The underground breathed differently.
Stone corridors pressed close, their walls sweating with cold, the air thick with oil smoke and iron. Tomora moved through it like a rumor—quiet, careful, a shadow slipping between heavier shadows. His bare feet barely whispered against the stone as he followed the turns he'd memorized from stolen glances and overheard murmurs.
Every corner was a risk.
A torch flared ahead—too close.
Tomora flattened himself against a pillar, heart slamming once, hard, then settling into a controlled rhythm. Boots passed inches from his face. The guard yawned, scratching at his beard, completely unaware of the breath held behind him.
When the sound faded, Tomora exhaled slowly through his nose.
Focus.
In. Out.
He moved again.
The hideout was a maze by design—narrow passageways widening into sudden chambers, false doors carved into walls, staircases that descended only to climb again. This place wasn't meant to be invaded. It was meant to swallow intruders whole.
Yet there it was.
The master's room.
The difference was immediate. The air changed. The stone gave way to polished wood and carved pillars etched with symbols of authority. Rich rugs muffled his steps. A low table sat at the center, illuminated by a single lantern whose flame burned steady and calm—as if nothing evil had ever been planned beneath its glow.
Tomora's eyes locked onto the table.
The scroll rested there like it had been waiting.
His fingers hovered for half a heartbeat before touching it. The seal cracked softly beneath his thumb, wax breaking apart with a sound far louder in his mind than it truly was.
He unrolled it.
Lines of ink stared back at him—names, dates, locations. Orders written with chilling clarity. Cities to be "corrected." Witnesses to be "silenced." Funds diverted, deaths disguised, truth buried under layers of official language.
His jaw tightened.
There it is.
Proof.
Enough to burn the Black Iron from the inside out.
A sound echoed behind him.
Footsteps.
Not one set.
Many.
Tomora spun, scroll snapping shut as his instincts screamed too late.
Steel rang as blades slid free.
Guards poured in from every doorway, armored figures filling the room like a closing net. Spears lowered. Swords leveled. Crossbows raised, bolts aimed directly at his chest.
No exits.
No shadows deep enough.
At the far end of the room, framed by the doorway, stood a familiar figure.
Jessica.
Her hands were clenched tightly in front of her, shoulders drawn in. A Black Iron officer stood beside her, expression carved from stone. He dropped a heavy pouch into her palms.
Gold clinked.
The sound cut deeper than any blade.
Tomora's eyes searched her face—waiting for something. Fear. Defiance. A sign this was some elaborate lie.
She didn't look up.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly.
The words landed softly.
They hurt anyway.
Before he could speak, hands slammed into him from behind. His arms were wrenched back, iron biting into his wrists. The scroll fell from his grasp, hitting the floor with a dull, final thud.
He didn't resist.
Shock stole the fight right out of him.
The world blurred as he was dragged away, the master's room shrinking behind him until it vanished into stone and darkness.
The cell was cold.
Not metaphorically—physically. Stone walls drank heat, leeching warmth from his skin the moment he was thrown inside. His shoulder struck the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth. The door slammed shut, iron bars ringing like a verdict.
Silence followed.
The kind that pressed in on your ears.
Tomora slid down until he was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, chains biting into his wrists. His chest rose and fell too fast, breath coming sharp and uneven.
No.
His head dropped forward.
No… I didn't get caught.
His mind raced, replaying every step, every choice. The alley. The hideout. The scar. Her smile.
Jessica.
His fingers curled into fists despite the chains.
Stupid.
His breathing slowed—not because he was calm, but because something darker had begun to settle in. A low, burning pressure behind his eyes. The familiar ache that pulsed at the edges of his thoughts whenever he pushed too far.
Anger didn't explode.
It condensed.
The torchlight outside the cell flickered. Shadows crawled along the walls like watching things. Somewhere above, metal clanged. Voices murmured. Life went on.
Tomora lifted his head.
His reflection stared back at him from a shallow puddle on the floor—eyes dull, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. For a moment, he didn't recognize himself.
He remembered the headaches.
The seriousness.
The way parts of him had felt… thinner.
Mimic.
The word echoed uninvited.
He swallowed hard.
"No," he whispered—not to the guards, not to the city, but to himself. "Not like this."
His eyes closed.
Not yet.
Somewhere deep beneath the betrayal, beneath the pain and exhaustion, something answered. Not lightning. Not water.
Something older.
Quieter.
Waiting.
The torch outside sputtered.
Tomora's eyes opened, sharp despite everything.
If this place thought it had broken him—
It had made a very serious mistake.