The wind cut through the half-buried ruins, hissing across shattered stone and twisted steel. Shattered husks of vehicles smoldered beneath a thick gray sky, their frames curled inward like dead insects. The ground was scarred with deep fractures, and heat still bled faintly from the earth. Violence had come and gone, but the residue lingered.
A row of emergency vehicles blinked in the distance—red-blue lights pulsing over scorched concrete. Firetrucks idled near the perimeter, their hoses still snaking across the street, flooding hotspots with hissing jets of foam. Cleanup crews moved in coordinated sweeps, clearing debris and stabilizing walls one beam at a time. Drones buzzed overhead, scanning for structural risks while shouting foremen barked updates to panicked engineers.
In the middle of it all, untouched by the chaos, stood a burned-in symbol.
Silas crouched near the center of the blast zone, fingers brushing over the scorched pavement. The mark was unmistakable—jagged, charred, left with intention. A "Z," drawn in the ash like a brand, sharp at the edges and recently scorched.
Boots crunched behind him.
Lieutenant Langston approached, his steps careful across the debris. His regulation armor was newer, unscuffed. He still carried the posture of someone recently pulled from desk duty.
"This is it, right?" Langston asked, nodding toward the symbol. "That Z-thing everyone's been whispering about?"
Silas didn't look up. He held out his scanner, letting the device hum as it captured the mark. "Yeah. That's it."
Langston crouched beside him, tilting his head at the burned emblem. "First time seeing one up close. Kinda theatrical, isn't it?"
Silas gave a noncommittal grunt. The scanner chirped once—data logged, coordinates set, the file already en route to Central.
Behind them, the screech of shifting metal rang out as a collapsed support beam was pulled aside by a crane-mounted loader. Medics hauled out a dust-covered worker—still breathing, but dazed. A second fireteam surged past them, heading to a smoking sublevel that hadn't fully cooled.
Langston glanced back toward the noise. "Hard to believe this was a civilian block. This much damage… and nobody dead?"
"No confirmed casualties," Silas replied. "Only wreckage and witnesses."
"And no sign of Onnyx?"
"Gone by the time we arrived."
Langston scratched his jaw. "You think this Zteel group was protecting people?"
Silas paused at that—but not because it caught him off guard. Just because it was a pointless question. He rose to his feet.
"They weren't protecting anyone," he said flatly. "They were interfering."
Langston looked up, frowning slightly. "But if they stopped Onnyx—"
"They didn't stop him. They delayed him."
"Still. That's not exactly what the reports said they'd do."
Silas turned toward the horizon, watching the drifting smoke spiral into the clouds. "The reports don't need to explain motives. Just patterns."
Langston didn't respond. He stayed crouched near the insignia, as if waiting for it to tell him something else. Silas didn't bother.
Intentions were irrelevant.
Whether Zteel fancied themselves heroes, rebels, or martyrs, it didn't change the directive. They'd left their mark. They wanted to be found. They wanted a reaction.
They'd get one.
"Finish sweeping this grid," Silas ordered, his voice snapping back into military clarity. "Forward any anomalies to the 7th branch. I'll handle what's left."
Langston hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Understood."
As the lieutenant moved off, Silas tapped into his comm-link, tagging the site for secondary analysis. He didn't care if Zteel was trying to save civilians or start fires. His job wasn't to interpret. It was to report, to clear, and to neutralize what Noriko deemed a threat.
And right now, Zteel had made the list.
--
The scent of stir-fry still hung faintly in the air. A pan sat cooling on the stovetop, untouched since dinner almost an hour ago. Claudia stood at the kitchen island, drying a dish with slow, practiced motions, occasionally glancing toward the living room.
Fazian sat upright on the couch, one leg casually crossed over the other. His jacket was neatly worn, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The holo-screen flickered with news highlights, but Fazian's gaze was steady, fixed somewhere past the screen—thoughtful, distant, but composed.
Claudia set the towel down and approached.
"I heard about that," she said, referencing the news on the television. "There was an altercation between a single man and a group of young officers."
Fazian gave a short nod, his expression unchanged. "Mm."
"You didn't eat much," she said gently.
Fazian looked over, expression neutral. "Wasn't really hungry."
"You usually demolish those noodles," she replied, arms now crossed.
He gave a faint smile, a trace of something deeper behind it.
Claudia gave him a look—part amused, part unconvinced—before sinking into the chair across from him. She folded one leg underneath herself, leaning forward with casual purpose.
"Is this about Kai?" she asked, tone soft but unmistakably pointed.
Fazian paused, then shook his head. "No."
She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You sure?"
"…Maybe."
She didn't speak. Just waited.
He sighed, leaning his head back against the cushion. "She used to text me every day. Random stuff. Memes. Jokes. Now I haven't heard from her in weeks. One day we went out and—" He paused when he noticed Claudia's face: head slightly tilted, one brow arched higher than the other, eyes narrowed into the beginnings of a smirk.
He groaned. "Not like that!" Hands flailing slightly. "We just tried this new place for coffee and tea. She…"
"Mhm…" Claudia sipped from an invisible mug, the sarcasm thick.
He pointed at her. "Don't do that eyebrow thing. You're doing the eyebrow thing."
"I'm not doing anything," she said, entirely too innocent.
"And then, suddenly... nothing," he said, slumping slightly. "Just quiet."
Claudia sobered a little. "Did something happen between you two?"
"I don't think so," Fazian said. "I mean—we drifted, yeah. But I thought we'd bounce back like always. I think maybe she's changed. And finally, maybe I haven't."
Claudia nodded quietly. "That kind of silence can sting. Especially when you didn't see it coming," she softened. "People grow at their own pace. That doesn't mean they don't care. It just means they're figuring things out."
"Yeah," Fazian admitted. "But it sucks not knowing if I'm still part of her world."
"You don't have to give up on her," Claudia said, "but you don't have to chase her either."
Fazian leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "It's not just her. I don't know what's going on with me, either. Everything's felt off lately. School, training, even the team. Like I'm playing a role instead of living."
There was a long beat.
"You've always had a solid sense of direction," Claudia said. "Even when you were little, you knew what kind of life you wanted. Not many people your age can say that."
"Still want it," he said. "Still want to work in government, like Dad. I told him that last year—remember? When we had that long conversation after the career conference?"
Claudia smiled slightly. "I remember. You practically interrogated him about his job."
"He said, 'If you want to work with me, earn it. No shortcuts.'" Fazian glanced over. "I respected that. Still do."
"Well," she said, watching him carefully, "he meant it. Which is why he brought up an internship. It's not some family favor—he thinks you're ready. That you'd bring something solid to the table."
Fazian blinked, like he hadn't expected that.
Claudia continued, "He's not handing it to you. He's opening the door. You'd still have to walk in and do the work."
"…It's at his main office?"
Claudia nodded. "Downtown. You'd shadow him and a few others. Meetings, systems, inter-agency coordination. Not glamorous, but real. The kind of experience that matters."
Fazian leaned back, nodding slowly. "That's... actually kinda dope."
"I thought so too."
He went quiet again, but this time it wasn't distant—just reflective.
"It's almost all I ever wanted," he said, more certain now. "Let's do it."
Claudia smiled and reached over, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Good. He'll be proud to hear that. So am I."