Morning light pierced through Ch'en's window, a muted grey glow slipping past the blinds to paint faint lines across the room.
Ch'en awoke, rubbing her eyes as the haze of sleep lifted.
She sat up, stretching her arms briefly, and glanced aside—Howard's camping bed lay empty, the blanket folded with care.
Dawn had broken, and he'd already slipped away.
She rose and readied herself for the day, her routine crisp yet unhurried.
She splashed cool water on her face at the sink, the shock chasing away lingering drowsiness, then pulled her hair into a sleek ponytail, its sheen catching the dim light.
She donned a fitted jacket and sturdy pants—practical gear for Lungmen's unpredictable streets—lacing her boots with deft fingers.
Stepping into the kitchen, she spotted a note on the table in Howard's neat script:
Left early—had a job to tackle.
She gave a small nod, setting it aside, and carried on with her morning.
***
Howard stood before a reinforced steel door, a weathered leather bag slung over his shoulder.
His attire marked a sharp shift from his usual style—gone were the tailored overcoats and trousers, replaced by a plain black shirt and pants, topped with a dark apron that draped to his knees.
A gas mask hung around his neck, its air filters branching like skeletal limbs, a safeguard for the task ahead.
He turned the key, the lock yielding with a heavy clank, and stepped into the lab.
The space was as he'd ordered—just past midnight, he'd rented it, shelling out extra LMD to have it customised overnight.
He flicked on the lights, and a deep red glow bathed the room, casting an ominous sheen over the setup: a workbench strewn with glassware, a humming centrifuge, and shelves lined with sealed vials.
He dropped his bag onto the floor with a muted thud, pulled a chair closer—a rickety metal frame with cracked leather padding—and settled in to begin his work.
From the bag, he retrieved a stack of photographs—images of the colombian nobles behind the 4-billion-LMD bounty on his head he acquired from Elena.
He pinned them to a corkboard against the wall, their faces glaring back: angular features framed by opulent collars, eyes cold with entitlement, wealth dripping from every detail.
'Just as I figured,' he thought, a bitter edge sharpening his focus.
They were all tied to the company Morrison had crushed—the one plotting to pilfer Blacksteel's weaponry and forge a rival enterprise.
Nobles, untouchable by law, had shrugged off accountability with a paltry fine, their ambitions unscathed.
Now they'd targeted him, the detective who'd unravelled their scheme, as their scapegoat.
His eyes narrowed, a quiet darkness simmering within.
They'll pay—not with blood, but with something far worse, he resolved, turning to his workbench.
He reached for a vial of his own blood—crimson with a faint, unnatural shimmer, drawn from his arm hours earlier—and a set of sealed tubes containing samples from Oripathy victims.
Something inspired him during his sleep. The "Black Death."
The most devastating pandemic in recorded human history, caused by the bacterium Yersinia pestis and primarily manifesting as bubonic plague.
It swept across Europe, Asia, and North Africa in the mid-14th century, with profound and lasting impacts on society, economy, and culture.
He decided to create something similar to the plague but rather more controlled.
It was much weaker than oripathy, but the way it spread was different.
Oripathy's spread—not to kill instantly , but to trap its victims in perpetual torment while granting them power at the cost of their life.
He set to work with methodical precision, the red light casting long shadows across his hands.
He started by drawing his blood into a syringe, the liquid glinting as he injected it into a sterile flask.
Next, he pipetted the Oripathy samples, their thick, tainted texture clinging to the glass, and blended them with his own.
He heated the mixture over a low flame, watching it bubble and shift, then added a catalyst—the blood he had changed to acquire the biological ability of a feramut.
The concoction hissed, releasing a faint, metallic vapour that he quickly vented through a filtration hood.
'Steady now—too much, and it'll destabilise', he cautioned himself, adjusting the temperature with a flick of a dial.
He centrifuged the blend, the machine whirring as it separated the components, then distilled the result into a concentrated essence—a yellow-red liquid that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
He tested it on a petri dish of inert cells, observing under a microscope as the oripathy markers surged, spreading at an accelerated pace.
It's working—faster than I thought, he thought, a grim satisfaction settling in.
After hours of refinement—titrating, filtering, stabilising—he succeeded.
Five vials emerged, each no larger than a remote battery, filled with a crimson yellow gas that swirled within the glass.
He labelled them, tilting one to study its effect.
When inhaled, this pathogen would infect the victim instantly, triggering Oripathy's latest symptoms: blackened veins creeping beneath the skin, crystalline lesions blooming on flesh.
By inducing forced use of Originium once they get in contact with the host. They would develop a special immune system that would prevent them from dying.
A living sentence, forever suffering, he reflected, envisioning the nobles' smug faces contorted in agony, their wealth powerless against an affliction they'd exploited for profit.
He set the vials in a row, their faint glow mirroring the red light above, and leaned back in his chair.
He knew what he had created, but he didn't care anymore.
***
Howard Leyman sat alone in Ch'en's spare room, the morning's grey light filtering through the blinds to cast faint stripes across the camping bed.
His phone rested in his hand, the screen glowing as he dialled Alexander.
The call connected with a soft click, and her voice came through, warm yet edged with a familiar steel, cutting through the quiet hum of Lungmen beyond the walls.
"Hi, Alexander. How are things going in life?"
"Training's going smoothly,"
Alexander began, her tone carrying a note of pride even over the line.
"I've been putting them through their paces—arts, drills, the lot. Everything's shaping up well. By the time Reunion arrives, I will have a team that has been refined into flawless weapons, prepared to tackle any challenge they present."
A faint smirk lingered in her words, her confidence crackling through the speaker.
Howard leaned back against the wall, the phone pressed to his ear as he traced the edge of the blanket with his free hand.
"Sounds like you've got it all under control," he replied, his voice easy but tinged with weariness.
"Things here took a nasty turn—the firm's gone, Camelia's barely hanging on—but I've got it sorted now."
A quiet sigh filtered through the phone, laced with concern and a touch of resignation.
"Just don't let this choice haunt you, Howard—whatever you're planning."
"You should know what I intend to do; after all, you are me."
Howard let out a short laugh, a dry sound that echoed faintly in the room.
"Besides, it won't even be me dishing out the revenge," he said, a wry grin tugging at his lips as he spoke.
***
A week had slipped by, and the Colombian train station buzzed with life under a sky streaked with dusk's amber hues.
Passengers shuffled through the sprawling terminal—merchants haggling over crates, families clutching tickets, operators adjusting gear—each lost in their own haste.
Amid the throng, a singular figure stood out, cutting through the crowd with a quiet, deliberate grace.
He wore a crow-shaped mask, its dark contours gleaming faintly under the station's gaslights, obscuring his face in shadow.
A long black coat draped his frame, its hem brushing the polished floor, the fabric swaying with each measured step.
In one hand, he gripped a cane—ebony wood capped with a silver tip, tapping the ground in a steady rhythm—while the other held a worn leather bag, its surface scuffed yet taut with unseen weight.
His presence was carried unnoticed by most yet chilling in its focus.
He paused near a platform's edge, the distant whistle of an approaching train piercing the din.
Leaning slightly on his cane, he whispered to himself, voice low and lost to the clamour.
"Here I come."