The van doors hissed open, and light stabbed my eyes, sharp as a blade. I squinted, my head still throbbing from where I'd hit the platform, blood crusting on my cheek. The cuffs on my wrists burned, too tight, scraping my skin raw. I sat slumped against the van's wall, the hum of its engine gone quiet, replaced by voices—gruff, barking orders. Coalition enforcers. My stomach twisted, but I didn't move. Didn't want to. Moving meant facing a world without Clara, and I wasn't ready for that. Not yet.
"Up, kid!" A gloved hand grabbed my arm, yanking me to my feet. I stumbled, boots scraping the metal floor, and glared at the enforcer. His visor hid his face, but I could feel his sneer, like I was dirt under his heel. I wanted to spit in his face, to scream about what they'd done—Clara's blood, her empty eyes—but my throat was too raw, my voice gone. All I had was hate, heavy as a stone in my chest.
He dragged me out, and Nova Rhea hit me like a fist. The air stank of oil and smoke, the kind that clung to your lungs. We were in some kind of compound—high walls topped with wire, floodlights glaring down, drones buzzing like flies. Buildings loomed, all concrete and steel, their windows dark. No neon here, not like the plaza. This was the city's guts, where they hid their ugly work. I saw other vans, heard shouts, caught the clank of boots on pavement. A prison, maybe, or worse.
My knees shook, but I forced myself to stand straight. Clara wouldn't want me crumbling, not now. I could still hear her—Live. For me—like she was whispering in my ear. It hurt, that memory, but it kept me going, kept my feet moving as the enforcer shoved me toward a gate. My eyes stung, not from the light but from her face in my head—silver hair, green eyes, the way she'd smiled when I finally sparked a flame, even if it died fast. Gone. All of it, gone.
They pushed me through a door, into a hallway that smelled like rust and bleach. The walls were gray, scratched, like nobody cared enough to fix them. Lights flickered overhead, buzzing soft, and I caught my reflection in a cracked window—scrawny, pale, blood smeared on my face, my dark hair a mess. I looked like a ghost, or maybe a kid playing at being tough. Sixteen years, and this was what I had left: cuffs, scars, and a hole where Clara used to be.
"Move it," the enforcer growled, prodding my back with his rifle. I gritted my teeth and walked, my boots echoing. We passed cells—metal doors with tiny slits, some quiet, some not. I heard a sob from one, a curse from another. Prisoners, like me. Were they witches too? Or just folks who'd mouthed off, refused the NeuraTech chip? I didn't know, and part of me didn't care. My fight wasn't theirs. Not yet.
They stopped at a door, heavier than the rest, with a lock that glowed red. The enforcer scanned his wrist—probably chipped, like all of them—and it slid open with a groan. Inside was a room, small, bare, just a metal chair bolted to the floor and a table pitted with dents. No windows, no air, just the hum of a vent somewhere. My heart sped up, but I kept my face blank. No way I'd let them see me scared.
"Sit," he said, shoving me toward the chair. I tripped, catching myself on the table, and shot him a look that could've burned holes. He laughed, short and mean, then stepped back as another figure walked in. This one was different—no exosuit, just a black uniform, crisp, with a silver pin shaped like the Coalition's gear-and-lightning sigil. His face was sharp, all angles, with gray eyes that cut through me. No implant scar, which was weird. Most higher-ups were wired to the network.
"Name," he said, not a question, just a demand. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, like he had all day.
I didn't answer. My jaw locked tight, and I stared at the floor, tracing a crack in the concrete. If I opened my mouth, I'd scream—about Clara, about the lance, about their whole rotten city. I wasn't giving them that. Not a word.
He sighed, like I was a chore. "Asher Wolfe, right? Found with the witch, Clara Moreau. No chip, no record. You're a ghost, kid." He stepped closer, his boots clicking. "Ghosts don't last long here."
My head snapped up, rage flaring. "Don't say her name," I spat, my voice hoarse but steady. "You don't get to say it."
He raised an eyebrow, like I'd surprised him, but his mouth twitched, amused. "Touchy. Fine. Let's talk about you. What were you doing in the plaza? Planning something stupid with your witch friend?"
I clenched my fists, the cuffs digging deeper. Friend? She was my family, my everything. But I didn't say it. Didn't trust my voice to hold. Instead, I thought of her—kneeling, bleeding, telling me to live. I thought of the crowd, cheering her death. I thought of this city, built on lies, and the Coalition, pulling every string.
"Nothing to say?" he went on, circling the table. "Doesn't matter. We'll find out. You're nobody, Asher. No chip, no rights. One word, and you're ash, like her."
Her. Clara. My chest burned, and I lunged forward, chair screeching, cuffs yanking me back. "You killed her!" I shouted, my voice breaking. "She didn't do anything! She was good, better than all of you!"
He didn't flinch, just watched me, like I was a bug under glass. "Good's got nothing to do with it," he said, cold. "She was a witch. You know the rules. Magic's done. NeuraTech's the future."
"Future?" I laughed, bitter, tasting blood in my mouth. "Your future's a cage. You burned the only thing worth saving."
He tilted his head, studying me, then shrugged. "Keep talking, kid. Makes my job easier." He nodded at the enforcer, who grabbed my shoulder, hard enough to bruise. They hauled me up, dragging me back to the hall, my boots scraping. I didn't fight. My body was heavy, like it'd given up, but my mind was racing, picking at what he'd said. Nobody. Ash. Rules.
Clara had told me about their rules, back in Thornwick, when we'd sit by the stream, her voice low so the wind wouldn't carry it. "They want control," she'd said, tossing a pebble in the water. "NeuraTech's their leash. Witches don't fit, so they erase us." I hadn't got it then, not really. Now I did. They'd erased her, right in front of me, and I was next—unless I did something.
The hall blurred as they shoved me into a cell, small and damp, with a cot that smelled like sweat and a bucket in the corner. The door slammed, the lock glowing red, and I was alone. I sank to the floor, back against the wall, cuffs still on. My hands shook, and I pressed them to my face, trying to hold it together. Tears came anyway, hot and useless, mixing with the blood on my cheek. I didn't care. Nobody could see me now.
Clara's face swam up again—her smile, her voice, the way she'd believed in me, even when I didn't. I'd failed her. I'd stood there, screaming, doing nothing, while that lance took her away. The guilt was a knife, twisting deeper, but behind it was something else—fire. Not the spark I'd tried to summon, not magic, but something harder. A promise.
I wiped my face, slow, and stared at the dark. "I'll make them pay," I whispered, to her, to myself. "Every one of them. For you." It wasn't just words—it was a vow, carved in me, as real as the scars on my arms. The Coalition thought they'd won, thought I was nobody. They were wrong. I was Asher Wolfe, Clara's kid, and I'd tear their world apart, brick by brick, until it screamed like I was screaming inside.
The cell was quiet, but my heart wasn't. It beat with her name, with my rage, with the fight I'd start, no matter how long it took.