The first rays of sunlight fought to break through the half-closed blinds of Leo's penthouse, slicing the dim air into fractured beams that landed on papers, tools, and half-finished devices strewn across the floor. Dust drifted lazily in the golden shafts, illuminated for a heartbeat before sinking back into shadow. Outside, the city murmured in a low, uneasy chorus — distant sirens, the faint thrum of military transports overhead, the occasional sharp crack of something metallic being dropped.
Leo sat hunched at his workbench, the only pool of bright light in the otherwise subdued apartment. His shoulders were bare, the lean muscle of his arms taut as he leaned forward, holding a tiny, complex joint between two gloved fingers. In front of him, the exposed interior of his prosthetic right hand gleamed with a mix of polished alloys and matte black plating, the micro-servos twitching faintly as he adjusted them with a precision screwdriver.
The incident yesterday — that public dismantling of Ethan Vale's arrogance — had been satisfying, but Ethan's outburst had cost him. The hand was built for delicate work and flawless balance, not to block a magical projectile hurled in petty rage. The servos were misaligned, the sensory plates dented.
He slid the last plate back into place with a quiet click. The hand came to life, flexing through its range of motion. Smooth. Perfect again.
The comm-unit on the bench began to vibrate and flash, the shrill buzz shattering the fragile quiet. He glanced at the screen. Harold Grant.
Leo's brow lifted slightly. Harold never called without reason. The man had once been his mentor, a mind sharper than most knives, buried so deep in the National Magical Research Institute that he sometimes forgot to eat. Social pleasantries were beneath him. If Harold was calling now, it meant something was wrong.
Leo answered without moving from his seat, pressing the device to his ear.
"Leo! Thank the stars, you're alive! And answering!" Harold's voice was a crackle of relief, threaded through with an edge Leo had never heard before — panic.
"Alive enough," Leo said, his tone dry. "Though the alien obelisk in the skyline has made breakfast somewhat less appealing."
"Forget breakfast! Leo, we… we've recovered a fragment."
That pulled him upright. "A fragment? From the pillar?"
"Yes — a piece sheared off during the impact. We don't know why, we don't know how. But it's here, under maximum security. And Leo… it's unlike anything we've ever handled. It's impossibly dense, impossibly cold. It rejects every scanning method, every magical probe. We've had Awakened specialists at it all night — nothing. The readings we're getting are… well, nothing. Just nothing."
Leo stared past the blinds to where the enormous black spire stabbed the morning sky, unmoving and silent. It was like a scar across the world. "And you think I can make sense of it?"
"I know you can. You were always the one looking at the framework beneath magic, not just the spells it powered. This fragment doesn't behave like any magical object we've catalogued. It doesn't behave like any material we've catalogued."
"I'm not exactly welcome in the Institute anymore," Leo said quietly, memories of backroom arguments and slammed doors surfacing unbidden. "You remember what happened."
"None of that matters now. Politics are dead weight in the face of this. I'll get you clearance, I'll walk you past the guards myself. Just get here. Please, Leo."
Leo let the silence stretch. The call felt heavier than its words — something in Harold's voice was less about excitement and more about fear. The fragment wasn't just strange. It was wrong.
"All right," Leo said finally. "But if this thing kills me, you'll regret dragging me in."
"If it kills you, we'll all be dead shortly after," Harold muttered. "I'll meet you at the east gate." The line went dead.
Leo set the comm-unit down, leaning back in his chair. The repaired hand flexed silently, the cold metal fingers curling into a fist. He could almost hear the city breathing outside — uneasy, waiting.
He stood, crossing the penthouse. The space was more workshop than home, with racks of tools along one wall, shelves stacked with reference books and storage cases, and a corner dedicated to his personal archives. The kitchen counter was buried under notes and empty mugs. His bedroom door was half-open, a pile of clothes spilling out.
From the wardrobe, he chose a black, high-collared coat that reached mid-thigh, its fabric reinforced with woven composites that looked like silk but resisted most cutting spells. A plain shirt and tailored trousers followed, along with gloves — leather on the left, thinner alloy plates over mesh on the right.
He paused before the full-length mirror. The man staring back had sharp cheekbones, gray-blue eyes that held no illusions, and a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The prosthetic caught the light, sleek and functional rather than ornamental.
By the time he stepped into the garage beneath the building, the day was fully awake. The air smelled faintly of smoke from last night's fires. His car waited — an angular, deep metallic gray machine, all clean lines and quiet power, its interior customized with both mundane and magical instrumentation.
The streets were changed. Soldiers in urban camouflage guarded intersections, rifles slung and eyes watchful. News drones drifted overhead, their lenses tracking every movement. Storefronts were shuttered, sidewalks nearly empty. In the distance, the black pillar loomed, its surface swallowing the morning light.
As Leo drove, he felt the hum of the city's fear. Roads leading toward the university were sealed by makeshift checkpoints. He passed through each without trouble, Harold's clearance codes flashing on the dashboard screen. At one stop, a young soldier stared into the car with wide eyes before waving him through, as though recognizing a name whispered in briefing rooms.
The closer he got, the more the pillar dominated the skyline. Its surface was not smooth, but etched with faint, shifting lines that seemed to move when he wasn't looking directly at them. Even from kilometers away, he felt a pressure in the air, like the weight of a storm about to break.
Finally, he turned a corner and the university perimeter came into view. Tall fences, guard towers, and armored transports ringed the grounds. Floodlights stood ready even in daylight. The gates bristled with security — armed soldiers, robed Awakened, and a cluster of analysts with scanning devices.
Leo slowed to a stop, the car's engine purring low. Harold's figure emerged from the controlled chaos — hair disheveled, coat half-buttoned, a data tablet clutched in one hand. Even at this distance, Leo could see the strain in his eyes.
Leo stepped out, the chill morning air brushing against him, the black spire casting its shadow over them both.