The dossier still sat on the table—pages spread open like someone had carved truth out of a corpse.
I should've felt afraid.
Instead… something colder hummed inside me. Steadier.
Fine.
If Sylus wanted me equipped?
Then I was going to use the equipment.
I pulled on dark fitted clothes, clipped the new gun into its holster—feeling the biometric lock pulse against my hip—and grabbed the new phone. It synced with a single brush of my broken device, absorbing my contacts and data with eerie, frictionless precision.
Last came the Onychinus pendant.
It settled against my chest like gravity doubled.
"…Okay," I whispered. "Let's take this for a spin."
Mephisto trilled from his perch, ruby eyes tracking every move. Supervisor. Chaperone. Spy.
Probably all three.
The crow launched ahead of me as I headed downstairs.
And there it was.
Not just the motorcycle—though it dominated the lot like a panther waiting to pounce.
A helmet. Matte black, red visor. Just sitting on the seat. Untouched. Unstealable. Unbothered.
People walked around the bike without looking at it, as if instinct warned them the air around it was electrified.
Mephisto landed on the handlebars with a precise metallic tick. Owning the space.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
"Oh, so you're coming too?"
He clicked his beak once.
Yes.
The visor flickered as I lifted the helmet:
IDENTIFIED: DIANA VALE
"Show-off," I muttered.
I slid it on. The interior molded perfectly to my head, like it had already taken my measurements. A faint pulse of red lit across the lower edge—connection established.
Mephisto tapped the visor in approval.
"Alright," I murmured. "Let's see what else you've got."
I swung a leg over.
The bike responded instantly—lights along the frame blooming to life, engine grumbling awake in a low, feral purr. Mephisto crouched low on the bars, wings tucked for balance.
I hit the ignition.
The roar that answered was a living thing.
A hot electric thrill shot through me—dangerous, powerful, mine.
At least for tonight.
Neon washed over my visor as I rolled onto the street. Wind cut along the edges of the helmet, sharp and clean. Mephisto adjusted his grip, eyes glowing faint ruby as we accelerated.
And for the first time in days, I wasn't trapped.
I wasn't hunted.
I wasn't unraveling.
I was moving.
Fast.
Armed.
Ready.
Linkon unfolded under the wheels like a city trying to breathe again.
Zero-gravity trains drifted overhead, their reflections dancing along the bike's matte surface. Vintage buses rumbled beneath glittering neon. Familiar pain pulsed under my ribs, but motion made it bearable—almost grounding.
At a red light, I stopped on an overpass overlooking the city. Wind tugged at my shirt; Mephisto scanned the skyline like he owned it.
The dossier on Viktor unspooled in my mind.
Contradictions.
Missing files.
Energy signatures that didn't belong to this world.
A void shaped like a man.
But here, in motion, the noise finally settled enough for a thought to form:
Someone didn't erase Viktor.
Someone protected him.
And whoever it was… they weren't civilian.
I revved the engine. Mephisto trilled, pleased.
"Don't get cocky," I warned.
He clicked his beak. Entirely cocky.
—
The industrial ridge.
Cranes leaned over half-built skeletons of warehouses. Metal sheets rusted beside brand-new scaffolding. The air smelled like ozone and past violence.
Mephisto fluttered onto my shoulder—light, sure, surprisingly warm for metal. I brushed a wing edge with a fingertip.
"You know," I murmured, "as surveillance goes, you're the least annoying coworker I've ever had."
A soft mechanical chirp.
Affectionate.
If someone had to watch me…
I guessed I was glad it was him.
He nuzzled the side of my helmet.
I nearly melted.
—
The outskirts.
Buildings grew older here. Streets tightened. Lanterns swayed above narrow walkways like beating hearts.
My stomach growled.
Then I saw it: a tiny noodle shop tucked beneath a flickering sign, steam rising into the cold air like a beacon.
Mephisto perked up.
"Dinner it is," I said.
Inside, the shopkeeper blinked at me—the armored woman with the mechanical crow on her shoulder—but said nothing. This was Linkon. Strange was routine.
I tapped the new phone at the payment terminal.
AUTHORIZED — ONYCHINUS ACCESS ACCOUNT
"Benefits for both of us," I muttered to Mephisto.
He trilled, smug.
I ordered noodles and buns. Warmth seeped into my bones.
When I caught sight of a rack of cheap trinkets, a small polished coin with a crow etched into it pulled my eye.
Mephisto's crest tilted.
"You want it?" I whispered.
He tapped it with his beak.
"Yes, you do," I sighed. "Fine."
I bought it and held it out.
He froze—processing—then let out the softest, warmest trill I'd heard from him.
Delight.
My chest tightened.
"Yeah," I murmured. "Happy first ride, partner."
He pressed his head against my cheek, absurdly tender for something built to spy.
For a moment—just a moment—everything felt real in a way that didn't hurt.
Not joy. But something like it.
After eating, I lifted the helmet—
A sound ripped through the night.
A roar. Low. Resonant. Wrong.
A Wanderer.
Silence fell inside the shop. Someone whispered a prayer.
My hand stilled on the helmet.
Instinct surged—run toward danger.
But that wasn't me.
I wasn't the heroine. I wasn't a Hunter. I wasn't built for heroism.
I survived.
I slid the helmet on. Latched it. Walked out.
Mephisto joined me without hesitation.
The bike roared to life. And I didn't turn back.
Let Elara be the one glowing with destiny. Let the Association handle the monsters.
I had my own.
I took the long way home—streets dripping neon, cold wind slicing through my jacket. Mephisto crouched low, a dark sentinel against the blur of the city.
I didn't know who the Wanderer had found.
I didn't think about it.
Heroism was a luxury.
Survival was the only thing I could afford.
Tonight, I chose me.
Back home, I followed a few weak leads, then—exhausted—showered, took more painkillers, and collapsed into bed.
Buzz.
I grabbed the phone.
Unknown Number: You ran. How disappointing.
My breath stilled.
Another message appeared:
Unknown Number: You should have stayed. I wanted to hear you scream again.
My pulse sharpened.
"No," I muttered. "Not tonight."
I pushed out of bed, moved to the living room, dropped into the desk chair. Mephisto's eyes glowed, tracking me like a predator's sensor.
The Onychinus laptop booted instantly.
I opened a trace program I definitely shouldn't have access to, dragged blacklisted scripts into place, and let my Evol slide into the circuitry like a second mind.
Data flared. Pings. Noise. Static. Ghost trails.
Nothing solid. Yet.
"Come on…" I whispered.
Buzz.
Unknown Number: Still trying to breathe normally, little spark?
I hit CALL.
One ring.
Click.
Not rejected.
Intercepted.
Silence.
"Coward," I hissed.
I flicked back to messages.
Diana: come say that to my face.
Instant reply:
Unknown Number: Trying to find me? You'll need more than toys and temper.
The laptop chirped.
A ping.
A real one.
Adrenaline surged. I grabbed my jacket, gun, keys. Typed as I moved:
Diana: worried i might actually succeed?
Send.
Another reply as I stormed through the stairwell:
Unknown Number: Hardly. Your fire is entertaining.
By the time I reached the ground floor, I barely remembered the descent.
Mephisto swooped down onto the tank of the bike.
Diana: you want to hear me scream? fine. get close enough and i'll scream your head off, motherfucker.
Send.
A new message blinked:
Unknown Number: There she is. Alive. Loud. More fun than the last one.
I tore down the street—following the faint trace burning across the laptop's display like a hunting beacon.
I typed one-handed.
Diana: show yourself.
His last message appeared as I turned onto a long, empty stretch of road:
Unknown Number: Goodnight, little spark. Dream of me.
And then—
the entire thread dissolved.
Clean. Surgical. Absolute.
My phone rang.
I thumbed my helmet's comms.
Static.
Then—
"Turn around."
Sylus.
Voice low, precise, cutting through the wind.
No greeting.
Just an order.
"You saw the ping—"
"I saw you chasing it," he said, calm in a way that felt like a blade pressed flat against my throat. "It's a decoy. Manufactured. Placed exactly where you'd be desperate enough to follow."
My grip tightened. "And how do you know that?"
A quiet exhale—the sound of a conclusion locking into place.
"Because it wasn't his signal. It was yours."
My blood chilled.
"…Mine?"
"The trace you ran destabilized your firewall. Viktor piggybacked on the breach and mirrored your signature back into the grid."
Cold crawled up my spine.
"He used you as bait," Sylus continued, voice sharpening, "to see how fast you'd move. Who you'd call. What equipment you had."
Mephisto pressed flat against the tank—alert.
"Listen to me, Diana," Sylus said, blade-sure. "That is not how you get him."
The road blurred beneath me—sharp, empty, wrong.
"If I don't chase him, he'll keep coming," I argued.
"He will," Sylus said. "That's the advantage."
I blinked. "The advantage—?"
"You don't hunt a creature that wants to be found."
A beat.
"You make him come to you."
Cold fire slid under my skin.
"Go home, Diana."
My jaw tightened.
I hit the gas anyway—one last pulse of rebellion, engine snarling under me.
The road blurred.
My heart hammered.
I growled as rebellion and reason warred in my head.
And then reason won.
I flicked my wrist, dropped my weight, and slammed into a tight counter-lean—
the bike carving a brutal U-turn across the empty street, tires hissing against asphalt.
The sudden shift of momentum launched Mephisto into the air.
He beat his metal wings once, twice, then glided smoothly beside my helmet—a silent, dark sentinel keeping pace with the machine's roar.
The engine steadied under me. My direction changed.
A breath of static cracked through the comms.
Then Sylus's voice — low, inevitable:
"You won't regret this decision."
Not praise.
A prophecy.
The line disconnected.