They received a message a few nights later. Handed over by a girl no older than twelve, thin as wire and wrapped in a coat several sizes too large. She had stumbled into the depot during night watch. Wide-eyed and shivering. Thin, underfed hands held something out to the nearest soldier, just a folded square of rough paper, smudged at the corners.

The soldier nodded, and the girl scurried off. He handed it to Toric without a word.

The paper was damp at the edges from humidity. Toric unfolded it carefully, eyes flicking to the writing in the center. Angular script in fine ink, clinical in its precision. There was no signature, but Toric already knew who it was from. 

You’re running low on supplies. 

I’ve tracked down one of the Unified’s preferred arms dealers. Bloated on dirty money, protected by Solen’s forces. A Metahuman trafficker. 

Right now, he’s exposed.

Yours if you want it.

Meet a contact of mine outside of Sector Six’s old transit station. He will fill you in on the details.

Toric read it twice. Eyes scanning the words a third time, trying to understand the tactic behind the offering. It could be a setup. Or, possibly, an act of good faith. 

The more Toric learned about Vox, the more mysterious he became. 

He flipped the slip of paper between his fingers, the edges soft from handling. On the back, a single name was written in ink that had bled slightly at the corners.

He stared at it, blood turning cold. For a moment, the world narrowed to the letters. Then he quickly folded the paper, tightly this time, and stood in the corner of the room with his back to the wall. He gave one sharp whistle, fingers between his teeth. 

The others trickled in, one by one. All of them still bruised from the last skirmish, their shoulders tense with the constant coil of what might come next.

He handed the paper to Kael, who scanned it in silence.

“…Sounds like he’s baiting us,” Kael said flatly, her fingers gripping the note tighter before she passed it along the semicircle.

“He’s offering intel,” Toric said, in a low, unreadable voice. “No promises.”

Ivan let out a breath that was almost a scoff. “Thought you didn’t trust him, Toric.” He leaned back slightly, eyes going narrow. “What’d he say to you when he dragged you off the line yesterday? That he’s on our side now?”

Ivan didn’t sound curious. He sounded like he already knew the answer—and didn’t like it.

The old distrust ran deep. It was not simply distrust of metahumans, but distrust of anything that sat too far outside the known. The rebellion was not born from idealism—it was born from pain and consequences. From caution that had crossed into paranoia.

Toric didn’t take Ivan’s bait. “He’s not asking us to follow him,” he said. “But if he's right about this..are we okay letting this opportunity pass us by? This could be our only shot to bring this scumbag down.”

Kael’s arms folded across her chest. Keeping her eyes locked on Toric’s face.  “Since when does anyone in this war offer something without asking for something worse in return?”

The room went silent once again. The only thing you could hear was the crackle of a comm unit in the next room. A distant rumble of movement at the far end of the depot.

Toric didn’t answer her. 

Because he didn’t know.

He wasn’t naïve — a man like Vox didn’t move without intent. He knew he was orchestrating something. Appearing like prophecy and floating away before the dust could settle. Everything about this screamed setup.

But the name scrawled on the back of the note—Brannock—was one Toric recognized instantly. All the Bloodsparrows knew it.

Brannock was a trafficker, but not just any trafficker—he was the kind that never got caught. His was a name that floated through classified regime reports like a ghost. He was linked to military black sites, and smuggling rings that specialized in people. Most notably, metas in containment. That was the crime that Vox wouldn't allow. He’d told Toric that much, very clearly. 

The Bloodsparrows had once attempted to ambush one of his convoys. The intel had been clean. They’d prepared. And yet, by the time they reached the target, the trucks had vanished. Not only that—every informant who had tipped them off had vanished or been found dead.

Toric stood rigid, staring down at the paper that had been passed back to him. Kael and Ivan traded looks. 

They could use this. It would be a moral victory, at the very least. And If Brannock’s cache was even half of what the rumors predicted, they could refit four platoons. Use the provisions to reinforce the east corridor, and finally dig in.

They’d had a string of victories in the past few months. But it’d come at a cost. Losing numbers and burning supplies doing so. Their artillery stores were dwindling. Sector Seven was still holding, but supplies were thinning across the board. And that was saying something, when Seven was outfitted as their headquarters. Their most stable territory. 

It wasn’t just about vengeance, or taking out a monster. It was about protecting the future of the rebellion. Trusting Vox’s intel would be a necessary evil. 

Nothing more. 

Toric had been promoted to leadership because he could make the hard calls. The ones that other men didn’t have the courage to make. 

He creased the paper one more time, and put it in his coat pocket.  “It’s not about him,” he said, more to himself than to the others. “It’s about what Brannock’s done. If this is real, it’s worth the risk. If we don’t act, anything that comes after will be on our heads.”

Even as he said the words, they felt too rehearsed. Because in the back of his mind, Toric knew this wasn’t just about Brannock.

Nothing in war came free.

Kael’s face was unsure. Her brow was drawn in, her arms folded and closed off. But she still wanted to believe in him, “You trust this,Toric? Just like that?”

Toric glanced back at her, their gazes locking. Secretly, two fingers brushed against the note in his pocket, as if to make sure it was real.

A dark, hot voice in the back of his head surfaced over the edge of her suspicion, whispering treacherously, a siren in his ocean of his own mind.

This isn’t about Brannock. Or the victims. This is about me. You want to see me again. 

He forced the thought down, grinding his teeth against it, finally trusting himself even to speak. 

“We don’t have a choice.”

It sounded almost convincing. Divorced of any selfish curiosity. 

A few looks passed around the room. But Ivan’s face remained stationary. Sharp in the eyes, with one brow quirked in judgement. He did not retort, but Toric could feel something break apart beneath them. Trust wavering. 

The other heads nodded, curt and resolute back at him. 

Toric wasn’t sure who he was lying to anymore. 

***

They arrived at the southern edge of Sector Six, hovering just outside the abandoned transit station. Just as Vox indicated. The place was long defunct, with the roof caved in on the west edge, blackened from fire and the residue of explosives. Concrete dust floated lazily through the air, blanketing every surface, settling on the deserted tracks. The metal steps creaked and groaned under his feet when Toric went down the entry, with two scouts from his unit beside him. Kael had already positioned herself at the entrance, eyeing the vicinity for snipers or something worse.

A man stood at the edge of the platform, dressed like a bureaucrat with a bulletproof vest. It clung to him like tailored armor. He was tall, with skin like burnished bronze, and eyes that looked like any faith he had in God had waned long ago, but some part of him still held that suspicion.

He didn’t bother greeting them. He just turned a bit when they stepped in, the faint light tracing over his features, illuminating sharp dark brown eyes that flickered with curiosity as he assessed them.

“Quillan,” he said, with a smooth, dry voice. Then, after a beat of silence, his mouth tugged into a bemused grin. “You must be Toric.”

Quillan extended a hand, but Toric didn’t take it. His eyes flicked down to it once, before slipping past him, scanning the ridgeline beyond the platform. Toric didn’t have time for niceties. Not when this all could very well still be a trap. Keen hazel eyes searched for exits, weak points, eyes watching, just out of view. The wind blew through his hair, sweeping it across his eyes. 

Quillan raised an eyebrow at the discourtesy but managed to resist being offended. Efficiency was something he respected—especially from rebels still acting like they weren’t soldiers.

He came forward and retrieved from his coat a rolled-up schematic, which he snapped open, and casually remarked to the section that had been outlined in red.

“Main warehouse,” Quillan said, leaning into the map with a distinctly intentional casualness.  “It’s been sitting out in the open the whole time. Just conspicuous enough to stay invisible. The man has a private security detail—mostly ex-militia types with too much ego and no trigger discipline.”

He tapped a marked quadrant with two fingers, gloved and steady.

“The dealer’s name is Brannock. He’s been refunneling weapons for the Unified forces from overseas, and worse. His major dealings are in trafficking metahumans. That’s what Vox wants corrected.”

Toric’s eyes remained locked on the grid lines of the map, following the lines of possible entryways, fallback paths.

“He wants him eliminated.”

Quillan’s mouth pulled at one corner, faintly amused.  “So do you.” he said lightly. “Or, so I was told.”

Kael shifted restlessly behind Toric. One foot scraping softly against the platform. Her body language was clear—she was tense, cautious, and prepared to fight. She didn’t trust any of this. But at least, it seemed that Toric didn’t either.

Finally, after a long pause, Toric lifted his gaze, finding Quillan’s perfectly calm face that betrayed nothing.

“And why give it to us?”

Quillan held himself like a man who had nothing to prove. “Because you’ll finish it,” he said simply. “And because Vox wants you to see how he works.”

***

Gaining access to the warehouse was even easier than they could have imagined. Security was shallow to almost non-existent. Whether by design, or due to the type of arrogance born from believing no one would ever find them, Toric didn’t know. It was better not to question what worked in their favor.

Kael’s team executed the perimeter quickly and quietly using only blades. Quick and efficient, so that no alarms would be triggered. The only sound was the soft thuds of bodies dropping to the ground. They engaged from the south and placed charges on the northeast wall of the exterior. It would be enough to cause a distraction, to clear a path to their true entry point. A flash bursted through the air, expelling concrete and debris that floated up into the smoke that poured out. Just as expected, Half of the guards broke formation and began running towards the noise. 

Toric didn’t hesitate, running through back corridors that were still warped with heat. The stench of decay and oil permeated the small vents, and every footstep echoed with a rhythmic cadence too hollow for any operation actively going on — evidence of how little Brannock trusted anyone but himself.

The cells were secured behind a rusted chain gate, containing two metahumans. One was slumped over unconscious, blood dried to her temple, her chest barely inflating, the other sat with their back against the wall, eyes open and still. Those inhuman eyes tracked Toric as he approached, but made no move to stop him. 

Toric’s team got them out without wasting any time. Bolt cutters made quick work of the padlock that had secured haphazardly. Lazy work by clumsy hands. The kind that thought they’d never be caught. No one spoke until the prisoners were out of sight, and stable. Swept away to the extraction path they’d excavated.

Brannock was in the back, slouched behind a generator that belched up a slimy looking coolant, trying to load a gun with trembling hands. His shirt was filthy, with a gut spilling over his belt — too bloated on dirty money and cheap bourbon to run, and too stupid to realize how close he was to death.

Toric didn’t ask for names or confessions. Just looked at him — a wry smile barely maintained at the corners of his mouth.

The shot echoed like punctuation. 

A shadow filtered overhead, shifting the light for a brief moment. 

Toric cast his eyes to the shy, peering through the yellowed skylight. An elegant shadow stretched across the concrete, cutting a long line through the dust. 

Suspended above the sharp remains of the old warehouse, Vox hung like an apparition—highlighted against the battered night sky while firelight licked the undersides of billowing clouds. His cape was free in the wind, extended like wings held open in flight, and his stare—distinctly inhuman—pierced through the smoke and glass.

The stillness felt like judgement. Vox looked down on him like a king watching the final act of a story he’d manifested. 

Pressure squeezed around Toric’s chest, breath hitching without meaning to. 

He kept his gaze steady.

From his perch in the night sky, Vox gave the most minuscule nod — just a simple  acknowledgment. A silent approval.

Then he drifted backward into the dark, and was gone.

Once he’d faded into the mist, Toric finally allowed himself a slow exhale. The scent of gunpowder and blood still clung to the inside of his sinuses, sharp and alert. The warehouse lights buzzed.  Brannock’s body lay collapsed at his feet, blood pooling into the cracks of the concrete like oil.

The team cleared the area with cold precision. Kael verified that the extraction route was secure. The metahumans were out of harm's way. The operation had been a success by any metric that mattered.

Toric lagged behind, biting at his lip. More confused now than ever. He stood by himself for a moment longer, lingering at the edge of the warehouse lot, still gazing up at the sky where the shape had disappeared. Breathing still erratic, like he’d been running drills. The muscles in his knuckles stung where he gripped the rifle so tightly.