The music inside the Hotel Lumière's ballroom danced around Sera like a fog. Elegant, haunting, and distant. She smiled politely at a passing guest, her glass of champagne untouched in her hand. The gala was at its peak—laughter echoed under the golden chandeliers, glasses clinked, and the air was heavy with perfume and power.
And yet—Sera couldn't breathe.
It was back. That energy.
Not just a whisper this time. It pulsed, almost like a heartbeat that wasn't hers. She scanned the crowd again. Her eyes darted between officials, celebrities, and oligarchs in designer suits and shimmering gowns. Everyone laughed, mingled, and posed for cameras.
But the sensation remained.
I know this... I've felt this before.
It was old, deep, and unsettling. Not malicious—but powerful. Too powerful to be here.
She drifted to a quiet corner of the ballroom, away from the crowds, and drew a small comm device from her clutch. Fingers moving quickly, she sent an encrypted message through to Damian.
"I'm sensing something strong here. Are you guys okay?"
She hit send and waited.
Seconds passed.
No reply.
Her pulse quickened. Damian never ignored her check-ins. Not unless something was wrong.
Two levels below, in the depths of the hotel's underbelly, Damian and Tim crouched in a darkened service alcove overlooking the auction floor.
What Tim saw before him felt impossible.
The auction chamber resembled a corporate amphitheater more than a dungeon. Walls of polished stone and black steel reflected the sterile white lights above. Cetus banners flanked the stage, minimalistic and precise, bearing only the logo—a stylized serpent coiled around a trident.
Rows of high-backed leather chairs encircled the stage, each with its touchscreen panel for digital bidding. Small holographic displays floated near each buyer, showing subject data, stats, and price history like a stock ticker.
At the center of it all, the stage—smooth, elevated, spotlighted. No theatrics. Just efficiency and control.
Each "subject" was led onstage by black-suited guards, wrists bound with tech-cuffs that pulsed faint blue. A medical examiner stood to one side, clipboard in hand, logging vitals in real time.
Tim whispered, "They've industrialized this."
Damian's eyes swept the room. "This is global. Not just one operation."
The auctioneer's voice rang out, measured and cold.
"Subject 7. Male. Enhanced speed. Minor telekinetic ability. Stable. Demonstration authorized."
Two guards released the man's restraints. His eyes were hollow, resigned.
Tim leaned forward. "What do they mean, 'demonstration'?"
The man raised a trembling hand.
A metal crate across the room began to shake, then rose from the floor, hovering under some unseen force.
Tim's breath caught.
The crate snapped down with a crash. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
He turned to Damian, stunned. "That's not possible."
But Damian didn't speak.
He stood rigid, eyes locked on the stage, jaw clenched.
"This isn't right," he muttered finally. "No one should be able to do that."
Tim's voice was hoarse. "You didn't know?"
Damian shook his head slowly. "I thought this was human trafficking. Smuggling. Movement. But this..."
He gestured at the stage as another subject—a young woman—was led out.
"They're not just selling people. They're creating something. Replicating powers. Somehow."
Tim's mind raced. "But... how? I thought people like you and Sera—"
"We don't even know what we are," Damian snapped. "And now they've made copies."
The auctioneer continued, undisturbed.
"Subject 8. Female. Empathic sensitivity, enhanced regeneration. Opening bid: €1.8 million."
Tim's stomach turned. "This is a weapons sale."
"And the whole damn world's buying."
Damian pulled Tim back into the shadows. "We've seen enough. We get the evidence, and we go."
But Tim hesitated. His eyes scanned the stage, the captives, and the buyers.
"No, Eva," he whispered. "She's not here."
Damian's voice hardened. "We can't stay."
Tim snapped, "I'm not leaving without her!"
Tim inched forward again, trying to zoom in on a buyer's face. His elbow nudged a loose metal beam—it groaned.
Damian hissed, "Stop. They'll hear—"
Too late. Below, three guards glanced upward, uncertain.
Tim froze, sweat running down his back.
One guard raised a flashlight. "Up there!"
Damian pulled Tim back just as the light swept over them, catching a glint off the camera lens.
"Contact in the rafters!" someone shouted.
ALARM TRIGGERED.
Flashing red lights bathed the chamber. The auctioneer shouted for lockdown.
Damian cursed under his breath. "Now we run."
The underground chamber descended into madness.
Red alarms strobed across the polished walls, casting shifting shadows over the auction floor. Buyers scrambled from their seats, some yelling into comms, others fleeing toward exit routes now sealed by lockdown protocols.
In the chaos, Damian vaulted from the rafters, landing hard on the auction stage, staff extended, eyes blazing.
"Go!" he shouted to Tim, who dropped behind him, clutching the camera drive like a lifeline.
Guards swarmed.
"Identify yourselves!" barked the auctioneer.
Damian didn't answer.
A blur of motion—Damian struck the first two guards in rapid succession, spinning with a fluid grace that belied his size. His staff cracked against a jaw, then swept low, tripping another guard into the crowd of buyers, scattering them like leaves.
Tim ducked as gunfire erupted, bullets pinging off metal and marble. He slid behind a row of chairs, his breath shallow.
"This was not part of the plan!" he gasped, fingers tightening around the USB drive.
A door burst open.
Six figures emerged, not guards. Armored, bare-faced, their eyes glowing faintly, muscles taut beneath reinforced suits. Their movements were precise and mechanical.
Superhumans. Weaponized. Unleashed.
One lifted a hand—a blast of force shattered a row of seats, sending bodies flying.
Damian turned, jaw clenched. "Great."
They rushed him all at once.
It was a storm.
Damian's staff flashed—a crack across a knee, a jab to the throat, and a kick that sent one soldier tumbling across the floor. Another tried to grapple him—Damian twisted, disarmed him, and slammed him to the ground with brutal efficiency.
A third lunged, emitting a surge of energy from their palms. Damian raised his arms, the blast throwing him back, crashing into the stage.
Tim screamed. "Damian!"
Damian groaned, rolling to his feet. Blood from his lip, but standing. Always standing.
More guards poured in.
Tim ducked beneath a toppled table, heart racing. Eva. The footage. Damian. All of it crashing together in his mind.
Damian fought on, a blur of violence. One enemy. Then another. Even they looked afraid now.
Then—
The smoke came.
Not from fire. Not from weapons.
Thick, gray, and unnatural, it poured from the vents, swallowing the room whole. Vision blurred. Sound dulled.
"Gas?!" Tim coughed, covering his face.
Damian halted mid-motion.
Footsteps. Singular. Slow.
From the mist, a figure emerged—tall, cloaked, and face shadowed.
A woman.
No sound. Just her presence, like a living blade.
She moved.
Guards dropped.
Superhumans turned—but too slowly. She was everywhere—a whisper of movement, a glint of steel, and then silence. Each strike is precise, silent, and final.
Even Damian stepped back.
"You..." he breathed, stunned.
She looked at him—no emotion, eyes unreadable.
Tim stumbled back, dizzy.
The smoke. The fear.
Everything spun.
The camera fell from his grip.
Tim hit the floor.