The morning after the rainstorm left the city washed in a kind of eerie calm. Everything glistened, from the iron balconies to the cobbled alleys, as if New Orleans had shed its skin and waited, raw and expectant.
Nate stood on the rooftop of the Tremé office building—one of the few properties he'd managed to secure from his father's tangled estate. It overlooked the French Quarter, just enough height to feel removed, but not untouchable. He was dressed clean, sharp. Gray slacks, a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, no tie. The city didn't deserve formality today.
Mallory approached from behind, carrying a tablet and a black coffee. "Dante's already moving."
He didn't look at her. "Where?"
"West Bank docks. Same place Hollow's been sniffing. Surveillance picked up his guys late last night—four trucks, unmarked. But they weren't moving product. They were... installing something."
"Installing?"
She handed him the tablet.
Footage rolled. Grainy night vision: men unspooling fiber-optic cable into the storm drains beneath the dock. Power nodes. Thermal generators. Advanced tech—not military, but damn close.
"This is infrastructure," Nate muttered. "He's building a grid."
Mallory nodded. "Off the books. Invisible to city systems. He's making his own network under ours."
"For ARCHIVE."
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
---
Later that day, Nate stepped into the offices of Harland & Kline, a law firm with more power than most banks. The receptionist's smile was plastic; her eyes flicked to the camera as she pressed a button under the desk.
In thirty seconds, he was in a walnut-paneled office with Gregory Kline himself—thin, pale, dressed like he had money but didn't enjoy it. The man barely looked up.
"Mr. Cross. Always dramatic entrances with you."
"I need a deed transfer. Two properties. Quietly."
Gregory sighed, tapping a pen. "Quiet costs extra."
"So does loyalty. You still work for the Cross estate, or did Dante already buy you?"
That got a reaction.
"He made an offer," Gregory admitted. "But I declined."
"Why?"
"Because you're unstable, reckless, and emotionally compromised. But you're not evil. Not yet."
"Reassuring."
Kline handed him a form. "Sign here. You'll own the dry dock facility and the adjacent power relay station. That's half the game."
"And the other half?"
"Keeping your brother from weaponizing your father's legacy."
---
The dry dock facility was a fortress of rust and echo.
Nate arrived alone, this time. The warehouse lights flickered on like startled eyes. He walked through the massive, empty space, listening to his footsteps.
He stopped in front of an old shipping crate, unmarked.
Inside: a drone rig. Military grade. Folded up like a metal insect.
"He's stockpiling," Nate said aloud.
A voice echoed behind him. "It's not stockpiling if it's preparing."
Dante.
He stepped from the shadows, black coat dripping rainwater, cigarette burning low.
"You shouldn't be here," he added.
"You gave me the keys."
"I gave you a choice. There's a difference."
Nate turned to face him. "What are you building under the docks?"
"A future. One where we don't have to answer to old money, old names, or old rules."
"You mean a war."
Dante smiled faintly. "Call it what you want. But we were born into one."
"And ARCHIVE?"
Dante walked to the crate, ran his fingers along the drone.
"Dad built it to end a war. The energy crisis, the private grid systems... ARCHIVE was a solution. But too powerful. Too valuable. So he split it. Buried the pieces. One in his office. The rest in the hands of the people he trusted least."
"And now you want to finish it."
"We finish it together," Dante said. "You and me. The Cross brothers. We can change everything."
Nate looked at his brother—really looked. The shadow under his eyes. The burn scars near his wrist. The shake in his left hand when he thought no one was watching.
He wasn't a villain. Not yet. But he wasn't far.
"I'll think about it," Nate said again.
Dante's jaw tightened. "Don't wait too long. The city's waking up. Others are moving. Hollow isn't just after you anymore. They're recruiting."
Nate turned to go.
"If you come at me, Nate," Dante called. "Come to kill me. Not to save me."
---
That night, Mallory sat on the edge of Nate's desk, thumbing through encrypted files.
"So?" she asked.
Nate sat, removed his watch, rubbed his temples.
"He's building a grid. ARCHIVE needs a power structure to function. I think he's halfway there."
"You want to stop him?"
"No," Nate said. "I want to finish it before he does."
She looked at him sharply. "You're going to rebuild ARCHIVE?"
"Not for profit. Not for legacy. But for leverage. The city's at a breaking point. Hollow Tech owns the future. Dante wants to burn it down. I want to balance the scales."
"And if you lose control?"
He looked at her. No smile.
"Then I'll be the villain. But not today."
She handed him a drive.
"Then let's start with this. I cracked part of your father's journal. There's a cipher. Locations. Coordinates. One of them is under St. Augustine's Cathedral."
Nate blinked. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. And you'll love this—it's in the catacombs."
He sighed. "I hate this city."
She smirked. "No, you don't. You just hate what it remembers about you."
Outside, lightning flashed.
War was coming.
But Nate wasn't running anymore.