Rael's breath rattled in his throat as he leaned against the alley wall, his blood mixing with the puddle at his feet. He could feel every bruise, every cut, screaming beneath his skin—but none of it mattered. He'd survived.
Again.
Bonecrusher was still back there, groaning somewhere in the dark, probably wondering how a starving stray had knocked him out. Rael didn't feel proud. Just cold. Numb. Like part of him hadn't returned from that fight yet.
He pulled up his hoodie and walked out into the neon-lit streets of East Marrow, where the city never slept and the predators wore sneakers instead of fangs. Crowds passed by like rivers—faces blank, hands in pockets, never looking up.
No one noticed the blood on Rael's shirt.
No one cared.
Rael made his way to HitBox, the old gym hidden behind two pawnshops. The cracked neon sign buzzed overhead as he pushed open the door. The air inside smelled like iron and sweat. Familiar. Safe.
Behind the front desk sat Kuro, arms crossed, scowling like always.
"You look like shit," Kuro muttered without looking up from his phone.
Rael slumped onto the bench near the locker room. "Thanks. Feels like it too."
"You win?"
"Didn't die."
Kuro grunted. "Close enough."
He stood up and walked over, tossing Rael a protein bar and a towel. "Wipe that blood off before you stain my floors. Again."
Rael peeled off his hoodie and winced at the sight—his chest was streaked with purple bruises, one rib swollen and angry. His knuckles were raw, and the cut on his eyebrow hadn't stopped bleeding yet.
Kuro leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
"You keep fighting like this, you're not gonna last another month."
"I don't care."
"You should."
Rael wiped the blood from his lip. "I'm close. I can feel it. I just need… something."
Kuro exhaled a stream of smoke. "What you need is someone who can teach you how to stop fighting like a rabid dog."
Rael looked up.
"There's a guy," Kuro said. "Used to be in the circuit. Real ghost type. Name's Ken. He trains people like you, when he's in the mood."
Rael blinked. "How do I find him?"
"You don't. He finds you."
Meanwhile — The Dominion, High Tower
A hundred stories above the slums, the Dominion's Spire glowed like a blade through the clouds. In a glass-paneled office, Sol Drayven stood in silence, watching the footage loop on his tablet.
It was grainy street-cam video: Rael, bloodied and limping, putting Bonecrusher in the dirt.
Behind Sol stood his sister, Selica, dressed in a silk suit so sharp it could cut throats. Her silver-blonde hair cascaded down her back, but her eyes were gleaming like knives.
"He's pretty," she said, licking her teeth. "I like him already."
Sol didn't smile. "He's unstable."
"So was Father. Look where that got him."
Sol's jaw tightened at the name.
Selica stepped forward, touching the screen with a manicured nail. "Look at the way he moves. That last hit—he's awakening, whether he knows it or not."
Sol stared at her. "And you think that makes him one of us?"
"No," she said, voice dark and thrilled. "It makes him mine."