Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Three dull knocks echoed through the narrow hallway, muffled slightly by the thick door. A gruff voice followed, low and tired. "Come in."
Tarrin didn't wait. He stepped inside with casual confidence, like he'd done it a hundred times before.
Vincent sat behind his desk, head buried in a stack of paperwork. He didn't bother to look up.
Tarrin dropped into the seat across from him without invitation, picked up a pen from the desk, and began spinning it between his fingers as he whistled softly to himself.
Vincent's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Stop that. What are you, a damn child?"
Tarrin smirked, unapologetic. "And if I am? What then?"
A beat passed. The air settled into something heavier.
Vincent leaned forward, the lines on his face deepening, his voice quieter—serious. "So. This is the last day."
Tarrin's fingers stilled. His smirk faded, jaw tightening. The words landed harder than he expected.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Went by fast."
But it didn't feel fast. Not really. It felt like falling—slow, and then all at once.
Vincent watched him for a second longer, then spoke. "Let me tell you something, kid. I think you're ready."
He paused, just long enough for the weight to sink in. "Ready to survive, at least."
Tarrin looked at him, unsure how to respond. Because the truth was, he didn't feel ready. Not even close.
Vincent gave a dry chuckle. "This is usually the part where I tell you to follow orders like they're scripture. But screw that."
His eyes hardened. "You want to live out there? Then use your head. Don't wait for someone to save you. Think, adapt—and don't die."
"Thanks, man," Tarrin said, voice light with mock sincerity. "Because if there's one thing I'm known for, it's my undying loyalty to this glorious shithole of a country."
He leaned back in the chair, a lazy grin on his face. But beneath that grin was tension—tight, buried, and coiled like a spring.
Vincent gave a dry snort. "Fair enough. Anyway, onto the matter at hand…"
He paused just long enough for Tarrin to sit up a little straighter.
"You'll be contacted by someone from the Thirty-First. When you hear the phrase, 'I've always wanted a white pony,' that's your new superior. You answer to them. No questions, no hesitation. Simple."
Tarrin blinked. The grin faltered for half a second before snapping back into place.
"That… sounds exactly like something Jayden would say. And if he's my new boss, I'm defecting."
Vincent didn't even crack a smile. No smirk, no twitch of the brow. Just that same unreadable expression.
Tarrin's laughter died in his throat.
Vincent leaned back, folding his arms. "Let's not drag this out. You're not the sentimental type, and I don't do goodbyes."
His voice lowered, more knife than whisper.
"Stay close to the girl. Watch her. Report her movements—and more importantly, report any moves against her. Lord Sahrin's influence is crumbling. He's being pushed out of the Lumina, and the only chip he has left is her. They're betting everything on that girl climbing high."
A pause. Then:
"A lot of people don't want another Sahrin becoming a Scarlord. There will be attempts. You stop them."
Tarrin said nothing, jaw clenched.
"If she dies," Vincent continued, tone flat, "we lose an asset worth a thousand of you."
The words landed heavy.
"And under no circumstances—none—should she ever find out about your role. Understood?"
Tarrin gave a slow nod, eyes shadowed. "Crystal."
Then he hesitated—just a flicker—before drawing in a shallow breath and speaking again. "I think it's time we talk money."
Vincent looked up, one brow arching.
"If I'm really expected to follow orders," Tarrin continued, voice flat, "then by the time I get back, I want an account waiting—fifty thousand. Untraceable. If that's too much trouble, I'll take cash."
For a brief moment, Vincent felt a subtle warmth pressing at his essence—an instinctive push of influence. He batted it away with practiced ease.
'Party tricks.'
"I thought we had the same goal, the girl's protection?" Vincent asked, a thin smirk forming. "I thought you were noble. Altruistic."
Tarrin's chest tightened. Just a beat. Then it was gone, hidden behind a mask of cold indifference.
"Sure," he said dryly. "I'll risk getting butchered for someone I've known a whole month. Out of the goodness of my heart."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping.
"You know what happens if this gets out. They won't just hang me—they'll erase me. You think no one would snitch? Or worse, if she found out herself? I'm dead before I even see a Scarbane."
Vincent studied him for a second longer, then shrugged.
"Fine. We'll shake on it. I was planning to offer something close if you didn't fuck it up."
Tarrin blinked, lips twitching. That was easier than expected.
'Guess they really are desperate for someone in my position.'
"Now get out of here before I change my mind," Vincent said, voice final.
Tarrin gave the bald man one last glance, then stood and made for the door. The click of the handle was soft, almost respectful.
He was halfway out when—
"Hey, Tarrin," Vincent called, casual, almost playful.
Tarrin paused. A sliver of dread traced his spine.
He turned his head just enough to see Vincent's smirk.
"I'll say hi to the Kades for you."
Time stopped.
Tarrin's throat tightened, his chest constricted. For a moment, his face nearly cracked—but instinct buried the emotion under layers of habit.
'He knows. Fuck. He knows.'
He nodded once, slower this time. He didn't trust himself to speak.
Then he stepped through the door, letting it close behind him.
badump. badump.
His heartbeat thundered in his skull.
Not from adrenaline.
From fear.
A cold, creeping fear that lodged itself in the back of his mind and started building a home.
That wasn't just a warning.
It was a collar. A chain. A promise.
He couldn't run. Couldn't rebel. Not anymore.
He was owned now.
The air outside was cool, crisp, but it didn't help. If anything, it made him feel more exposed—like the sky itself was watching.
"Fuck!"
He roared, the word ripping from his throat as his leg slammed into a nearby trashcan.
Metal groaned and flew twenty feet, crashing against the pavement, its contents exploding across the street like shrapnel.
His breaths came hard, ragged.
There was no one around to hear him.
But that didn't make him feel any less trapped.
Tarrin stood frozen under the open sky, eyes vacant, chest rising and falling with the ghost of a breath. The city buzzed around him, indifferent. The stars above offered no answers. Not that he expected any.
Then came the twist in his gut. That familiar churn of disgust—not at the system, not at Vincent, not even at the leash he'd just been collared with.
At himself.
For folding so easily. For walking straight into a game where he held no cards. For hesitating.
Since when did I become the kind of man who stares at the sky and waits for a damn epiphany?
A sharp breath hissed through his teeth.
Being a Vex is all about action.
His legs moved on instinct. Step after step, faster with each stride. The cold bit at his skin, his boots pounded the pavement, and within minutes, his lungs burned—but the fog in his mind had lifted. The blankness in his eyes was gone. In its place: calculation.
He didn't stop until he reached the glass-fronted building. Bright lights, sterile floors, the scent of burnt coffee and bureaucracy. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, heading straight for the reception desk like he owned the place.
Marie was there—same bun, same bored expression. Same woman he'd been charming twice a week with overpriced coffee.
He flashed her a lopsided grin, already sliding a hot cup across the desk.
"Hey, Marie. Think you could hook me up?"
She blinked, taken off guard but already reaching for the cup out of reflex.
"And maybe," he added, voice dropping just slightly, just enough to draw her in, "keep it off the record?"
Marie's fingers froze on the cup. Her lips parted, uncertain. "Tarrin… I don't know…"
He leaned in, just a touch. Not too close—just enough to drop the next piece of bait.
"It's for a friend. He did something stupid… messed up a few thugs who put his mom in the hospital. He's locked up now."
He lowered his gaze, let a trace of guilt slip into his voice. "Look, I just don't want him incriminating himself more because I dragged him into a recorded call."
Marie hesitated, biting her lip, eyes scanning his face like she was searching for lies she didn't want to find.
'Come on. You want to believe me. So do it.'
After a few seconds of painful silence, he leaned in again, voice softer now. Almost a whisper.
"With his mom in the ICU, he's barely hanging on. He needs every ounce of support he can get."
That did it.
Her shoulders dropped, and she gave him a look loaded with reluctant sympathy. She leaned in, voice just as low.
"Alright. I can give you fifteen minutes. No system flag, no trace. But that's it."
He smiled, this time more sincere. "Thanks, Marie. You're a lifesaver."
She nodded, already pulling up something on her terminal.
Tarrin stepped back and exhaled slowly, the mask still on his face—but beneath it, his mind was already racing.
He wasn't free.
But he still had moves left on the board.
Tarrin stepped into the booth and shut the door behind him with a soft click. The faint hum of the city dulled, replaced by silence and the low thrum of blood in his ears.
He stared at the keypad, fingers hovering over the numbers like they might burn him. Then he dialed—a string etched in muscle memory, but untouched for years.
The line rang.
Once.Twice.Three times.
Each beep echoed louder than the last, crawling under his skin.
Come on… pick up. Please, pick up.
The fourth ring dragged out like a scream. Just as Tarrin's breath caught, just as he was about to hang up—
"Hello?"
His knees didn't give, but they wanted to.
A crooked smile tugged at his lips. "Hey, Hank. It's Tarrin. You remember me?"
For a second, nothing but silence. Then came the explosion of recognition.
"No way—by Tarrin, you don't mean Tarrin fucking Vexie?"
Tarrin let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Yeah, that's exactly who I mean, fool."
He could hear background noise on the other end, the clatter of a chair, some distant chatter. Then Hank's voice, calling out to someone else in the room: "Yo! You won't believe this—Vexie's on the damn line! Vexie the Kid, for real!"
The sound of that old nickname sparked something warm and sharp in Tarrin's chest. A flicker of the past, before scars and secrets.
When Hank came back on, his voice was lighter. "Shit, man. Been what, three years?"
"Closer to four," Tarrin murmured, then drew in a breath. He didn't have time to ease into this.
"I need a favor. Bad."
His tone had changed—tighter now, stripped of bravado.
Because this wasn't a casual reunion.
It was a desperate move. Because if Vincent knew about the Kades, he needed someone who could pull strings—someone who owed him enough to risk it all.
And the fear, the weight of everything waiting outside that booth, pressed in like a vice.