CHAPTER 125 — THE PRICE OF HIDING
The underground did not feel safe anymore.
It felt temporary.
Silva sat in the darkness beneath the old metro junction, listening to the city move above them—boots on concrete, engines idling too long, drones humming like mechanical insects. Every sound pressed into his skull, amplified by exhaustion and the dull ache still crawling through his veins from the inhibitor.
The Iron Fist barely glowed.
That frightened him more than its fury ever had.
Around him, the resistance tried to pretend they were resting. Some cleaned weapons. Others stared into nothing. No one slept. You couldn't, not when the air itself felt watched.
"They've sealed District Nine," Lyra said quietly, crouching beside Silva. She unfolded a tattered map, markings bleeding into each other. "No movement in or out. Black-Delta units on rotation."
Silva ran a hand over his face. "They're tightening the net."
"They're learning," Lyra replied. "And the city is helping them."
As if summoned by her words, a distant echo rolled through the tunnels—chanting. Not angry. Not panicked.
Unified.
Silva stood slowly, moving toward a cracked maintenance grate that opened into a street above. He peered through.
Hundreds of people filled the road, carrying lights, banners, makeshift shields. Not rioters. Organized. Disciplined.
On every banner, the fractured symbol of the Null burned bright.
"No gods," they chanted.
"No fists."
"No shadows."
Silva closed his eyes.
"They're not afraid anymore," he said. "They're convinced."
Lyra's voice hardened. "Conviction is more dangerous than fear."
The scanner in her hand chirped suddenly—one sharp tone.
Her face went pale.
"We have a leak."
The room went still.
Silva turned. "How do you know?"
"Encrypted ping," Lyra said. "Military frequency. Someone transmitted from inside the tunnel network. Five minutes ago."
Murmurs rippled through the group.
A young enhanced woman shook her head violently. "No. Not us."
Silva scanned their faces—fear, anger, exhaustion. No obvious guilt.
"Everyone stay where you are," he said calmly. "No accusations."
Too late.
A man near the rear bolted.
Silva moved instantly, blocking the exit without touching him. "Stop."
The man froze, breathing hard, eyes wild. "You don't understand. They promised—"
A flashbang detonated.
The tunnel erupted in white and sound. Screams followed. Silva felt the Iron Fist surge instinctively as figures dropped from ceiling access points.
Black-Delta.
Upgraded.
Their armor was different now—thicker, layered, glowing faintly with suppression nodes tuned specifically to Silva's energy signature.
"TARGET SECURED. SECONDARY TARGETS OPTIONAL."
The betrayal hit harder than the shockwave.
The man fell to his knees, sobbing. "They said they'd spare my daughter!"
Silva wanted to scream.
Instead, he moved.
He slammed the Iron Fist into the ground, not to attack, but to destabilize the tunnel supports. Concrete cracked. Dust filled the air. Visibility vanished.
Lyra dragged civilians toward a maintenance shaft as Silva intercepted the lead Black-Delta unit. Their movements were sharper now, anticipating his angles, countering his timing.
They knew him.
One unit fired a focused suppression lance. Silva barely dodged. It carved through the wall behind him, leaving dead stone.
"You built yourselves wrong," Silva growled, driving his shoulder into the unit. "You think I fight with strength."
He twisted, redirected the unit into another, using momentum instead of power.
The Iron Fist flared brighter—not hotter, but denser. Controlled.
Lyra shouted, "Extraction route collapsing!"
Silva saw it—the ceiling sagging, the tunnel failing. He made a choice.
"Run," he ordered. "All of you."
"What about you?" Lyra yelled.
Silva turned toward the remaining Black-Delta units, stance widening.
"I'll keep them busy."
Lyra hesitated—then obeyed.
Silva let go.
Not violently.
Deliberately.
The Iron Fist expanded outward in a focused pulse, not a blast, bending space just enough to lock the units in place. Their systems screamed as the energy interfered with their adaptive algorithms.
"ERROR. ERROR."
Silva strained, blood running from his nose.
"You wanted me contained," he whispered. "So be it."
The tunnel collapsed.
Stone and darkness swallowed everything.
Silva woke to rain.
Cold. Heavy. Real.
He lay in a flooded alley hours later, dragged from the wreckage by Lyra and two others. The city above them was louder now—protests, sirens, broadcast drones blaring emergency decrees.
Screens lit up nearby.
Director Graves' face filled them.
"Following today's terrorist attack on federal peacekeepers," she said evenly, "the Iron Fist is now classified as an existential threat."
Footage rolled—edited again. The tunnel collapse reframed as mass murder. Faces of the injured displayed without context.
Lyra slammed her fist into the wall. "They're turning him into a monster."
Silva struggled to sit up.
"No," he said hoarsely. "They're giving the city permission."
A new feed cut in unexpectedly.
Jared.
Applause echoed behind him.
"Well done," Jared said, smiling warmly. "You held back. You protected them. And now look."
He gestured.
Above the city, floodlights ignited across the skyline. Black-Delta insignias projected onto buildings. Checkpoints multiplied.
Martial law.
"You see, Silva," Jared continued, "heroes only work when people agree what they are."
Silva stared at the screen, fists clenched.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Jared's smile softened. "The same thing you do."
He leaned closer.
"A world that tells the truth about power."
The feed cut.
Silva looked around at the shattered resistance, the hunted faces, the burning city.
And finally understood.
Hiding was no longer survival.
It was surrender.
He stood.
The Iron Fist ignited—not blazing, not restrained.
Resolved.
"They won't stop," Lyra said quietly.
Silva nodded. "Then neither will I."
Above them, the city braced for something worse than rebellion.
It braced for reckoning.