It might seem, on the surface, that she was merely using Roman—exploiting him for her own ends—but in truth, their arrangement was a rare kind of bargain, one where both stood to gain.
In every future without her, he became a monster.
And in every future without him, she died—either hunted down while on the run or drained to nothing by Armenia's exploitation of her power. No matter the path, without each other, both met a miserable end.
It wasn't dependency. It wasn't affection. It was survival. A closed loop of mutual need: she steered him to be able face his troubles, and he was the only shield strong enough to keep her alive long enough to see another day.
Roman was slipping, not in the way wounds alone could explain. Soul Mutation fed on emotion, and the aftertaste of the battle—fear, rage, panic—still coiled in him like an unburnt charge.
The most important thing now was stabilizing him.
Misha returned from the sink with a cloth dampened in cold water. Roman didn't flinch when she pressed it against his temple, but she could feel the tension running under his skin like a live wire.
"You're burning up," she murmured.
"It'll pass," he said.
He had lingered in the Mutation state far longer than his untrained body and soul could endure.
Outside, far beyond the safehouse walls, a plane was already cutting through the clouds—bringing Sylas Drein and the Black Lance Unit to Othernesia.
The rain over Yutri Air Base was the kind that swallowed sound, turning the world into a curtain of static. Beneath the roar of cargo engines, a black-painted transport squatted on the runway, its fuselage gleaming like the shell of some massive insect.
Inside, the air smelled of oil and metal. The Black Lance Unit sat in two rows, armored head to toe, their visors reflecting the cold fluorescence. They were Armenia's sharpest blade—the kind of men and women deployed only when the word impossible came up in a mission briefing.
But even here, there was tension.
Because their primary target… was one of their own.
Darius Dorgu.
For years, he had served as Armenia's favored executioner—a weapon that not only eliminated enemies but wiped them from the balance of power altogether. He was the tip of Armenia's spear, thrust first into the path of unknown mutants.
Then, two days ago, contact was lost in Othernesia. The satellite footage that followed made the high command's blood run cold.
Now, they weren't just retrieving him. They were making sure he didn't become someone else's weapon.
At the head of the troop bay, a man stepped forward. His uniform wasn't armored, yet somehow he felt heavier than any of them.
Commander Sylas Drein.
There was no warmth in his expression—just that glacial focus that made enemies swear they could feel him watching from miles away. Scars ran from his jawline to the hollow beneath his ear, a reminder of the day he'd been caught too close to a mutant's last breath.
He didn't speak loudly, but every word seemed to carry over the engine noise.
"Listen carefully. This is not a retrieval mission. This is containment. We bring Dorgu back if possible… but if he resists—"
His gaze cut through the aisle like a knife.
"—we end him."
No one shifted in their seats. No one asked what "end" meant.
He let the silence stretch. Only the hum of the transport filled it.
"Our orders come directly from the President. We deploy in Yutri Port, sweep inland, and secure our assets. Dead or alive."
In the cockpit, the pilot's voice crackled over comms.
"Commander Drein, we're entering Othernesia airspace."
Sylas adjusted his gloves.
"Then prepare to move. Armenia doesn't lose its weapons to the world. Not now. Not ever."
The ramp lowered. Rain rushed in. The Black Lance Unit moved like shadows.
The rain had not stopped since morning. It crawled down the safehouse windows like slow rivers, smearing the city's neon into streaks of red and gold. Somewhere in that rain, Darius Dorgu was still moving—too fast, too smart, and far too dangerous.
Roman paced near the window, every few steps clenching his fists as if fighting something inside him. His skin still carried the faint static from Hex's power, like a storm that couldn't decide whether to break.
The Soul Mutation was restless, shifting beneath the surface. If it erupted in the wrong way, Dorgu wouldn't even have to find him—half the city would know.
"Sit," she said quietly.
He turned, caught in her gaze for a moment, then obeyed without a word.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the ticking of the clock.
She didn't look at him directly—looking too long made the distance between them feel smaller, more fragile. But she could sense the weight pressing on him. The anger. The uncertainty. The exhaustion that came from fighting battles no one else could see.
Misha thought of ways to stabilize him without triggering the Soul Mutation. If only he could sleep—truly sleep—time itself might mend him. But for Roman, peaceful rest was a luxury he could never afford. She would have to find another way.
The solution wasn't in weapons, training, or plans—it was in him. Keeping his emotions balanced, keeping his mind tethered, keeping the fracture lines from widening.
She sat beside him, just close enough for him to feel her presence without touching. "You're wound too tight," she said.
"I'm fine," he lied.
She let the lie pass. Sometimes calling it out only made the fracture worse. "You're not. And if you burn yourself out now, you won't have anything left when it matters."
He didn't respond, but the tension in his shoulders softened—just a little.
Misha knew she wasn't his anchor. Not yet. But if she stayed close enough, steady enough, maybe she could be. Not because the futures demanded it, but because she wanted him to live in at least one of them.
Outside, the rain swallowed the city whole. Somewhere in that darkness, two monsters were moving—one hunting, one hunted.
Rain blurred the neon cityscape into smears of color, hiding movements that did not want to be seen. Dorgu moved through it like smoke—silent, shapeless, vanishing each time a beam of light tried to catch him.
Reaching the President of Othernesia should have been impossible. Layer upon layer of security wrapped around the man like armor—elite guards, biometric checkpoints, closed-off convoys. Yet Dorgu slipped past them, not by brute force, but by something harder to notice: absence.
He left no trail. No scent for the hounds. No shadow for the watchers.
The last barrier was the Presidential compound itself, a marble-and-glass fortress that bristled with defenses. Dorgu didn't breach it. He didn't need to.
Sumeru liked to walk alone late at night on the rooftop garden—a habit known only to his most trusted aides. He claimed it cleared his mind. In truth, it was the only place he could think without the hum of recording devices.
Tonight, when Sumeru turned a corner beneath the soft glow of ornamental lanterns, he found a silhouette waiting for him.
A familiar figure—one he had not laid eyes on in what felt like a lifetime.
The man did not move, but Sumeru's body reacted—muscles tensing, heart thudding.
"Darius Dorgu," he said, voice low, wary. "You shouldn't be here."
"And yet," Dorgu replied, "here I am. Your subordinates need to train more"
The President's eyes narrowed. "As far as I know, you're Armenia's hound—and they only unleash their hound to kill or capture."
For a moment, the only sound was the rain hissing against the glass dome.
Dorgu didn't flinch. He spoke—not pleading, not defensive, but with the weight of a man who had survived too many hunts.
"I'm not Armenia's hound anymore. I'm not here on their behalf. I'm here because what's coming will burn us both if we don't act."
Sumeru studied him, searching for the lie. "And I should believe you because…?"
From his coat, Dorgu drew a small, battered data shard. "Because of this. It came from Damar."
Dorgu then told Sumeru of his meeting with Damar.
The President's eyes flickered at the name and the story. He took the shard, but his skepticism remained. Armenia didn't share. Not with enemies. Not with allies.
And yet… if this was real…
Sumeru's thumb hovered over the reader port. He hesitated, then slid the shard in. Lines of encrypted text began to unfold before him—information Armenia should never have allowed to leave their vaults.
His breath quickened.
When he looked up again, something in his gaze had shifted. The suspicion was still there, but now it shared space with something else: consideration.
"You want something," Sumeru said.
"I want information," Dorgu replied.
"Othernesia's intelligence reports on mutants. Every shred you've got. My current ability is unstable. Dangerous. I need another—one I can control. Or the wrong people will use me as their weapon again."
Sumeru tapped the shard against his palm, thinking. "You're asking me to help you betray Armenia."
"I'm asking you to help me survive. And maybe, by doing so, we keep this country standing when the storm hits."
The President didn't answer immediately. He glanced toward the rain, the city, the thousands of people sleeping under its glow. Finally, he nodded.
"I'll get you what you need. And I'll keep your movements out of their sight. As long as you're under my roof, Armenia won't find you."
Sumeru's warm gaze pulled Dorgu back to a time long before Armenia's raid on Othernesia—a time he had almost forgotten.
Back then, he was nothing more than a boy sold by his own parents, condemned to live as a lab rat for cruel experiments. He thought his life would begin and end in that sterile prison, until the day Sumeru stormed in.
The man's voice thundered through the corridors as he argued with the scientists, demanding to know why a child was there. By law, only death row prisoners could be used as test subjects—yet here was Dorgu, a boy barely old enough to hold a rifle.
Sumeru's rage boiled over. He tore Dorgu out of that place, shielding him from the sterile white hell.
From that day on, Sumeru raised him like a son, teaching him discipline, honor, and the pride of a soldier. Dorgu grew up determined to become as brave and steadfast as the man who had saved him.
But fate was cruel. When Armenia invaded Othernesia, they discovered Dorgu's mutant power. He was still only a rookie soldier when they captured him, tearing him away from Sumeru's side.
By the time they met again, Dorgu had become Armenia's hound. And in Sumeru's eyes, the son he had once saved was gone—leaving only an enemy's hound in his place.
Now, feeling that warmth again after so many years, Dorgu decided then: He would repay this debts in the future.