Chris stumbles over nothing, cursing under his breath as he is yanked upright by a pair of iron-strong hands clamping down on his shoulders. The grip is punishing, but his captors keep moving, dragging him along like a particularly annoying piece of luggage.

  The handcuffs dig into his wrists, the cold metal biting so deep he knows he’ll be left with bruises. Great. Just great. The last thing he needs is explaining those to Alex or, God forbid, Akio.

  The corridor they’re being marched through is sterile and suffocating, another extension of this new labyrinth-like lab they’ve been relocated to. Chris resents the efficiency of it all. Resents the men flanking him, the General stalking ahead like some looming executioner, and most of all, the fact that his hands are tied—literally.

  A sudden shove from the lackey on his right jolts him out of his thoughts. He blinks, momentarily stunned, before throwing a deeply unamused glare at the idiot.

  “You wanna try that again?” he mutters darkly. The soldier says nothing.

  Chris huffs but catches the tail end of something Glenn is saying—something about helping the military, if his distracted brain can be trusted.

  He doesn’t even hesitate. Just takes a breath and lets the first thing that pops into his head fly.

  “The last thing I ever want to do is help you,” he says, voice dripping with disdain. “Heck, if it were up to me, I’d hand the crystal over to the aliens, crack open a bottle of whiskey, and call it a day. At least they know what the thing does.”

  Glenn stops dead.

  Chris nearly crashes into him, his two goons barely avoiding a pileup. The General turns slowly, eyes settling on Chris with the kind of placid, deadly calm that makes his stomach drop.

  …Maybe that was one wisecrack too many.

  Chris clears his throat, lifting his cuffed hands in mock surrender. “Look, you’re obviously not gonna stop till you get what you want. I’m only here to make sure you don’t kill us all in the process.”

  Glenn watches him, expression unreadable, jaw working as he silently weighs his options.

  “And the Alien?” He asks finally, hard eyes boring into Chris' soul.

  Chris feels the moment shift.

  This was a test. He knows it. His next answer would be the difference between reluctant servitude—or getting locked in a steel container and tossed into the goddamn ocean.

  Reluctant servitude gleams enticingly at him.

  He swallows, hoping Kyp is healed up enough to defend himself should the need arise. Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he says:

  “Him or me? I’m choosing me.”

  Silence.

  Glenn studies him, expression impossible to decipher. There’s a flicker of something—approval? Calculation? Maybe both. He looks like he’s torn between applauding Chris’ duplicity and reminding him exactly who is in charge.

  Finally, the General exhales.

  “What do you need?”

  ~~~

  Alex steps out of the Uber with a practiced flick of her sunglasses, eyes immediately locking onto the sleek black Mercedes parked far too close to the house—practically kissing the front door. The positioning alone sets her teeth on edge.

  The driver—not Ezra—stands beside the car, the picture of corporate efficiency in a neatly pressed suit and mirrored sunglasses. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t check his watch, doesn’t even glance around. He just waits.

  Alex gives the car a slow once-over, cataloging every detail. Something feels off. Chris isn’t the type to own a vehicle this… subtle.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, dragging her suitcase behind her with only mild hostility.

  The man snaps to attention as if she’s a commanding officer. His smile is polite, practiced, and about as warm as a refrigerator light.

  “No, thank you. I’m waiting for Mr. Jordan.”

  Alex hums, glancing suspiciously between the driver, the car, and the front door.

  “He hasn’t kept you too long, has he?” She makes a show of shimmying through the narrow gap between the car’s bumper and the door, exaggerating her effort with a pointed lift of her eyebrows.

  The man either lacks basic social cues or just doesn’t care.

  “I’m not being paid to complain, ma’am.” His polite smile remains unshaken.

  Alex eyes him one last time before wrenching open the door. She commends herself for her restraint—a younger, pettier Alex would have kicked this car into the next neighborhood.

  Her suitcase skids across the floor with an unholy clatter as she dumps it in a corner. She follows soon after, collapsing into the armchair with a heavy sigh, boots unceremoniously joining the luggage pile. Maybe she still had some maturing left to do.

  “Chris! Are you up there?” she calls, tilting her head against the chair’s backrest.

  A distant, muffled voice filters down. “Alex? Is that you?”

  Alex snorts. “No, it’s the plumber.”

  A pause. Then Chris appears at the top of the stairs, eyes squinting in disbelief. Both hands are stuffed in his pockets, stance unusually stiff.

  “Ah,” he mutters, descending cautiously. “Why are you here?”

  Alex arches a brow. “I live here.”

  Chris blinks, shakes his head like he’s resetting his brain. “Right. Sorry. I just thought you were staying in Jersey a little longer.”

  “I never said that.”

  “I know you didn’t, I just thought—” he sighs, “Never mind.”

  He’s in front of her now, hands still glued inside those damned pockets. The pose is awkward and unnatural. Alex resists the urge to call him out on it—for now.

  “Well, I’m back,” she continues, stretching lazily. “Had Akio check me out. Aside from a brain hemorrhage that fixed itself, I’m good for business.”

  Chris freezes. “Brain hemorrhage?” His voice jumps half an octave. “Jesus, are you alright?”

  “Oh yeah, aces. Went bowling even—smoked Akio’s ass.” She props her feet up on the table, fully expecting Chris to swat them away like always. He doesn’t.

  “Glad you had fun.” His voice is distant, his posture still rigid.

  Alex narrows her eyes, gaze raking over his face. One cut. Two. A bruise shadowing his jaw. Her stomach tightens.

  “What happened to your face?”

  Chris exhales through his nose, nonchalant. “Oh, this?” He gestures vaguely before tucking his hand right back into his pocket—too fast for her to catch a proper look. “An alien dropped a building on me.”

  Alex levels him with a stare. His words sounded like a joke, but his body language said otherwise. Her gaze flickers between his face and his hands—his hidden hands. She bets good money he’s hiding more than a scraped-up face.

  This could be some weird internet trend he had picked up. Or he was just in his semi-regular 'Mess with Alex' mood again, hence the very unfunny Alien Joke.

  Either way, she’s too jet-lagged to fight for answers. For now, as long as he still had both hands attached, she would let it slide.

  “Fine, don’t tell me.” She withdraws her feet from the table, sprawling sideways in the armchair instead. “At least don’t keep your new driver waiting.”

  Chris frowns. “Driver?”

  “The one you left roasting outside?” She cocks her head.

  “That driver.” He sighs, the tension in his shoulders increasing just a fraction.

  Alex shifts, watching him closely. Something wasn’t right. “Chris, I realize acting suspicious makes up about 85% of your personality, but are you okay?” She tilts her head. “Blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

  Chris snorts, somehow managing not to blink at all. “Don’t I look okay?”

  “Would you tell me if you weren’t?”

  Chris doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns as the driver steps inside, tapping his watch with urgency.

  “I have to go, Alex.” Chris strides toward him. “If I had known you were coming back today, I might’ve ordered something.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “I can cook,” Alex scoffs, offended.

  Chris scoffs right back. “Right. Francis-something-something—”

  “Francois Massialot.”

  He clicks his tongue. “Whatever. Nobody cares.”

  Alex rolls her eyes, fully expecting him to walk out the door with nothing but a casual wave. Instead, at the last moment, his arms awkwardly wrap around her in a quick, almost clumsy hug.

  It’s short. Stiff. But unmistakably deliberate.

  “Take care of yourself, Alex.” His voice is quieter now, barely above a murmur. And then, before she can react, he’s gone—vanishing out the door with his mystery driver.

  Alex sits still for a beat, staring after him.

  Something most definitely wasn’t right.

  But she was too damn tired to think about it now.

  Instead, she curls deeper into the chair, letting exhaustion drag her under.

  Alex steps into the vast office, eyes sweeping across the high ceiling before locking onto the gold dagger perched on the mahogany desk like some kind of morbid trophy. She cocks a brow—Really?—and Castor merely shrugs.

  “Turns out people don’t care about important things disguised as paperweights,” he lilts in that—even after all this time—familiar sleazy accent, all easy charm, extending a hand.

  Alex pointedly ignores it, lowering herself into a chair instead. “No, thank you. I still haven’t gotten over the…” She waves vaguely at her face, and Castor nods in understanding.

  She takes her time looking him over, cataloging every unnecessary piece of jewelry weighing him down. And, more notably, how unsettlingly young he looks for someone who should have expired roughly 1,800 years ago.

  “You look good.” She rests her chin on interlaced fingers. “How’s Albus?”

  Castor leans back, a furrow appearing between his brows. “Fine. Usual grump. Been between himself on the ‘immortality’ squabble—hasn’t come near this thing in almost fifty years.” His fingers brush the dagger’s stand, almost possessively.

  Then, just as quickly, he smooths his expression, flashing that sharp smile of his. “But enough about that. When my secretary informed me Alex Jordan was requesting an appointment. I thought she was having an aneurysm.”

  Alex laughs. “How do you think I felt when I heard you were running a law firm?”

  “I know!” Castor practically vibrates with delight.

  “A law firm, Cas. You are the most dishonest person I know.”

  “I know!”

  “Honestly, I’m impressed it’s lasted this long.” She sweeps another glance around the sleek office.

  Castor grins, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a glossy business card, which Alex turns over with an amused squint.

  “Castor Smith. Senior Partner, Smith & Wesson. Established by my ‘Great Grandfather’—also named Castor Smith, may he rest undisturbed—seventy-five years ago.” He signs the cross himself solemnly.

  Alex snorts, rubbing a thumb over the embossed letters. “Smith & Wesson? Isn’t that already a thing?”

  Castor leans in, nodding conspiratorially. “It was. We sued them and won, obviously. They’ve since been relegated to obscurity.” He waves vaguely toward the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, as if obscurity were a place on the horizon.

  “Oh my God.” Alex shakes her head, tossing the card back. “Only you, Castor. Only you.”

  With a smirk, he tucks the card away. “So, what’s this about? Some nasty person you need me to pin an equally nasty crime on?”

  “Not exactly.” She tilts her head. “I need the knife back.”

  The shift in Castor is immediate. His smile falters, replaced by a slow exhale.

  “Alex…” He shakes his head, his fingers—just a little too tightly—gripping the desk. “You know I can’t do that.”

  Alex straightens, bristling at the refusal. “We’ve done this before, Castor. I use the pretty knife for a bit, I give it back.”

  “Yes, but that was—what—1,900 years ago? I can’t be away from it for hours at a time.” His hand slides across the desk, subtly pulling the knife closer.

  Alex’s eyes darken. “Get over yourself. It’s a relic.”

  “Literally, Alex.” His tone drops, face serious. “You should see Albus. He’s—he’s decaying.”

  She frowns. “Decaying?”

  Castor rubs a hand down his face, his frustration showing. “Aging. Rapidly. But somehow not dying from it.”

  Alex exhales sharply. Warlocks and their goddamn magic. Nothing was ever a clean transaction—just a tangled mess of conditions and unintended consequences. Not that she could have foreseen this particular outcome back when they first acquired the damn dagger. She’d been too busy wiping their particular demographic off the map.

  She schools her expression into something softer, almost pitying. “I’m sorry about that. Tell you what, I’ll even look into it after I finish my business. But, Castor, I cannot stress enough how badly I need that dagger.”

  His jaw tightens, fingers tapping nervously against the desk before his gaze flicks to something past her.

  Alex clocks the fear in his eyes. She starts to turn—

  Click.

  Her head snaps back to Castor, now pointing a gun straight between her eyes.

  “Oh, Cas,” she sighs, disappointed. “You know that won’t work.”

  “Probably,” he concedes, but his grip on the gun doesn’t waver. His other hand finally closes around the dagger, his entire body shuddering as if he’s just been reunited with a long-lost limb. Alex watches the transformation, the way he revels in it, and she almost pities him.

  “Should buy me just enough time to cut out your heart undisturbed,” Castor murmurs, finger tightening on the trigger. “Maybe I’ll mount that one next.”

  The gun fires—

  Alex moves.

  The bullet hisses past her head as she twists, slamming Castor’s gun hand against the desk, her fingers digging into the space between his own and the trigger. He yowls as she nearly crushes the bones, the gun slipping free. He swings wildly with the knife, the blade burying into her shoulder.

  Alex lets out a sharp breath, her grip faltering just enough for Castor to break free. He staggers back, readying another strike, but she’s faster and slams a boot into his ribs.

  Castor chokes on a breath, his head snapping forward just in time for Alex to slam it against the desk.

  He crumples, groaning, blood dripping from his broken nose. His fingers prod at the damage, eyes blazing with rage.

  Alex stumbles, reaching for the knife still embedded in her shoulder. Castor sees the movement and lunges.

  Too late.

  With one last pained grunt, she yanks the blade free. Blood sprays.

  Castor barely has time to react before the dagger plunges into his chest.

  He lets out a choked gasp, his body seizing. Alex catches him before he hits the floor, her bloodied fingers combing through his hair in an almost tender motion.

  “Shhh,” she hushes softly, twisting the blade deeper. Castor screams.

  And then—silence.

  Alex watches the light fade from his eyes and she finally releases him, letting his lifeless body slump. Wiping the blood from her face with an already-ruined sleeve. She crouches to pry the dagger free, her bloody hand smearing the pristine white wall for balance.

  One last glance at her old friend’s corpse.

  Then she turns, staggering to the office door.

  The lobby is eerily empty—a small mercy.

  She fumbles for her phone, pressing it to her ear as the voicemail clicks in.

  After the tone, she exhales, voice level despite the blood dripping from her fingers.

  “Albie, we have a problem.”

  And with slow, unsteady steps, she disappears into the night.

  The General barely looks up as Chris is manhandled into his office. He winces internally at the way the sergeant—whose name he never cared to remember—shoves Chris forward, sending him crashing against the desk.

  A sharp crack echoes through the room. Something in Chris—likely his wrist—has definitely broken. But instead of howling in pain like a normal person, he just lets out an annoyed sigh and straightens himself.

  “Was that really necessary?” Chris groans, cradling his wrist with his good hand. “I’m not some petulant teenager being dragged to the principal’s office.”

  The General studies him from behind the desk, posture taut. Lesser men would have reacted worse to that kind of treatment, but Chris? Just a flicker of irritation. It’s almost admirable.

  “You told Mr. M here to take you home before stopping by your office?” the General asks, nodding toward the sergeant, his tone deceptively mild.

  Chris scoffs. “Mr. M? What is this, Men in Black?” He exhales sharply. “I told the driver to take me home first because I thought I forgot something.”

  The General hums. He takes a moment, watching Chris squirm with his injured wrist before asking, “And what exactly did you ‘forget’?”

  “Thought, Glenn. You’re a smart man. You should know what that means.” Chris flexes his fingers carefully, testing the damage. “If it helps, I brought the blueprints for the shield.”

  That gets The General's full attention.

  The Shield was some fancy contraption Chris had sweet-talked him into, rambling about anonymity, advanced cloaking tech, and a slew of other technical jargon the General had neither the patience nor the brainpower to fully absorb. Not that he’d been paying rapt attention to Chris’ bloviating in the first place.

  All that mattered was the result: The Shield promised to make the crystal completely undetectable by any tracking system. That had been enough for him.

  But blueprints? That was news.

  “Blueprints?” His voice is tight, controlled. “I was under the impression you already built the shield.”

  “Yes. And you think I’d be stupid enough to hand the military my unpatented prototype?” Chris deadpans.

  The General’s jaw ticks. “I take it you’ll be handling the adjustments yourself?”

  Chris spreads his good hand, three fingers skyward in mock Scout’s Honor. “Of course. I will personally ensure your precious crystal becomes invisible to whatever crystal-sniffing nightmares are out there.” His smirk sharpens. “Now, since I’m so valuable, I’ve compiled a list of everything I need. No substitutes. No improvising. And, please, for the love of all things scientific, have someone who actually understands physics fetch them.”

  He pulls a folded sheet from his pocket and hands it over. The General skims it, too quickly to have actually read it.

  Chris clicks his tongue. “I know I’m fascinating, but we really don’t have time for your longing stares. The list, Glenn.”

  He doesn’t even see the General move. One second, he’s standing smugly, the next, a beefy hand yanks him forward by the collar, nearly dragging him over the desk. His broken wrist slams down hard, sending white-hot pain shooting up his arm.

  Chris wheezes, blinking through the purple blotches crowding his vision.

  “Your sense of humor,” the General murmurs, voice almost pleasant, “It's either your greatest strength or the thing that ends up killing you.”

  Chris gasps in a breath when the grip around his throat finally loosens. He takes a moment to right himself, brushing off imaginary dust, exuding far more composure than he actually feels.

  The General watches, face tight with irritation. Chris can tell it grates on him—how unfazed he seems.

  “Clifford will get you what you need.” The words are clipped.

  Chris straightens his jacket, smirking. “Thank you, Glenn.”

  “My name is not Glenn!” The General slams his hands on the desk, rattling it.

  Chris tilts his head, feigning deep thought. “Vincent? You look like a ‘Vincent’.”

  The General’s eye twitches. “Take him to get his wrist checked,” he growls to the sergeant, “then lock him in his old room.”

  Chris doesn’t fight the escort, though as he walks out, he leans just slightly toward the General’s desk.

  “Nice chat, Vince.” He winks.

  A muscle in the General’s jaw flexes, and Chris grins. Totally worth it.