The silence had weight.
Roman felt it pressing in from every corner of the ruined train station. The safehouse was still—too still. Even the old fan above the shattered window had stopped spinning, its motor silent as if holding its breath.
Misha was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, back straight. Not meditating. Calculating.
Roman stood near the cracked exit hatch, palms braced against the cold frame. The air was heavy with moisture, tinged with ozone. His fingers still hummed faintly with residual static.
"I don't like waiting," he muttered.
"You're not waiting," Misha replied without opening her eyes. "You're charging."
Roman glanced down at his hands. The electric traces hadn't faded completely. They danced beneath his skin like trapped lightning, sparking along his nerves in irregular pulses.
"But I can't control it," he said.
"Not yet," Misha replied. "But you will."
She didn't sound like she was guessing.
Aboveground — Ten Minutes Later
A footstep echoed.
Just one.
But it was louder than it had any right to be. Not because of volume—but because of weight.
Darius Dorgu walked through the ruins like a man with time on his side.
He didn't creep. He didn't sneak.
He simply arrived.
Concrete cracked beneath metalized boots. Rain sizzled against his skin. His body shimmered faintly under the dim light, like polished tungsten wrapped in muscle.
He stopped at the platform edge.
Looked down into the darkness below.
"Roman Ravenscroft," he said calmly. His voice carried.
Below — Roman
Roman froze.
The name—his name—echoed through the safehouse. No distortion. No hesitation.
"He's here," Roman whispered.
Misha opened her eyes.
"I know."
"Did you hear what he said?"
"I heard."
"I told you again, don't let him wound you."
He clenched his fists.
"One drop of blood," Misha said. "Then he'll know everything."
"And once Armenia know your power they can devises specific plans to get you"
Moments Later — Impact
The ceiling shattered.
Roman barely had time to react before metal boots punched through concrete and hit the floor with an earsplitting thud.
Dust exploded around the impact point. When it cleared, Darius Dorgu stood there—tall, armored, expressionless.
He didn't speak.
He just charged.
Roman dodged sideways, barely avoiding the punch that cratered the floor. Sparks flew from the strike—real sparks—and Roman felt the jolt rush into his legs as he landed.
The air lit up.
He reacted instinctively.
Lightning arced from his palms, wild and unfocused, striking the metal armor across Dorgu's arm. The hunter barely flinched. A sizzling noise rang out—but no burn. No damage.
Dorgu turned.
And smiled.
Roman panicking.
"I can't hurt him," Roman muttered. "He's—he's grounded. He's—"
No. He wasn't.
Roman's eyes darted across the room. No soil. No bare ground. Just sealed concrete. Steel walls. Dripping pipes.
And then it clicked.
He wasn't grounded.
This whole place—this ruined, soaked, sealed-off box—it wasn't a cage.
It was a trap.
Suddenly, everything Misha said made sense.
Misha knew the truth, even if Roman didn't.
No matter where they ran, no matter how deep they buried themselves, Darius Dorgu would find them eventually. Armenia's reach was too vast—its alien technology too advanced, too incomprehensible. Hiding was only ever a delay, never a solution.
That's why she brought Roman here.
She told him it was just a temporary hideout. Somewhere quiet. Off-grid.
But that was a lie.
This wasn't a shelter.
It was a battlefield.
The old station's layout was perfect—every surface paved or sealed, no exposed earth anywhere. That meant Dorgu's metalized body would struggle to ground any electrical discharge. No place for current to escape. No way to bleed off the voltage.
And the damp—Misha had chosen that, too. Moisture clung to the walls, pooled in cracks, soaked into the concrete. The entire place was a conductor waiting to ignite.
Back to the Fight
Roman planted his feet.
Dorgu raised a fist—fast.
Roman raised both palms—faster.
The lightning leapt.
It wasn't a wild burst this time.
It was precise.
It hit Dorgu's chestplate with a sharp crack, and this time, the current didn't vanish.
It lingered.
It crawled.
And it burned.
Dorgu staggered back a half-step, smoke rising from his chest. His eyes narrowed, and for the first time since arriving—
He looked surprised.
Roman smiled. "You're not grounded, are you?"
Roman didn't retreat this time.
He stepped forward.
The blue light grew brighter around his arms. The pulse steadied. His fear didn't vanish—but it fused with something new.
Control.
For the first time since this nightmare began, Roman wasn't running.
He was fighting.
The metal didn't creak—it rang.
When Dorgu stepped forward, the ground beneath him vibrated. Concrete dust lifted. The air, already thick with humidity, now buzzed with static and tension.
Roman didn't flinch. Not this time.
His fingers curled at his sides. Sparks snapped between his knuckles—no longer erratic, no longer twitching. Focused. Controlled.
Dorgu tilted his head, just slightly. Analyzing. Waiting.
Then he moved.
Fast.
Too fast for metal.
His metalized arm swept in a brutal arc—Roman barely ducked. The edge of Dorgu's forearm shattered a concrete beam behind him, sending rubble down in a choking cloud. Before the pieces hit the floor, Roman retaliated.
Lightning snapped forward, a piercing strike from both hands. It struck Dorgu center-mass—again—but this time Roman adjusted. He held the current.
Electricity surged not in a flash, but in a steady crawl, wrapping Dorgu's chest and limbs like coiling wire.
Dorgu tensed.
His feet didn't plant deep enough.
The current stayed.
And the metal smoked.
Roman shifted sideways, still channeling. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Every drop of voltage he could pull out of the air, he fed into Dorgu's armor—into his skin.
And Dorgu started to bend.
A knee buckled.
Then he roared—not in pain, but sheer effort—and slammed his palm against the floor.
A ripple burst outward.
The entire room jolted.
Roman's connection broke. He staggered, caught himself on a pillar. Sparks scattered from his fingertips like dying embers.
Dorgu stood fully upright again, steam rising from his shoulders, skin gleaming, but burned in thin lines where the current had carved temporary seams across his metal shell.
He wasn't invincible.
Roman now knew that.
But Dorgu wasn't finished.
Debris flew like shrapnel.
Dorgu didn't waste time. He grabbed a jagged pipe from the wreckage, the metal fusing to his palm as if drawn in magnetically, and hurled it like a spear.
Roman ducked, but not fast enough—the pipe grazed his shoulder and embedded in the wall behind him with a crunch. Blood soaked into his sleeve, warm and fast. Luckily Dorgu's power only effective when he wound the target with his own body parts.
Roman hissed, but didn't stop.
His free hand flared, blue light blooming with a crack.
He threw his weight forward, launching another bolt—not directly at Dorgu, but at the ceiling.
The old fan.
It caught the charge.
The entire ceiling lit up, power arcing through rusted wires and old supports, turning the station into a cage of live current.
Dorgu moved to intercept.
But the moment he touched the rebar—
The electricity snapped into him from every angle.
Roman's trap worked.
The current looped through Dorgu's limbs, burning not just the surface—but the joints. His knee gave again. His left arm slowed. He twisted, breaking free with brute force, but even that cost him.
From the sidelines, Misha watched with the same quiet awe she felt every time.
Roman was a fighting genius—of that, she had no doubt. In every future where they fled together, no matter how different the paths or outcomes, one thing remained constant: his instinct in battle always astonished her.
There was something primal in the way he moved, something untamed. Calling it beastly felt almost insulting. No beast fought like Roman did. He didn't just react—he anticipated, adapted, and devoured his opponents like he was born for it.
Roman charged.
No words. No thoughts.
Just instinct.
He ducked under a counterstrike and slammed his palm cladded in electricity against Dorgu's ribs, where the armor had thinned.
The static in Roman's palm detonated.
A white-hot crack filled the room.
Dorgu staggered back, this time visibly hurt, his breath heavy, muscles tight.
Roman didn't smile.
Dorgu lunged.
Roman dodged, but the edge of a metalized boot caught his ribs. He rolled, breath punched from his lungs, and only barely managed to stop Dorgu's follow-up with a blinding discharge to the face.
Dorgu flinched, blinking against the blast. Not blind. But slower.
Roman dove behind a toppled column.
Sweat poured down his neck. His arm throbbed from the cut. His lungs burned. The electricity inside him pulsed wildly, but he was learning—how to pace it, how to hold the charge without burning out.
Dorgu scanned the space methodically.
His metal coating had darkened, pitted from multiple strikes. His movement was still powerful—but no longer clean.
Roman's heartbeat matched the tempo of the sparks dancing between his fingertips.
Time to end this.