As Arman entered the building, the smell hit him first—a sharp mix of chemicals and food, enough to make his stomach twist in hunger before the stench of bleach killed it.
The floors were spotless, light bouncing off an uneven mosaic of tiles. It was cleaner and better kept than anywhere else in New Democracy—that much was certain.
People stood around idly: some reading worn books, others huddled over flimsy tables made of cardboard and rotted wood, shouting insults and laughing like old friends.
It was always much different at home.
Especially after his father—
He shut that thought down before it could finish.
Hannah led him through the crowd to a front desk where a woman sat tapping her fingers against the surface, surrounded by endless stacks of paperwork.
"Hey," Hannah said, slapping her palm against the desk. "We need a key for the basement."
The woman looked up, her tired eyes lingered slightly at the sound of a request that wasn't just more forms.
"Yes, and would that be the regular keys or the red one?"
"The red one," Hannah said, nodding toward Arman. "That would be for the both of us."
"Great. Then both of you sign here."
She slid a sheet across the desk. It was already filled with names. They were merely scribbles, jagged and unreadable.
Something compelled Arman to scan the list, something tickled the back of his mind. Thoughts of that dream he had.
The child, their voice.
How was he supposed to find them if he didn't have anything to go off. No name, no nothing. The thought unsettled him.
Hannah's sharp glance pulled him out of it. He scrawled his signature quickly, the clean lines of his Lumenport handwriting standing out like a wound among the messy blotches.
The woman raised an eyebrow. "You must have just come from Lumenport? Am I right?"
"Uh…yeah. Is that a problem?" He tensed, unsure what he'd done wrong.
"Not at all," she said lightly. "We were just expecting someone like you yesterday."
She pulled out a small slip of paper and began writing something down. Arman leaned in curious, Subject T-24 ha—
—but Hannah stepped between them, blocking his view. "That's enough small talk. We've wasted enough time already."
He heard a soft click of the drawer closing. Whatever note the woman had written was gone.
Hannah finished signing, her name joining the endless scribbles, grabbed the dull red key from the desk, and jerked her head toward a dark hallway. "Come on."
Arman followed her through the narrow corridors, weaving past people and down a stairwell that seemed to swallow the light as they descended.
The polished white marble gave way to dark, cracked concrete. Mold crept along the walls, and the damp smell thickened the air until it felt like breathing through cloth.
Flickering bulbs cast shuttering shadows across rotting wooden doors, their frames warped and splintered. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became.
By the time they reached the last door—painted a dull red like the key—Arman could feel himself shake.
He expected something grander for the "boss" of the New Democracy. The elites of Lumenport lived well off, not in a dank basement like this.
"I'm going in first," Hannah said, gripping the handle. "Wait here."
The door creaked open, then shut softly behind her.
Silence.
He stared down at his hands under the flickering light. He still didn't know what Hannah had given him to save his life—or why it worked.
He hadn't told her about the pull he'd felt after. That strange connection to the creature, or the child in his dream. He wasn't really sure if he should.
Nothing about last night felt normal.
I have died twice now.
His thoughts tangled, his head fogging until it ached.
Then a creak.
The door opened again.
Hannah stepped out, head bowed, hair hiding her face. She walked past him wordlessly and stopped by the wall.
A single drop of crimson fell from her chin, hitting the floor with a sharp plip. The sound echoed through the hall.
Then came a voice from the room—low, smooth, and close enough to feel in his chest.
"Come on in, Arman."
Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he forced his feet forward.
The door closed behind Arman with a dull thunk. The sound swallowed the last hint of light from the hall.
For a moment, he was blanketed in complete darkness.
Then there was a breath. Slow, steady. Not his.
"Hello, Arman."
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere, a smooth baritone that rolled through the room like a warm smoke.
"This is the first time we've met face to face." A pause. The faint creak of movement in the dark.
"Come. Sit."
He hadn't even seen the chair, but somehow his knees bent on command. His body moving on its own.
Silence stretched even longer, thickening the air between them.
"So." The man's tone was patient, unhurried. "Your first time outside. I heard it was…rough."
Arman swallowed, dryness scratching his throat. "It was…yeah. Rough. The car, it uh–-broke."
"Yes. I heard all about that." The voice flipped between sharp and soft, each word deliberate. "And yet, you survived. That's not something most can manage around Hannah."
He felt something fleeting, an echo of that strange pull, but this time it hid, as if it knew he was looking.
Something shifted in the dark—the scrape of a boot, or maybe a chair. The air turned cold.
"Tell me, Arman." A sound, barely a whisper, pressed hot against his face. "What did she do?"
The question was simple, but it caught him off guard. He shrank back in his seat. "I-I don't…know what you mean by that."
Out of the dark, two yellow eyes blinked open, gleaming—watching, studying him.
"Let me rephrase, then." Another movement in the dark. He could only see fragments: a hand brushing the table, the faint outline of a coat. The man's presence pressed down on him.
"Was there anything she did? Anything that might deserve…extreme reprimand."
His last words landed heavy on Arman. A hand settled on his shoulder—firm, unyielding.
"Uh, no. Not that I think." He thought back to the attack. Even if it was for herself, she had saved him—tried to patch him up after.
"She…saved my life actually."
"Good." The pressure on his shoulder stiffened, then lifted.
"I'm glad to see there really is someone out there that can work with her. I'm proud of you Arman. Congratulations on your first successful job."
"Thank you." Arman said meekly, tension draining as he took a shaky breath.
"Now get some rest…you're going to need it."
The door creaked open with a shudder. The boss's topaz eyes faded into the dark as dim light struggled to return to the room.
He hurried out of the room, trying to keep his composure.
Behind him, the voice came again, faintly amused.
"I expect great results from you. Don't disappoint me now."
The door shut abruptly. A click followed as the lock turned.
Arman found himself face to face with Hannah, her head still hung low. A small pool of blood forming at her feet.
"Let's go," was all she said before turning down the hall.
"Where are we going?" he called after her, jogging to catch up.
The look she gave him made him instantly regret his question. When her head lifted, her eyes met his—no anger, no expression at all. Just emptiness. Her gaze was hollow, like that of a corpse.
The fresh gash on her face standing out amongst the scarred over ones.
He took a step back under that lifeless stare. Despite her size, she suddenly looked smaller than him. Her shadow clung to her feet, shrinking close against the floor.
"I'm going to drop off this key and go to my room. You can figure out the rest for yourself."
"But aren't we a team now?"
"Yeah. Sure."
She paused for a long moment before adding, "Welcome to the team Arman." Her words dripped with venom.
Then she turned and walked off toward the front desk, leaving him alone in the dark basement.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hannah was alone now, locked in a shitty hotel bathroom.
She'd ditched Arman and gotten her own room—somewhere she could clean herself up without his pitying eyes on her.
That look he gave her—it was humiliating. She didn't need his pity.
She didn't need anyone. She'd always been just fine by herself.
She didn't need someone like him slowing her down.
Despite that—
BANG.
Her fist slammed into the sink. The porcelain rattled from the impact. She clenched her hand, fighting the urge to destroy everything in the room.
The boss had told her, "There's something he has you never will. Make sure he becomes a killing machine…built to obey me."
She'd gotten off easy—she'd delivered the essence and brought Arman back in one piece.
Still, it wasn't enough. Her failures always outweighed her accomplishments.
She slammed her fist again and wretched into the sink, dark blood mixing with bile. It burned her throat, reminding her how weak she was.
"Blech." She groaned, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
Hannah stared at the cracked mirror, her reflection glaring back—judging her. Blood still dripped faintly from the fresh wound across her face.
The mirror always reflected everything she hated.
She was expected to train Arman—to mold him like the boss had molded her. But who the fuck was he, really, for the boss to take such a special interest?
He was just a scared child—nothing more. Yet there was something else. She could feel it.
She would find out what made him so special.
And when she did…
She would surpass him.
Her blood ran pink in the sink, swirling until only a clear vortex remained—spiraling down into the dark.