Later, when they regrouped in the outer streets after the raid, the rebel team was riding high.

The op had gone flawlessly. No blood spilt except the target’s, no alarms tripped, and no significant collateral damage. One trafficker down, and no sign of retaliation yet. They were smart enough to have everything stripped before that happened. 

Outside, the city continued its habitual rhythms, The streetlights continued to flicker, with a steady patter of rain puddling on roofs. 

Kael kicked a loose chunk of gravel, her breath still fogging in the cold air. “We could’ve used that kind of intel months ago,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Maybe we ought to let him feed us more of this intel, if he’s gonna be so generous.”

The others were laughing now, the way soldiers do when they’ve survived something. 

There was a cadence to it. A steady peeling off of gloves, adjusting gear, and casual shoving of shoulders and shared looks. The kind of looks that said: Can you believe it? We finally got Brannock. Someone passed around a beat up flask.

The thing that mattered most was simple; this was a win. Kael winced with relief, her fingers still moving too fast with leftover adrenaline.

Toric stood off to one side, with one boot braced against the curb. His eyes were steady, just watching the glow of the city flicker in the distance. His rifle hung slack at his side, swaying gently. The barrel was still warm. The city behind loomed distant and indifferent behind them, lights muted by a creeping fog. Somewhere, traffic was still humming with government convoys too far away to worry about just yet.

He left his mind somewhere back in the warehouse. Under that skylight. Looked over by sharp, watchful, owlish eyes. 

The moment had lasted only about two seconds. It was just the silent approval of a man who refused to play by the same rules as the rest of them. Vox hadn’t interfered. He just let Toric finish the job. Vox’s plan, his initiation. But—Toric’s victory.

That was the most calculated move of all.

It was supposed to feel like power given, rather than taken.

But Toric wasn’t blind. He knew what it really was. Manipulation, clear as day. Cleverly packaged to seem like respect. A clever way of making Toric rely on Vox, until the weight of his own judgment felt useless without him.

No matter how satisfying the outcome of this mission, it didn't prove Vox good. His motives were as foggy as ever. If anything, this stunt gave more credence to what Toric already suspected. That Vox was a tactician. If Toric let himself believe otherwise he’d already be where Vox wanted him. 

The mission was still a win. The supplies were theirs. But beneath that, Toric felt the metal jaws of a trap pressing tight around him.

Before his mind could spin his thoughts into more uncertainty—he turned back toward Kael. “I want a full sweep of the warehouse,” he said, as calmly as possible. “Get everything Brannock left behind. If it can be moved, we take it. If it can’t, tag it and we’ll come back with a transport for it.”

Kael blinked and nodded curtly. “Copy that.”

“Secure the weapons first,” Toric added. “I want them in Sector Seven. If Unified shows up looking for their stolen cache, our people will be long gone.”

The wind kicked up, snapping Toric’s coat behind him as he started walking deeper into the bowels of the warehouse.

He tried to clear his mind. He didn’t want to think about the quiet approval he’d gotten from those soulless eyes. Or the blood drying into the steel plates behind them. He definitely didn’t think about the moon, or the way an elegant figure broke its silhouette into a fractured crescent of haunting light, like something omnipotent.

Trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford. 

But he couldn’t deny the feeling that followed him like smoke. The silent weight of someone who had seen him, and made the decision that he was worth watching.

Outside of all the posturing, all the calculated distrust, there was something about Vox’s presence that lingered in his mind. Something that brushed dangerously close to hope. It wasn’t the naive, foolish kind, but the kind that knew how hazardous hoping could be, but didn’t care. 

Maybe Vox wasn’t manipulating him. Maybe he was the kind of man Toric could align with.  A man he could even admire.

Even trust.

...Maybe.

Toric attempted to bury the thought before it could root itself.

If Vox was watching, he’d let him. Toric could assess him. Measure, and wait. Try to draw the lines between trust and utility. Toric wasn’t the kind of man to bend, or be claimed.

So Toric would watch him back. He’d discover what this was. Discover what he was.

It was just an honest curiosity.

And, there was nothing dangerous about being curious, was there?