Hiss—
It felt like invisible razor blades sliced straight through her brain.
A searing, electric pain exploded inside Vivienne's skull, sharp as a thousand needles dancing at every nerve ending.
Her mental tendrils — the delicate bridges Sentinels used to sense and connect to the world — felt like they were being ripped apart.
This wasn't metaphorical.
This was very real, agonizing, soul-shredding pain.
Far worse than anything flesh and bone could endure.
She could feel her mind unraveling, her strength draining away like blood pouring from a wound.
Vivienne gritted her teeth, cold sweat prickling at her hairline.
Her hands curled into fists so tight her nails dug deep into her palms — but that ache was nothing compared to the splitting torment in her head.
She couldn't fight back.
She couldn't lash out.
If she struck back with her own mental force, it would only escalate.
The scar-faced pirate — Anthony — spat out a breath of satisfaction and barked cruelly:
"E-Class Sentinel. Useless. No one would pay a damn credit for trash like you."
And as if that wasn't enough, he drove his boot hard into her knee.
"Crack."
Vivienne stumbled, dropping hard onto one knee, her body folding like a puppet with its strings cut.
Goddamn it. She really was an E-Class Sentinel.
The first thing she felt was numbness.
Then sharp, white-hot pain radiating up from her knee, slamming into her skull.
Her thoughts shattered, fragmented beyond repair.
This was bad.
Very bad.
Her fists clenched tighter, like she could squeeze the agony out of her bones.
Around her, the crowd murmured uneasily — civilians helpless against violence, despair pooling in their eyes as they watched her get beaten like a dog.
Anthony raised his voice, barking at the crowd:
"Shut the hell up! You wanna end up like her? Stay quiet!"
He fired a shot into the ceiling.
The hall fell into deathly silence.
A child who'd been crying earlier was quickly muffled by terrified parents.
Scarface jabbed the muzzle of his gun at Vivienne, voice dripping with disdain: "That's it? You're already down? I hate cowards like you — weak, pathetic excuses for Sentinels!"
If she could move, she'd have crawled halfway to another planet by now.
But she couldn't.
The pain. The noise.
Her head felt like it was splitting in two.
And worse— her mental stability was slipping fast.
Her agitation threshold — already dangerously low — had hit its limit.
She needed a Guide.
Immediately.
But there was no one. Not here. Not in this goddamn mess.
Her mind spiraled.
Would she die here? Would he actually shoot her? How the hell could she get out of this?
Anthony's patience ran out. He stepped closer, lips twisting as he cursed under his breath.
Her knee hurt. Her head hurt.
The noise, the shouting, the smell of gunpowder, the reek of fuel — it all slammed into her senses like a freight train.
Her enhanced perception — usually dulled by her mental exhaustion — suddenly flared, sharper and more chaotic than ever.
Everything was too loud, too bright, too sharp.
Her fragile mental landscape began to crumble.
"Stop! Anthony!"
A sharp voice cut through the fog.
Footsteps.
Someone stepped between her and the pirate.
Vivienne blinked, vision blurring from the pain.
A flash of polished black boots stopped in front of her.
"You alright?"
The voice was low, clear, edged with worry.
She looked up, breath ragged, her heartbeat thudding painfully in her chest.
The man standing there was tall, lithe, and far too pretty for this hellhole.
Tousled black hair, sharp jawline, and cool blue eyes flashing with restrained anger.
Vivienne's fuzzy mind registered the details slowly.
He looked young. Too young to be here. But everything about him screamed danger and authority.
The boy's gaze snapped to Anthony , his voice sharp:
"Have you forgotten the rules, Anthony?
This isn't your playground.
You don't get to do whatever the hell you want on the Tianshu."
The man they called Anthony let out a cold, mocking laugh.
"Causing trouble? Please. I'm just doing my job, little lord."
The boy's frown deepened.
Anthony's smirk widened.
"You wanna talk rules? What rule am I breaking, exactly?"
Without hesitation, the boy snapped back:
"Polaris regulations — no harming Guides without cause."
The rule was real. Everyone in Polaris knew it.
Guides were rarer, softer, more fragile than Sentinels. Their value was too high to waste.
Anthony barked out a harsh, mocking laugh.
"Aw, come on, little Vaughn. I know you're a Guide — soft-hearted, can't stand to see us rough up your kind."
He jabbed a thumb toward Vivienne's crumpled figure on the floor.
"But don't let that pretty face fool you. She's no Guide. She's a goddamn Sentinel."
The boy with the dark hair and icy blue eyes froze.
For a second, Leo Vaughn stared at her — really looked at her.
Vivienne Cross was a mess. She looked like a storm had wrecked her.
Her dark hair plastered to her forehead, pale face slick with sweat, thin arms trembling under the weight of her own body.
Every inch of her screamed: "Help me."
But…
Judging by the reactions around him — from pirates and passengers alike — Leo realized Anthony wasn't lying.
She really was a Sentinel.
Anthony grinned, voice dripping with mockery.
"So, what now, little Vaughn? You gonna keep playing the hero?
That woman's no fragile Guide. She's a weak-ass Sentinel."
And honestly, now that Leo knew…
He felt himself losing interest. He'd never had much sympathy for Sentinels. They didn't need saving. At least, that's what he told himself.
But Vivienne Cross wasn't stupid. She noticed the shift in Leo's expression immediately — the way his eyes cooled, the way his posture shifted.
No, no, no.
This kid was supposed to be her lifeline, her way out of this mess.
She wasn't about to let him walk away now.
Excuse you??? sir.
Weak-ass Sentinels deserve protection too.....
Especially when they're pretty.....
Leo was about to step back, wash his hands of the scene, when their eyes met . Her gaze hit him like a punch to the chest — dark, glassy, almost black. A galaxy of pain and desperation swirling inside. And somewhere, deep in his mind, a voice seemed to whisper:
[Help me.]
A faint, echoing cry, like the distant call of some ancient beast.
And then — gone.
Leo Vaughn's jaw tightened. A thought slipped uninvited into his head:
Help her.
She looks like she really needs it.
Immediately followed by a second, more sarcastic one:
Since when do I care what happens to a damn Sentinel?
And finally —
Screw it. Might as well do one good deed today.
He blinked once, his impatient scowl smoothing out into something almost composed. When he spoke again, his voice was cool, sharp, and absolute:
"Anthony," Leo said flatly, "starting a fight over your bruised ego and pushing a Sentinel into a mental collapse? That's a waste of resources."
Before Anthony could spit out a retort, Leo's gaze flicked back to Vivienne.
She looked like she was seconds away from falling apart.
His Guide's instinct — the part of him tuned into mental turbulence — prickled sharply.
He frowned.
"Her agitation levels are maxed out. She needs a mental cleanse."