Dev sat on a bench in the park, phone in hand, staring down at the number on the screen.

  The grass around him was a vibrant green, the kind that looked almost too perfect in the morning light. The sky above was a gentle hue of blue, streaked with soft white clouds that drifted lazily across it. A golden retriever bounded after a frisbee in the distance, its owner laughing, hands on his knees as he cheered the dog on.

  It was peaceful. Idyllic, even.

  And yet... this exact park had been the site of a Gate incident just days ago.

  No break had occurred, but it had been an incident. This was the same place where he’d emerged—injured foot, disoriented mind, dragging behind him a cybernetic enigma and an Awakened hitman trying to kill him.

  Dev took a deep breath and looked around.

  Despite the calm, he could still feel it—just faintly. A lingering presence in the air. The mana density in this area was marginally higher than usual. The sort of thing only someone with awakened senses might notice. He guessed it would take at least a few more days before it dissipated fully.

  He wandered over to the patch of ground where the Gate had been and lowered himself into a lotus position. Eyes closed, back straight, he inhaled deeply and began to cultivate—not out of necessity, but out of habit.

  Truthfully, it wasn’t about accumulating mana right now. He wouldn’t complete a full cycle till nightfall, and if he’d done this back at the apartment, it would’ve been slower as he would’ve completed a cycle by the next morning.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  He needed to clear his mind. Cultivation was the excuse.

  Meditation was the goal.

  Hours passed like mist. A breeze carried the scent of grass and distant hot dog carts. His breathing deepened. The static in his mind calmed. The tension in his chest softened.

  When he finally opened his eyes, the sun had begun to dip toward the horizon.

  He’d accumulated about an eighth of a cycle—nothing impressive—but his mind was sharp now. Focused.

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the card.

  White. Crisp. Clean.

  Dev stared at the number printed beneath the name. Some part of him didn’t want to do this. But he had to.

  He tapped it into his phone, thumb hovering for just a moment above the green call button.

  Then he pressed it.

  The line began to ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  “Hello,” a voice answered—measured, smooth, with just enough crispness to feel intentional. “Who am I speaking with?”

  Dev clenched his jaw, lips tightening as the familar voice hit his ears. A voice that carried weight—too calm to be casual.

  “You first,” Dev said. “Since you’ve been looking for me. Are you Adrian Jiménez?”

  A soft chuckle on the other end. “Sorry if I don’t remember you specifically. You see, it’s my job to find people—I meet a lot of them. So unless you give me a little context…”

  Dev cut him off. “Dev. Devesh Menon. Ring a bell?”

  There was a beat.

  “Ah. Yes. Mr. Menon,” the voice said smoothly. “Apologies for the theatrics. In my line of work, it never hurts to be certain.”

  “So you are Jiménez.”

  “Yes. Detective Jiménez,” he confirmed. “And again—sorry for startling your friend. I was applying a bit of pressure. He was... defensive. Usually, when polite words fail, fear tends to be the next best thing.”

  Dev exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping once against his knee.

  “Yeah, well,” he said, “you succeeded. He thought you were about to rip his throat out.”

  Jiménez chuckled. “Not my intention. But reassuring, I suppose. Means I still have presence.”

  “So why are you stalking me?” Dev said flatly. “I already answered Pantheon’s questions at the scene. They arrested the guy involved, too. Case closed, right?”

  “I understand,” Jiménez replied, calm as ever. “But the nature of my inquiry pertains to another individual present during the incident. Someone who fled the scene and failed to provide any official statement.”

  “The cosplayer?” Dev scoffed. “I already told your people—I don’t know anything about him. He showed up, saved my ass, and left. That’s it.”

  “That may be the case,” Jiménez said, tone ever-calm, “but considering the chaotic circumstances, we believe further questioning is necessary. What time would you be available to meet in person?”

  Dev’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh… hey, what’s your badge ID? Y’know—for my reference. And maybe my lawyer.”

  A pause.

  “I’m afraid I can’t provide that information over the phone,” Jiménez said, still perfectly composed. “But I’d be more than happy to share it in person.”

  “Sure, sure,” Dev said, voice low and sharp now. “You wanna know what I think?”

  He let the silence stretch for just a moment longer.

  “I think you don’t actually work for Pantheon. Isn’t that right… Mr. Rodriguez?”

  The voice on the other end went still. Not even a breath. before he uttered a word

  “…Huh?” Jiménez said, the confusion cutting through his usual smoothness.

  “Yeah,” Dev said, voice steady. “I know who you really are. Just needed to hear you speak to confirm it was really you. You sound younger over the phone, but it’s definitely you.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  He let the name hang like a loaded weapon.

  “Alexander Rodriguez.”

  There was silence. A heavy one.

  “…How did you know that?” Rodriguez asked at last, the calm gone. “How do you know me? I’ve never met you before in my life.”

  Dev grinned. “Sorry, sir,” he replied, mimicking Rodriguez’s earlier tone with a playful lilt. “I’m afraid I can’t provide that information over the phone.”

  He let the mockery settle in, then continued, voice firm. “Meet me at Prospect Park. 3:30 tomorrow. And bring your boss. He’s the one I really want to talk to anyway.”

  The line was quiet again—Rodriguez clearly weighing his options.

  Eventually, a sigh.

  “I can be available tomorrow,” he said carefully. “But my boss is… extremely busy. Truthfully, something like this is beneath his direct attention. That’s why I’m—”

  “Tell him,” Dev cut in, voice suddenly sharp, “that I can wake up Emily.”

  Silence.

  Absolute, chilling silence.

  Rodriguez didn’t speak, but Dev could feel the tension spike through the line like static.

  “That depends on him though,” Dev said with mirth, “on whether he can make it. Tomorrow. 3:30.”

  Rodriguez was silent for a few long seconds.

  Then, clipped and curt, he said, “Fine. Expect a call from this number.”

  The line went dead.

  Dev smiled.

  He pulled his headphones from around his neck and slid them on, scrolling through his playlist until he found just the right song. Something steady. Something with momentum. The kind of beat that made mana hum in rhythm with every pulse.

  He leaned back in the grass, exhaled, and let his eyes drift closed.

  It had been a long time since he’d had the pleasure of making Rodriguez mad. Back in the future, it was practically a game among the Awakened Special Forces—how far could you rage-bait the prim and proper commander’s assistant before he cracked?

  Turns out… not far.

  A grin tugged at Dev’s lips as the music picked up, the thrum of the bass syncing with the swirl of mana in his veins.

  I’ll see you soon then, Commander. he thought, sinking back into his flow.

  And with that, he resumed his cultivation—channeling his mana in time with the music, every breath steady, every beat deliberate.

  ……

  Alex was fuming.

  He stared down at the burner phone in his hand, lips curled into a snarl—then crushed it to dust with his bare fingers.

  How dare he.

  How dare that boy speak her name.

  How the hell could he possibly know about her?

  The Madam’s condition had been one of the most tightly guarded secrets in their entire operation. Only a handful of people even knew she was alive—let alone in a coma. The boss had taken every precaution. Buried the files, sealed the facility, paid off entire departments to maintain the illusion. There shouldn’t have been a single crack in the system.

  And yet.

  That name—Emily—had fallen from Dev’s lips like he’d known her his whole life.

  Alex’s fury simmered, then began to settle. Not because he wasn’t angry—but because thinking of her reminded the man of him.

  Of the boss.

  Of his old friend, sitting silently beside her hospital bed. Holding her hand while the best doctors in the world whispered theories they barely understood. Trying—desperately—to find a way to treat a condition no one could truly understand.

  Every day, his friend would speak to her. Read to her. Tell her about the world outside. About hope. About progress. About the people still fighting to make her vision a reality.

  And every day, she remained unresponsive.

  Not even a twitch. Not a breath out of rhythm. Not even a squeeze of his hand.

  Just stillness.

  Hope had been shattered more times than Rodriguez could count. Scams. Dead leads. Promises from miracle workers who turned out to be liars, conmen, or worse—sincere fools.

  Alex’s jaw tightened.

  And now this kid—this nobody—claimed he could wake her?

  If he was lying...

  He'd deal with him personally.

  But for now, Alex would report this information to his boss as that was his job and he would complete it.

  Even if it turned out to be false hope… it was still hope. And his boss—his friend—could use some right now.

  He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders settling into grim resolve, then turned and walked briskly to the car.

  The engine roared to life as he pulled onto the road, weaving through city traffic with sharp precision. He said nothing, didn’t even turn on music—just stared straight ahead as the city blurred past him.

  Eventually, he passed through a checkpoint and onto a secured road. Up ahead stood a gate, its structure reinforced with metal harvested from gates, humming faintly with embedded mana. State-of-the-art security cameras lined the perimeter, their lenses glowing with quiet menace as they tracked every motion.

  Above the entrance, a sign stretched across the archway:

  Caelum? Regional Headquarters

  The name was etched in pristine silver lettering, flanked by a gleaming insignia: a laurel wreath encircling the Greek letter Ω—Omega.

  Alex’s jaw set as the gate opened for him, scanners flickering blue as they identified his car. He pulled up to the small toll booth. A uniformed security guard stepped forward, with a bored face, and took his employee ID. After a brief scan and silent verification, the guard returned it with a nod and waved him through.

  He parked his car and headed straight for the office where he figured his boss would be. Sure enough, when he pushed open the door, he found the man mid-sentence—deep into a mission debrief.

  A team of Hunters had just returned from a Gate run, still dirty and nursing minor injuries, all gathered around a projection of the combat footage.

  “Alright, now youse was doin’ a good job til ya got ‘ere,” the Regional Director barked, tapping two red markers on the holo-map. “These was some crafty bastards. Forced youse into a chokepoint—‘ere and ‘ere.”

  The projection flickered as the markers pulsed.

  “Now this time youse got lucky—youse had superior firepower, courtesy of Mickey over ‘ere.” He clapped a hand on the shoulder of a Hunter in the back who looked like he’d been hit by a truck. “But next time? Youse’ll get caught with your pants down if ya don’t adapt.”

  Alex stepped forward. “Sir, can we talk in private for a moment?”

  The Director didn’t look away from the screen. “Oy, Alex—can’t ya see I’m workin’ ‘ere? Just email it to me later.”

  “Sir, please. It’s important.”

  That made the older man pause. He gave Alex a long, squinting look—then sighed and turned to his Hunters.

  “Fine. If ya say so.”

  He jabbed a finger toward the projection. “Youse go over the footage. I want a basic analysis by the time I get back. Figure out what youse coulda done to avoid gettin’ pushed back.”

  With that, he gave Alex a quick wave to follow and stepped out of the room.

  They walked in silence down the hallway, the sounds of the debrief fading behind them.

  They stopped in front of a heavy, reinforced door with a brushed metal nameplate that read:

  Virgil Herin – Regional Team Lead

  Alex opened the door, stepping in behind him.

  The office was as no-nonsense as the man himself—neat desk, filing cabinets, and a worn leather chair that had clearly survived more than a few bad days. But the most eye-catching piece was mounted on the wall above the desk: a pair of custom-made twin pistols.

  .50 caliber. High recoil. Similar in design to Desert Eagles but reinforced with gleaming silver alloy, their handles engraved with Caelum’s Omega insignia.

  They weren’t for show.

  Beneath them, mounted on a separate plaque, was a set of dual Ka-Bar-style daggers. Slightly longer than the standard issue, blackened blades with notched spines—custom craftsmanship. They looked like they’d seen use.

  On the side shelf stood a framed photo of Virgil in full Marine dress blues, chest full of ribbons, shaking hands with a general as he received the Medal of Honor. Below that, in a separate glass frame, was an array of medals neatly arranged—every decoration polished to a shine. Campaign stars, valor awards, foreign commendations—proof of a life spent in combat zones most people couldn’t pronounce.

  Virgil Herin dropped into his seat with a grunt, cracking his neck as he settled in. “Alright, Alex. What’s got your boxers in a twist?”

  Alex remained standing. His posture was straight, composed, rigid.

  “Sir,” he began, voice steady, “the kid you had me look into—the one who helped Davies and was saved by the person of interest… he knows about the Madam’s condition.”

  Virgil’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

  Alex continued. “He said her name and he asked to meet with you. Prospect Park. Tomorrow. 3:30.”

  Virgil leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling against his chin as he stared at nothing.

  “Why?” he asked after a long pause. “Even if he does know, what’s he gonna do about it? The kid’s a nobody.”

  Alex took a breath—long, slow. He braced himself, he knew the kind of tunnel-vision madness this would induce in his friend if he uttered it so he prepared himself

  “Like you said, sir,” he started carefully, “the boy’s a nobody. And there’s no way to verify what he said at the moment. So take it with a grain of salt.”

  Virgil cocked an eyebrow, nodding for him to go on.

  Alex exhaled.

  Then said it.

  “He said… he could wake Emily up, Virgil.”

  Silence.

  Virgil didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  For a moment, it was as if time had stopped inside that office.

  And then Virgil spoke with a calm cadence

  “We are going to that meeting place”