The room was dark.
Not the kind of darkness you could light with a candle, or drive back with fluorescent lamps. This was the kind that crawled—that waited. Like it had teeth.
Deep beneath the ruined foundations of an old subway station, five figures stood in a wide, circular chamber etched with runes, ancient glyphs, and crude carvings.
At the center of the room: The Seal.
It was a jagged obsidian monolith, as tall as a man, split by glowing cracks that pulsed faintly like a dying heart. The surface was etched with gold script that shimmered and flickered as if resisting something.
Or someone.
Vernon Slade towered at the front, shirtless as always, his torso still bearing scars from the last war. His single golden eye burned like a furnace. His fists were clenched—ready.
Vera leaned against a broken column, spinning her blade slowly in one hand, the tip scratching lazy circles on the concrete.
