Luke's words lingered like smoke in the dim room.
Antigone did not flinch. Instead, she answered with a quiet certainty that felt more dangerous than anger.
"Of course I know no one would come for you," she said, voice smooth and measured. "Why would I capture you merely to hand you away?"
Luke blinked once—confusion slicing through his usual mask.
"Then what is it you want from me?"
Antigone's gaze did not waver.
"You," she said.
The single word hung between them like a blade.
Luke frowned, searching for hidden meaning. "I don't quite—"
"I want you to marry me."
Silence.
Not the passive kind—this one had weight.
Luke froze, the air around him thinning as he processed the audacity of her statement.
He studied her—not disrespectfully, but analytically, as one might assess a weapon's craftsmanship. Antigone stood steady under his scrutiny, unshaken and sovereign.
He exhaled slowly.
"That is... an unexpected proposal." His tone held a trace of dry amusement.
"And before I consider any alliance, I would need clarity. Terms. Motives. What, precisely, do you think the Shaw heir is worth?"
She stepped closer—not to entice, not to intimidate, but to be undeniable. Her presence carried the faint scent of industry and iron—District 4's shadow clinging to her like a history she refused to hide.
"Luke Shaw, I don't need a hostage. I need a partner. Someone unbound by the old world's loyalties. Someone with a family powerful enough to reshape continents—even if they cast him aside."
She straightened, expression crisp as steel.
"You are not valuable because they love you. You are valuable because they fear what you might become. You're the only pulser that was born rather than made. It stands to reason your children will be the same."
Luke's voice dropped—no arrogance now, only a weary, sharpened truth.
"If you believe my mother never attempted the same gambit again," he said, "then your rebellion is already doomed."
He stared past her, beyond the walls, beyond the room.
"I have sired more than a hundred children. Every one of them died—minutes old, seconds old—snuffed out like sparks in a storm."
His eyes returned to her, dark and unwavering.
"So before you speak of dynasties and futures, answer me this, Antigone."
He paused.
"What is a pulser?"
Antigone leaned back slightly, her red hair catching the dim light like fire. Her voice was calm, deliberate.
"A Pulser," she began, "is a human enhanced beyond natural limits. One implanted with a secondary heart—dormant at first. The earlier in life it is placed, the better the body adapts. However no one below the age of 10 have survived the procedure."
She paused looking at Luke deeply. Before continuing.
Luke's lips twitched faintly; anticipation, or maybe morbid curiosity.
"The secondary heart itself doesn't beat… not until it is activated. When a Pulser triggers their pulse, it beats once. One beat. That single rhythm amplifies every function of the body tenfold: strength, speed, reflexes, cognition… everything.
Luke raised an eyebrow. Encouraging her to continue.
"Some rare individuals can push it further,"
She continued. "Two beats, and the body's output doubles again—twenty times the normal potential. But there is a cost. The main heart, racing in proximity to the secondary, takes the strain. Push too far, too long… and the heart implodes. Death is instant, and final. It is the greatest gift of mankind."
His gaze held hers, steady. "It is not a gift. It is a curse… and a risk. Every Pulser is a gamble."
"But it's different with you." She argued, "Your secondary heart wasn't implanted you were born with it. Which means you have the potential to make your heart beat infinitely."
At the mention of that, Luke's face warps into a grimace, his previous light tone gone.
"Infinitely? Do you think my mother and father never tried the same? I've had enough of this."
With a sharp movement, Luke broke through his restraints. The metallic echoes triggered alarms throughout the warehouse.
Red lights flashed, casting long shadows across the walls.
Antigone moved for her weapon, but his hand shot out. The gun skidded across the floor, clattering against the metal plating.
Luke closed the distance in an instant, his grip firm and unyielding as he pinned her against the wall, restricting her movements.
"Th… That's impossible," she gasped, struggling. "You didn't activate your pulse. How—?"
A slow, almost amused smile spread across Luke's face.
"Seems your intelligence still has its gaps. My pulse is always active at one beat. Perks of being born a Pulser eh."
He shifted, using precise, controlled strikes to disable her ability to counterattack.
Antigone's attempts to start her pulse were cut off, her strength neutralized.
With a final calculated move, she crumpled to the floor, unconscious but very much alive.
Luke straightened, surveying the room. Every motion had been deliberate—no unnecessary harm, no mistakes.
She would live. Alive and intact, because when he returned to HQ, they would need answers.
Luke straightened, scanning the warehouse.
He heard a sound behind him. A shift of weight.
Too close.
He turned—
A punch caught him square in the face, the force hurling him backward into a stack of iron rails.
The metal groaned and bent as he collided, dust drifting down like rain.
Luke exhaled once, steadying himself. A faint trace of blood touched the corner of his lip; he wiped it away with the back of his hand and looked up.
Orpheus stepped into the light.
Luke gave him a dry, unimpressed look. While rubbing his chin.
"Bloody hell, mate! Watch the face."
But Orpheus wasn't looking at Luke.
His eyes were fixed on Antigone's sprawled form on the floor.
He charged.
Luke sighed.
Orpheus swung his fist downward towards Luke with a speed that cut the air.
Luke rolled over, letting the fist crash into the iron beside him. The metal dented inward with a harsh clang.
Luke caught Orpheus's wrist, twisted, and tried to flip him—but Orpheus didn't budge.
A rapid internal rhythm vibrated through his arm.
Luke's eyes narrowed.
"You activated your pulse already… great."
Orpheus wrenched free and lifted Luke with sheer force, sending him over his shoulder.
Luke hit the floor but rolled instantly into a stand, unfazed.
Luke didn't say anything.
He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, shoulders loose, eyes sharp. No stance meant to look impressive just ready.
Orpheus swung first.
A massive hook cut through the air, heavy enough to end the fight if it landed.
Luke slipped inside it at the last second, the punch screaming past his ear.
He answered immediately three sharp body shots, fast and compact, digging into Orpheus's ribs before darting away.
Orpheus grunted, more annoyed than hurt.
He charged.
Luke met him head-on.
As Orpheus threw a straight punch, Luke stepped into it, deflecting the arm just enough to ruin the angle.
His knee came up hard into Orpheus's stomach. The big man staggered for half a second and Luke took everything that half-second gave him.
Punch to the nose. Elbow to the collarbone Hook to the jaw.
Relentless. Precise. No wasted movement.
Orpheus roared and swung wildly, forcing Luke back with sheer size.
A glancing blow clipped Luke's shoulder, sending him skidding across the ground.
Pain flared but Luke was already back on his feet, breathing steady.
Orpheus rushed again, slower now.
Luke waited.
At the last possible moment, he dropped low, swept Orpheus's leg, and used the fall.
As the giant crashed forward, Luke jumped driving both fists down into Orpheus's face as they hit the ground.
The impact echoed through the building.
Orpheus tried to rise.
Luke didn't let him.
He mounted him, fists coming down like a storm, clean, controlled, merciless. A small smirk playing at his lips.
Each hit landed exactly where it needed to. Not rage. Not panic.
Conviction.
Orpheus's arms fell limp.
Luke stood, chest rising and falling, knuckles bruised, shoulders burning.
He looked down at the fallen giant once more to be sure—then turned away.
Luke spat the copper taste from his mouth and tilted his head back. Running his fingers through his hair.
With practiced ease, he slipped a flashdrive from beneath his tongue—thin, matte black, still warm.
He didn't look at Antigone's body as he stepped over it, just cleared the space with a lazy stride and crossed the room to the massive computer tower humming against the far wall.
Luke slid the drive in.
A low chime answered him. Lines of data began to crawl across the screen.
He checked the watch on his wrist.
"…Right on time," he muttered.
The explosion came a heartbeat later.
The wall to his right detonated inward, metal and composite plating tearing apart in a violent concussive blast.
Luke turned his shoulder into it, bracing as dust and debris washed over his formerly black coat. Alarms screamed. Red light flooded the room.
Through the smoke, they poured in.
IMC officers—tight formation, black-and-gray combat armor, visors down.
Their rifles were compact, angular, built for quick acquisition and close quarters—nothing flashy, just brutally efficient future hardware.
Their job was to maintain law and order in the districts. A more militarized form of the police.
However they were the last people anyone in District 4 would call for help.
They fanned out instantly.
A man stepped through the breach last.
He moved differently—calm, unhurried. His combat suit was black, sleeker than the others, reinforced at the joints but unmarked by rank. He raised a hand, and the squads froze.
Then he removed his helmet.
Handsome. Clean-cut. Short blond hair, sharp eyes that missed nothing.
His gaze moved from Luke, now leaning casually against the cracked wall—to the bodies on the floor. Orpheus. Antigone. The mess Luke had left behind.
He sighed, faintly amused.
The man gestured with two fingers.
Two soldiers stepped forward.
Luke didn't move. Didn't tense. Didn't react at all.
The soldiers passed right by him.
They knelt, lifted the bodies with professional efficiency, and began hauling them out of the room as one would sacks of synth food.
The man approached. He stopped an inch from Luke's face.
They stared at each other. Then—slowly—the man smiled.
Luke smiled back.
They stepped forward at the same time and embraced, one arm each, quick and firm—the kind of hug shared by people who'd survived too much together.
"You always this slow?," Luke said.
The man chuckled softly. "Well you always did like cutting it close."
Behind them, the data finished transferring. The machine chimed once more.
Luke glanced at the screen over the man's shoulder.
"Got what I asked for?" the blond man asked.
Luke nodded. "Everything."
The man clapped him once on the back. "Then let's get you out before this place finishes collapsing."
Luke pushed off the wall, finally straightening. He grabbed the man by the shoulder.
"This is it Barry. Last favour I hate this stuff."
"Yeah, heard you loud and clear."