The convoy of armored trucks cut through the frozen tracks, engines snarling against the night.
Inside the largest trailer, the world changed. Where the exterior was cold and brutal, the interior was lined in royal purple and blood-red crimson, with gold patterns stitched into the walls. Every detail whispered power and excess. At the far front, a throne of obsidian rose tall, its arms draped with gilded rugs. Rows of monitors flickered just beyond, streams of data spilling across the glass — every screen locked on the image of one thing.
Haruka's mask.
Seated on the throne, cape cascading to the floor like liquid night, was Graystone Thorne. His presence filled the chamber more than the gold, more than the glow of the screens. Beside him stood Raito and Evelyne, silent and still, weapons hanging neatly beside Thorne's cape.
And on the floor before them, wrists and ankles bound in zip ties, sat Thompson. The survivor. Unlike the others who'd broken, his eyes carried no fear — only anger. His gaze lingered on the screens, then flicked back to Raito. His jaw clenched.
Thorne's voice broke the silence. Low, sharp, inevitable.
"Have you caught up?"
Thompson let out a humorless laugh. "I don't get it. Don't you already have the mask? Why do you need that kid's?"
Thorne chuckled — a sound colder than the snow outside. "I have three. Excluding Raito's."
"Then why five?" Thompson demanded.
"Fire. Water. Gravity. Lightning. Speed." Thorne's words were a litany, his tone absolute.
"Then what?" Thompson pressed, crawling forward an inch. "Then wha—"
The crack of Evelyne's hand cut him off. His head snapped sideways, blood spotting the fine rug beneath him. He groaned, pushed himself up, and leaned against the purple-lined wall.
"So what," Thompson spat, teeth red with blood. "You fetching him?"
"No." Thorne leaned forward, voice slicing the air. "What we're doing now… is because of you. You are the reason Therma lies in ash."
Thompson smirked through the blood. "Heh. Good luck. H.O.T's a fortress."
Then his eyes slid sideways, finding Raito — quiet, distant, drowning in silence. "What's wrong with him?" Thompson muttered. "Never seen him so quiet. With such… destroyed eyes."
Thorne's reply was smooth as glass, cold as death.
"That's because he's about to work. You'll see a fraction of what the mask holds."
Evelyne followed Thompson's gaze. She saw Raito's face — not the fire-bringer, not the feared son of Thorne, but the boy who had already given up on everything. And still, even in ruin, his hand found hers.