and closed his eyes.
Zteel.
Onnyx.
Noriko.
He didn't doubt the mission—yet. He still believed in structure. In order. But if Noriko was rebuilding the world piece by piece… he was starting to wonder who had the power to decide which fragments were worth gluing back together.
The elevator dinged.
He opened his eyes.
"...Hm."