Chapter Sixteen: The Weakest God, The Savior's Embrace
Despite the pain, a slow, terrifying grin stretched across his lips.
"You should be happy, Totem," he gasped, his voice raspy. "You just learned where the weakest god is, in the 89th Plane. Someone is protecting this sector, and we just confirmed their existence with a glancing blow. Next time, we plan the theft."
The Totem, still sulking in his mind, responded with a grinding thought that held a terrifying amusement. "An excellent objective. The cosmos favors the audacious thief. It costs nothing to wait, but the reward for stealing from a superior plane is beyond measure."
Urca nodded, already processing the information gleaned from the battle: the adaptive resilience, and the fear of the First Plane entities. He had gained a massive power upgrade, and the cost was just a little pain and the headache of a defensive-minded parasite.
Then, mid-thought, his composure shattered.
Wait.
He was a husband. A fraud, a nascent god, an inter-dimensional thief, but officially, Kelna's husband. He had vanished after the wedding night, returned briefly, and then disappeared again for an indefinite period of agonizing cosmic violence—all without a word.
"Oh, stars," Urca whispered, his eyes widening in genuine, immediate panic. "Kelna! I left her yesterday morning, and I returned just now. The second time in a row. She thinks I am a feckless pauper, but she will kill me if she thinks I am unreliable!"
The Totem did not miss a beat, its thought laced with mocking superiority. "Ah, the primitive anchor. Did you truly forget that a god has mortal marriage obligations? Go. Before your pathetic little universe suffers its own domestic collapse. The screams of a woman wronged are tiresome."
Urca scrambled to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in his side. Cosmic warfare was one thing; a confrontation with a justifiably angry Kelna would be a completely different level of dread.
"Not a word, Totem! And no mocking her!" Urca commanded, focusing his will and tearing a portal back to the Rurns Estate. He jumped through, murmuring under his breath, "Please don't let her nag…"
While Urca was facing down divine judgement, the night was far more mundane—but no less dangerous—for Serena.
In a dark, upscale bar downtown, she sat alone, drinking steadily. The confrontation with Caleb's parents at the hospital—the father's furious, accurate accusation of her being a cancer on Caleb's life—had devastated her. She was adrift, guilty, and profoundly lonely.
A young man, clearly well-off and devious, approached her table with a practiced, predatory smile. "Rough night? Let me buy you something that will make you forget."
Serena looked at him, her eyes sharp with misery and contempt. "Get lost," she slurred, pushing his hand away from her drink. "I'm not interested in your pathetic games. I'm going home."
She grabbed her purse and stumbled out into the late-night street, refusing his offer to walk her. She felt the heavy weight of the city's indifferent silence pressing down on her.
She cut through a dark, narrow alleyway—a regrettable shortcut. The devious man, who had followed her silently, was suddenly there, blocking her path.
"You bitch, you think you can walk away from me?" he snarled, his earlier charm replaced by raw aggression. "You refused me nicely, now you'll thank me for your attention."
He grabbed her, shoving her violently against the cold brick wall. Scared, alone, and trapped, Serena struggled, trying desperately to raise a scream, but only a choked, ragged sob escaped. The panic was paralyzing her. She knew, with chilling certainty, that this was how awful things ended for girls like her.
The man's hands clawed at her clothes, tearing fabric. His breath, hot and sour with cheap whiskey, assaulted her face. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand while the other groped brutally. Serena kicked wildly, connecting with his shin. He cursed, momentarily loosening his grip. She twisted her head away from his slobbering mouth, tasting bile and terror. The alley seemed to shrink, suffocating her.
He slammed her head back against the bricks. Stars exploded behind her eyes. Her struggles weakened. He laughed, low and triumphant, fumbling with his belt buckle. Serena felt the rough brick scrape her back, the cold air on exposed skin. The sheer, violating intimacy of his weight crushed her spirit. A choked whimper escaped—not a scream, but the sound of hope dying.
His hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her. His other hand ripped at her skirt. Panic surged, cold and paralyzing. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. His eyes, glazed with lust and cruelty, filled her vision. This was it. The inevitable, ugly end she'd always feared but never truly believed would happen to her. Tears blurred the dim alley light overhead.
Just as the man was about to succeed, a new figure stepped into the edge of the alley's dim illumination.
"I believe the lady asked you to cease your efforts," a calm, rich voice cut through the tension. "I suggest you comply."
The assailant turned, enraged. "Mind your own damn business, man! Get lost!"
The stranger moved. He was handsome, immaculately dressed in a sharp, dark coat, and possessed an unnerving stillness.
His fist snapped out. It wasn't flashy; it was brutally efficient. It caught the assailant squarely on the jaw with a sharp, wet crack. Teeth shattered. The man's head snapped back violently, spraying flecks of blood and saliva onto the alley wall. Before the attacker could crumple, the stranger's other hand shot forward, fingers rigid as steel rods. They plunged deep into the soft flesh beneath the ribcage, finding the solar plexus. The impact drove the air from the man's lungs in a whistling gasp that turned into a choked gurgle. The stranger twisted his wrist sharply. Something vital tore inside with a sickening, wet rip. The assailant's eyes bulged, wide with sudden, agonizing comprehension, then rolled back as his body went limp, collapsing like a sack of wet grain onto the filthy pavement.
The stranger did not look at the fallen man. He simply turned his attention to Serena, his expression one of calm, professional concern.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle and stabilizing.
Serena was shaking uncontrollably, clutching her torn coat. The raw relief was overwhelming. She stumbled toward him, hysterical. "Please, you saved me! Thank you, thank you! I… I couldn't scream…"
"It's over now," the man soothed, his touch light as he helped her straighten her clothes. "That filth won't bother you again. My name is Elijah. It was my duty."
Elijah waited patiently for her to regain some composure. He didn't push, didn't pry, simply providing a solid, comforting presence until she could walk. He then offered to walk her home, his demeanor entirely respectful.
The journey through the quiet city streets was slow. Serena trembled, her steps unsteady, clutching her torn coat like armor. Elijah walked beside her, a silent guardian. The crisp night air felt cleansing after the alley's suffocating stench. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows that made Serena flinch until Elijah subtly shifted his position, placing himself between her and the deeper darkness. His calm was a tangible thing, a steady counterpoint to her frantic heartbeat.
"I live just a few blocks away," Serena managed, her voice thin. "Near the park." She paused, glancing at Elijah's profile—sharp, composed, untouched by the violence he'd delivered. "You… you killed him." It wasn't an accusation, merely a stunned observation hanging in the cool air.
Elijah kept his gaze ahead, hands tucked into his coat pockets. "Some predators only understand extinction," he replied, tone devoid of remorse. "The alley was dark. No cameras. He chose his end when he chose his actions." A beat of silence stretched, filled only by their footsteps on damp pavement. "Besides," he added, almost gently, "you deserved a clean slate tonight."
Serena shivered, pulling her coat tighter. "Why help me? You didn't know me." Her voice cracked. "Men like him... they usually get away with it."
Elijah glanced sideways, moonlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. "I hunt predators," he stated simply. "Their patterns are predictable. That alley reeks of desperation and opportunity." He paused as they turned onto her street. "You fought well. Most freeze. That kick bought you seconds."
Serena hugged herself tighter, the adrenaline fading into bone-deep exhaustion. "It didn't feel like enough." The park loomed ahead, its familiar paths suddenly menacing shadows. "He was so strong..."
"Strength without discipline is noise," Elijah countered, his voice low but resonant. He paused beneath a flickering streetlamp, its light catching the precise angles of his face. "You survived. That requires a different kind of strength."
They reached her door. Elijah paused, offering a slight, respectful bow. "I'm glad you are safe, Serena. You should call the police in the morning."
He began to turn to leave.
Serena couldn't bear the thought of being alone again. The emptiness of her apartment and the memory of the alley were too terrifying. She reached out, her hand gently touching his arm, an act of sheer, needy desperation.
"Elijah, please," she whispered, her voice husky and shy. "Don't just leave. I… I need a moment. I'm still shaking." She took a deep breath, trying to construct a logical excuse. "Come in. Let me thank you properly. I can make you tea. I—I want to know the man who saved my life."
Elijah turned back, his handsome face composed, his eyes holding a neutral, intriguing warmth. He looked at her not with lust, but with calm, calculating acceptance.
"If you insist," he replied.
He followed her into the apartment, the door closing quietly behind them. The man who had entered was a savior, a handsome mystery, and the answer to her desperate plea for protection.
But Elijah was not a savior. He was the perfect, emotionless instrument of calculated sin—a Clone sent to acquire information and manipulate a new target.