The emergency treatment room was quiet at 8:15 PM.
Lucius sat on the examination table, his ribs properly wrapped, medication provided, instructions given. Dr. Lois had moved on to other patients, leaving him to rest as instructed.
He waited five minutes, listening carefully to the sounds of the medical area. Staff moving between rooms. Equipment being stored. The routine post-match procedures winding down.
When he was certain no one was immediately nearby, he stood carefully and moved to the supply cabinet he'd noted earlier.
His hands worked quickly, opening drawers with minimal sound.
Third drawer down, medical supplies section.
Small glass vial, purple-black crystals inside. Potassium permanganate—KMnO₄. Used for wound disinfection and treating certain skin conditions.
Two drawers over, different section.
Clear viscous liquid in a brown bottle. Glycerin—C₃H₈O₃. Used for wound treatment and as a base for various medical preparations.
Separately, both were completely harmless medical supplies. Together, in the right ratio, with the oxidation reaction between them—
4KMnO₄ + 3C₃H₈O₃ → spontaneous ignition after chemicals mix.
Lucius took both items, concealing them carefully in his bandages where they wouldn't create obvious bulk or be visible during casual observation.
He returned to the examination table and sat down, breathing carefully, timing his next move.
Two minutes later, he stood and made his way to the door, opening it slightly.
A nurse passed by in the corridor.
"Excuse me," Lucius called out, his voice carrying appropriate weakness. "Is there a bathroom nearby? The medication's making me nauseous."
The nurse looked over, her expression sympathetic. "Attached to the treatment room. Through that door." She pointed to a door on the left side.
"Thanks."
Lucius made his way to the bathroom, moving with careful slowness that suggested his injuries were bothering him significantly.
The bathroom was small—toilet, sink, basic facilities. Ventilation grate in the ceiling for air circulation.
He locked the door, moved to the toilet, and flushed it for sound cover.
His focus narrowed, his abilities activating with practiced precision.
Two hands. Crude but functional. Fingers articulated enough to grip and manipulate. Connected to thin tendrils of ice extending from the toilet bowl like frozen puppet strings.
The hands floated upward, silent, controlled by his will and the ice conducting his intent.
They reached the ventilation grate, fingers working the corners with surprising dexterity for frozen constructs. The grate loosened, shifted, came free.
The hands moved into the shaft, carrying the vials Lucius had removed from his bandages and placed on the sink.
He guided them through the darkness of the ventilation system, his hydro-sense mapping the path, feeling moisture in the air, condensation on metal surfaces, tracking the route through the facility's infrastructure.
Fifteen feet in. Junction point where multiple ventilation paths converged.
The frozen hands stopped there, positioning in a corner where dust and debris had accumulated over months of poor maintenance, some purposely brought in by his rats—perfect kindling once ignition occurred.
The hands opened the vials with careful manipulation, pouring potassium permanganate crystals into a small depression in the accumulated debris. Then slowly, precisely, adding glycerin nearby—close but not touching.
Then the ice hands formed a thin barrier between the two chemicals. A wall of ice keeping them separated, preventing any reaction.
The barrier would remain until Lucius remotely sublimated it. When the ice turned to vapor, the ventilation system would clear the moisture within seconds. Then the chemicals would mix, and the reaction would begin.
Twenty to thirty seconds after contact, spontaneous combustion.
The constructs reversed course, returning through the ventilation shaft, replacing the grate from inside with awkward but functional movements, before finally dissolving back into water that dripped back into the bowl along with the empty vials.
The entire operation took four minutes.
Lucius rewrapped his bandages, flushed the toilet again, washed his hands thoroughly at the sink, then exited the bathroom.
The nurse glanced over as he emerged. "Feeling better?"
"A bit. Just needed a minute."
"Dr. Lois cleared you to return to your quarters when you're ready. Just take it easy."
"Will do."
Lucius made his way out of the medical area at 8:35 PM, moving with the same careful slowness, projecting appropriate weakness and exhaustion.
By 9:05 PM, he was back in his quarters.
The room was exactly as he'd left it. Bed. Basic furniture. His few possessions. His jacket hanging on the wall hook. Cameras in the corners monitoring everything.
Lucius carefully lay down on the bed, mindful of his wrapped ribs.
To anyone watching the security feeds, he was an injured fighter resting after a brutal match, following medical instructions, doing nothing suspicious.
He closed his eyes, controlled his breathing, and waited.
---
At 10:03 PM, in a private residential suite in the executive district, Charlotte entered carrying her tablet.
The space was elegant but impersonal—expensive furniture arranged with aesthetic precision, neutral colors, carefully curated art on walls. Everything designed to project wealth and status while revealing nothing about the actual occupant.
Hannah sat in a high-backed chair near the window, still wearing professional attire despite the late hour, her posture perfect but her expression showing the strain of waiting.
She was twenty-four years old, though her bearing suggested someone forced to mature far earlier than natural. Her black hair fell past her shoulders in carefully maintained waves—the kind of styling that appeared effortless while requiring significant time and maintenance. Round-framed glasses perched on her nose, the lenses catching ambient light as she turned to face Charlotte.
Her eyes were a striking blue-gray, intelligent and observant, carrying a wariness that never quite disappeared even in private moments. Sharp features defined her face—high cheekbones, defined jawline, an aristocratic quality that would be called beautiful if not for the subtle tension always present in her expression. The kind of tension that came from years of calculated performance, of knowing every smile, every word, every gesture was being evaluated.
She wore a dark blue vest over a white collared shirt, the outfit professional and expensive without being ostentatious. A small black choker with a red bow adorned her collar—the only visible concession to personal aesthetic rather than calculated presentation. Her hands rested on the chair's arms with practiced composure, but her fingers betrayed her with an irregular tapping rhythm—the only physical tell that she was anxious. Waiting. Hoping for something she knew she shouldn't want but couldn't help feeling anyway.
"You have the information?" Hannah asked, her voice carefully controlled but unable to completely hide her eagerness.
Charlotte approached and activated her tablet, pulling up the compiled report. "Yes, young miss. The background check on the fighter known as King is complete."
"And?"
"It's... interesting." Charlotte began reading from her notes. "He's an orphan. No known living family. Records show he was raised in one of the specially gifted children's facilities until approximately age fourteen, then the trail becomes spotty."
Hannah leaned forward slightly. "Spotty how?"
"Gaps in his timeline. Places where he should have been documented but wasn't. It's not unusual for NovaBreeds who deliberately avoid official channels, but it suggests he learned to move outside the system relatively young."
"What about his record?"
"Not clean," Charlotte said, scrolling through data. "Several minor criminal offenses. Trespassing, a few incidents of assault—though those appear to have been self-defense situations that were classified incorrectly by authorities. Nothing major—no violent crimes beyond those assault charges, no trafficking involvement, no serious organized criminal activity. But the pattern suggests someone who's willing to bend rules when necessary, someone who'll take morally questionable work if the money's right, but not without some kind of personal ethical boundary."
"Pragmatic," Hannah observed.
"That would be my assessment. Someone shaped more by necessity than ideology." Charlotte continued. "There's also a medical note. He apparently lost part of his left hand in an accident several years ago. Currently uses a prosthetic—that's what the bandaging is covering. Medical staff here noted it during his initial tournament examination."
Hannah's expression flickered with something—sympathy, perhaps, or recognition of trauma.
"What's more interesting," Charlotte continued, "is his recent activity here. He's been helping an executive place bets on tournament matches."
"Which executive?"
"Seung Hoon. Relatively minor figure in the organization, had significant gambling debts until recently. But since partnering with King, his betting accuracy has been remarkable. He's cleared all his debts and built substantial profit."
"King's analyzing the fights?"
"Appears so. His predictions have been consistently accurate across multiple matches. It suggests extremely high-level tactical intelligence and pattern recognition abilities."
Hannah's expression shifted—something between impressed and intrigued. "He's smart."
"Very. But there's something else that's unusual." Charlotte pulled up another file. "He's been training another fighter. Extensively."
"Training?" That clearly surprised Hannah. "Why would he do that? They could end up facing each other."
"Unlikely seeing as how if he somehow wins against Davis he'll end up fighting Adam." Charlotte pulled up Odd's file. "Also an interesting background. Former criminal who reformed his life, recently widowed, has two young daughters currently in foster care. He entered the tournament to win money so he can prove stability and get them back."
Charlotte continued reading. "King has been spending significant time teaching him defensive techniques, tactical thinking, survival strategies. According to observations, he's genuinely trying to help this man survive and advance. It's... altruistic behavior. Highly unusual in this environment where such compassion is typically seen as exploitable weakness."
Hannah sat back, processing all the information. "So he's smart, pragmatic, willing to break rules but not without limits, and despite operating in a place where showing compassion makes no strategic sense, he's helping someone for no apparent personal gain."
"That would be the summary, yes."
"What about his fighting abilities?"
"That's where things become particularly mysterious." Charlotte pulled up combat analysis reports. "He's demonstrated exceptional skill across multiple fighting styles. Not specialized in any single martial art—more like he's somehow blended elements from everything into his own adaptive approach. His tactical awareness during fights is beyond what someone his age should realistically possess. And until his match with Iron Clad Wang, he'd barely sustained any significant damage."
"Because he's that skilled?"
"Possibly. Or because he's been deliberately holding back." Charlotte met Hannah's eyes. "Dr. Lois noted something interesting in her post-fight medical assessment. She said King's injuries from the Wang match were the first real damage he'd taken in the tournament. As if he'd deliberately allowed himself to be hit more than strictly necessary. When she asked about his training background, he deflected entirely."
"Why would he deliberately take damage?"
"Unknown. But it suggests layers of strategy and planning beyond simple combat effectiveness. He's playing some kind of longer game."
Hannah was quiet for a long moment, her mind assembling a picture from incomplete information.
An orphan shaped by necessity and survival. Smart enough to analyze complex tactical situations with remarkable accuracy. Skilled enough to dominate tournament fights without obviously using supernatural abilities. Pragmatic enough to break rules and take morally gray work when necessary, but with apparent ethical boundaries he won't cross. And compassionate enough to genuinely help someone in desperate need despite operating in an environment where such behavior makes no strategic sense.
And he'd lost part of his hand. Carried that trauma. Wore a prosthetic hidden under bandages.
Something about all of it resonated with Hannah in ways she couldn't fully articulate. Someone trapped by circumstances but refusing to let it completely define them. Someone who'd learned to navigate systems designed to exploit people like them. Someone who'd been hurt but hadn't let it destroy their capacity for compassion.
"I want to meet him," Hannah said quietly.
"After the tournament concludes?"
"Yes. Assuming he survives."
"And if he declines the bodyguard position?"
Hannah's fingers stopped their nervous tapping. "Then I'll find a way to convince him."
Charlotte studied her employer's expression carefully. She'd worked for Hannah long enough to recognize when something had genuinely caught her interest versus when she was simply going through motions.
This was different. This was real.
"Young miss," Charlotte said carefully, "may I ask why you want him specifically? There are other capable fighters. Some with cleaner backgrounds and more straightforward loyalties. What is it about this one?"
Hannah remained silent for a long moment, her fingers resuming their nervous tapping against the chair's arm.
The memory came unbidden.
It had been months ago. Late at night. Mint had escaped, and Hannah had been searching frantically.
She'd gone to higher ground to scan the area better, landing on a rooftop in one of the older districts.
That's when she'd seen him.
A young man sitting near the edge, binoculars in hand, completely focused on something across the way. Mint was on his lap, purring contentedly as he absently petted her.
Hannah had approached from behind. He hadn't noticed her until she spoke.
"Excuse me."
He'd turned around quickly, and she'd gotten her first real look at him.
Striking. Those blue eyes. Athletic build. That dark jacket with the fur hood. Handsome in a way that had caught her completely off guard.
"That's my cat," she'd managed to say.
He'd glanced down at Mint, then back at her, his initial tension fading slightly.
"Here," he'd said, holding the cat out.
Their fingers had brushed briefly in the transfer.
"Thank you so much. I was worried something happened to her."
"She's fine. Found her in the alley below."
Hannah had noticed the binoculars. "What are you doing up here?"
"Looking at the stars," he'd said, his tone so deadpan she couldn't tell if he was serious.
They'd talked briefly—nothing substantial, just small exchanges—before Hannah had left with Mint.
But something about that encounter had stayed with her.
The way he'd been gentle with her cat. The casual competence in how he moved. Those eyes that seemed far too old for someone his age.
And that feeling she'd never felt before when she'd first seen his face.
Until now.
Hannah blinked, returning to the present.
"It's a secret," Hannah said finally, her tone carrying a finality that indicated the subject was closed.
Charlotte recognized that tone. She'd heard it before when Hannah made decisions that couldn't be argued with, when something went beyond logic into territory that was purely personal.
"I understand," Charlotte said quietly. But her expression showed concern. "Young miss, if this becomes... complicated. If your feelings are influencing your judgment—"
"They're not," Hannah interrupted, perhaps too quickly.
Charlotte didn't respond, but her expression made clear she knew that wasn't entirely true.
This could be a problem.
---
At 10:00 PM exactly, Lucius lay in his quarters, eyes closed, breathing steady and controlled.
To anyone watching the security feeds, he appeared to be sleeping.
His focus narrowed, his abilities reaching out through the facility's infrastructure, following the path his ice constructs had taken hours earlier.
The ventilation junction. The ice barrier between the chemicals. Fifteen feet into the shaft from the medical area bathroom.
He found it through his hydro-sense—a small mass of frozen water maintaining separation between potassium permanganate and glycerin.
His will focused on that ice. The molecular structure. The bonds holding it solid.
Sublimation. Direct transition from solid to gas, bypassing liquid phase entirely.
The ice barrier began to break down at the molecular level, turning to water vapor.
The ventilation system's airflow pulled the moisture through, carrying it away from the chemical depression within seconds.
Potassium permanganate crystals and glycerin, no longer separated, began to mix.
The oxidation reaction started immediately.
Heat generation. Molecular breakdown. Energy release accelerating as the reaction progressed.
Twenty seconds.
The temperature in the depression climbed rapidly. The accumulated debris—dust, rat-brought kindling, months of neglected maintenance—began to smolder.
Twenty-five seconds.
The glycerin's breakdown reached critical temperature.
Thirty seconds.
FWOOSH.
The accumulated debris ignited in a burst of flame that spread rapidly through the ventilation junction, feeding on months of built-up flammable material, racing along the shaft's interior surfaces.
Three seconds later, smoke detectors began wailing throughout the Underground's fighter section.
The alarm was ear-splitting, designed to wake even the deepest sleepers, to cut through any level of exhaustion or distraction.
In his quarters, Lucius's eyes opened immediately.
He sat up carefully, mindful of his wrapped ribs, and looked toward the door with an expression of confused concern—exactly what someone suddenly woken by emergency alarms would show.
The intercom crackled to life.
"ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. VENTILATION FIRE DETECTED IN SECTION C. ALL FIGHTERS AND NON-ESSENTIAL STAFF EVACUATE TO DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL."
The announcement repeated twice more.
Lucius stood, moved to the wall hook where his jacket hung, and pulled it on carefully over his bandaged torso. The movement made his ribs protest, but he showed appropriate discomfort rather than trying to hide it.
He moved toward the door and opened it.
The corridor outside was controlled chaos.
Thin smoke filtered through ventilation grates, visible but not yet dangerous. Fighters emerged from rooms in various states of alertness—some confused and disoriented, others moving with practiced calm born from experience with emergency situations. All heading toward designated evacuation routes.
Guards moved through corridors with professional efficiency, directing traffic, ensuring compliance. "Everyone to the mess hall! Maintenance is handling the fire but we need all non-essential personnel clear! Move!"
Lucius joined the flow of people, moving with the crowd, his face showing appropriate concern but not panic. Just another fighter following instructions during an emergency.
He spotted what he was looking for up ahead.
The exterminator crew—three people in work uniforms, clearly frustrated at having their night work interrupted by the fire alarm, being escorted by two guards toward the same evacuation route as the fighters.
One of them was the same exterminator from the previous visit. The one Lucius had marked mentally. Younger man, late twenties, wearing the standard work uniform with company logo and name tag.
Lucius adjusted his position in the crowd subtly, timing his approach.
The corridor ahead narrowed slightly as it approached the intersection leading to the mess hall—a natural bottleneck where the crowd would compress momentarily.
Lucius moved with the flow, positioning himself on the right side of the corridor, matching pace with the general movement.
The exterminator crew was ahead and slightly to the left, being guided by guards who were more focused on crowd management than individual positions.
As they reached the bottleneck, the crowd compressed naturally. People slowed, adjusted, navigated the tighter space.
Lucius moved his right hand inside his jacket, reaching the bandages on his left forearm where the ice prosthetic was concealed.
He focused, his abilities activating silently.
A thin tendril of water extended from the prosthetic, invisible in the dim emergency lighting and visual chaos of the crowd, snaking out through the gap between his jacket and shirt.
The tendril moved with purposeful precision, extending toward the exterminator who was now within two feet of Lucius's position as the crowd flowed through the narrow section.
The water tendril reached the man's uniform collar, feeling along the fabric with sensitivity beyond what human fingers could achieve, searching for the tag sewn into the clothing at the back of the neck.
Found it.
The tendril wrapped around the tag, pulled with carefully calibrated force—enough to tear the stitching but not enough to create sensation the man would notice through the general chaos of crowd movement, alarm stress, and physical contact from other people pressing close in the bottleneck.
The tag came free.
The water tendril retracted immediately, bringing the small piece of fabric back inside Lucius's jacket, where it dropped into his palm.
His hand closed around it, concealing it completely, as he continued moving naturally with the crowd flow.
The entire operation had taken three seconds. No physical contact. No visible theft. Just water doing what water does—moving where it's directed, touching what it's told to touch, completely invisible in the visual and sensory chaos of an emergency evacuation.
"Keep moving!" a guard called from ahead. "Everyone to the mess hall! Stay calm!"
The crowd pushed forward through the bottleneck. Lucius allowed himself to be carried along for several more seconds, maintaining his position in the flow.
Then he deliberately angled toward a side corridor—one that branched off toward the bathroom facilities rather than continuing to the mess hall.
A guard noticed immediately. "Wrong way! Mess hall is straight ahead!"
"Bathroom," Lucius called back, his voice carrying urgent discomfort. "Gonna be sick—the smoke—"
The guard hesitated, clearly torn between strict protocol and practical reality, then waved him off with obvious frustration. "Make it quick! Get to the mess hall after or you're written up!"
Lucius nodded and moved quickly down the side corridor, one hand on his stomach as if genuinely nauseous from smoke inhalation, the other clenched tightly around the stolen tag inside his jacket pocket.
The bathroom door appeared ahead. He pushed through, the space thankfully empty—everyone else focused on evacuation rather than personal needs.
Lucius moved quickly to the far stall, locked it, and finally allowed himself to examine what he'd taken.
The tag was small, standard clothing manufacturer's label. White fabric with black printed text. But the text wasn't normal manufacturing information—it was encoded, the letters and numbers appearing like a random serial number but actually containing layered information for those who knew how to read it.
Lucius's mind worked through the decryption rapidly. The encoding was using a substitution cipher—basic but effective against casual discovery. Each character represented something else according to a pattern he'd memorized months ago when Green Gate had first identified this particular courier network's methodology.
First layer decoded: GPS coordinates. Second layer: date and time. Third layer: confirmation access code.
The auction.
December 19th. Dubai region. Desert underground facility coordinates included. Access protocol detailed.
Lucius stared at the information for a long moment.
December 19th. It was currently late August. That meant nearly four months until the auction. More than enough time to prepare, to plan, to coordinate with the team back at Green Gate.
And Dubai. Desert. Underground.
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Quiet but genuine.
"What the fuck," he muttered to himself, his voice carrying amusement mixed with disbelief. "The location couldn't have been more obvious. Desert underground facility in Dubai? Like damn, they probably didn't even need us to intercept this package. With enough thinking we probably could've just guessed it."
He shook his head, still quietly amused by the sheer lack of subtlety. The Big Boys were powerful, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. But apparently not particularly creative with their operational security.
December 19th. Dubai underground. Four months to—
He felt it.
A presence. Suddenly there. Where nothing had been a moment before.
His hydro-sense flared—water content in the air, in biological tissue, in everything—and detected someone above him where no one should be.
Lucius's head snapped up.
A figure crouched on the frame of the bathroom stall, balanced impossibly on the narrow metal edge, looking down at him with predatory focus.
As Lucius watched, the figure's appearance shifted—not dramatically, but noticeably. Skin that had been matching the surroundings' coloration and texture returned to normal human tones. Features that had been blurred and indistinct resolved into clear definition.
Chameleon camouflage. Not a full morph, but biological adaptation. Skin cells changing pigmentation and surface properties to blend perfectly with surroundings, creating near-perfect visual concealment.
The man's features became clear. Early thirties, lean build, predatory eyes that carried intelligence mixed with something darker.
Lucius recognized him instantly.
Not from the tournament. Not from the Underground.
From before.
This was him undoubtedly.
Shock registered on Lucius's face—not because someone had discovered him, not because his plans were compromised, but because of who this was.
The man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"There you are," he said, his voice carrying casual menace. "Why don't you step out of the stall so we can talk?"
Lucius's mind raced.
Why was he here. In the bathroom. Not only that but he'd seen Lucius decode the auction information.
Lucius's hand moved slowly, deliberately, unlocking the stall door.
He stepped out, his expression carefully neutral, mind calculating rapidly.
The man dropped from the stall frame with fluid grace, landing silently on the tile floor. He straightened, maintaining casual posture, but his eyes never left Lucius.
"Interesting night you're having," he said conversationally. "Emergency evacuation, and here you are. In a bathroom. Looking at something very intensely. Something you didn't want anyone else to see."
Lucius said nothing, just watching, waiting.
"I've been observing you," he continued, beginning to circle slightly, his movement predatory. "Noticed some interesting patterns. You've been helping that executive—Seung Hoon—place very successful bets. Your analysis is remarkably accurate. Consistently profitable."
He smiled again. That same cold expression.
"And you've been training that other fighter. Odd. That's... unusual. Most people here wouldn't waste time helping someone who might end up as their opponent. But you've been spending significant effort making sure he survives and improves."
The man stopped circling, standing between Lucius and the bathroom exit.
"I'm not going to force anything," he said, his tone almost reasonable. "But I'm wondering if we might have a mutually beneficial arrangement. You clearly have talents that extend beyond just fighting. And I have... connections. Access to information. Resources. We could both profit from cooperation."
Lucius remained silent, his face showing nothing, but his mind was processing rapidly.
The man didn't recognize him. Lucius had been in disguise then. To him, he was just another fighter. Someone who'd caught his interest because of the betting success and the unusual behavior of training a potential opponent.
But Lucius recognized him. Knew exactly who and what he was.
The question was: what to do about it?
"Of course," he continued, his smile widening slightly, "if you're not interested in cooperation, that's fine too. But someone might find it very interesting to know about your little betting operation. And whatever that was you were looking at so carefully. People ask questions. Investigations happen. Things become... complicated."
A threat. Thinly veiled but clear.
"Tell you what," the man said, turning toward the exit as if the conversation was casual and non-urgent. "I'll give you some time to think about it. We can talk again after tomorrow's match. After I fight that Odd fellow you've been training so carefully."
He paused at the door, glancing back.
"Should be interesting, testing him. Seeing how well your training actually worked. Whether he's developed any real survival instinct or if he's still just—"
Something changed in Lucius's eyes.
The royal blue color began to fade, darkness bleeding in from the edges, shifting through gradients until they became deep crimson red.
His expression remained neutral, but those eyes—
Davis's words trailed off. Something primal in his hindbrain was suddenly screaming danger.
Lucius began moving forward.
Not fast. Not a sudden burst of violence. Just... walking. Slowly. Deliberately. Crossing the distance between them with unhurried certainty.
Davis kept talking—instinct, habit, trying to maintain control of the situation through words even as everything in his body was telling him to move, to run, to do something.
"Like I said, tomorrow's match should be fun. Really test his limits. See how much damage he can actually—"
Lucius was right there now. Right in front of him.
Close enough that Davis could see his own reflection in those crimson eyes.
Lucius's left arm rose slowly. Four fingers extended, curved slightly like a claw. The bandages wrapped around the prosthetic didn't hide the deliberate positioning.
The fingers touched Davis's throat. Not grabbing. Not striking. Just... touching. Gentle pressure against skin.
"Eh?" Davis's voice came out strangled, confused.
Then Lucius's fingers punched through.
Not a quick strike. Not a sudden movement. Just steady, inexorable pressure. Ice-enhanced fingers penetrating flesh, finding the trachea, the carotid arteries, the jugular, all the vital structures in the throat, and then—
Ripping outward.
Blood exploded across the bathroom in a violent spray, painting mirrors, walls, tile floor in rapidly spreading crimson.
Davis's hands came up reflexively, trying to cover the massive wound, trying to stop the life pouring out of him in rhythmic pulses matching his failing heartbeat. His mouth opened but only blood came out, flooding down his chin, his chest, pooling on the floor.
He tried to activate his abilities. Tried to morph. Tried to do anything.
But his brain was already oxygen-starved, his nervous system failing, consciousness fragmenting.
Lucius's right hand came up, pressing against Davis's face, covering his mouth completely, muffling any sounds, preventing any final desperate attempt at calling for help.
Davis's eyes were wide with shock and terror and incomprehension. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was the predator. He was the one who decided who lived and died. He was—
His struggles weakened rapidly. Blood loss and oxygen deprivation doing their work efficiently.
Lucius held him steady, hand over mouth, watching with clinical detachment as the light left Davis's eyes, as the struggles became twitches, as the twitches became stillness.
Davis's body went limp.
Lucius held position for three more seconds—confirming, making absolutely certain—then released.
Davis's corpse collapsed backward, hitting the tile floor with a wet sound, blood still spreading in an expanding pool beneath him.
Lucius stood there, his left hand and arm covered in blood, his right hand similarly coated, breathing normally, his crimson eyes staring down at the body.
Then the red color began to fade. Slowly. The darkness receding, royal blue returning, until his eyes were their normal color again.
He looked down at himself. At the blood. At the mess.
At the very serious problem he'd just created.
The fire alarm was still wailing outside. The evacuation was still ongoing. But that wouldn't last forever. Eventually people would return. Eventually someone would need to use this bathroom.
Eventually someone would find Davis's body.
Lucius stared at the corpse, at the blood pooling around it, spreading toward the drain in the center of the bathroom floor.
He had to decide what to do.
Now.
---
TO BE CONTINUED