The city changed the deeper they went.

Near the Egg Tree, Clawdiff still had shape. Barricades. Lanterns. People shouting orders. The messy, frightened rhythm of survival.

But here, closer to the Dock District, the fog had swallowed everything.

Buildings loomed as broken silhouettes, their windows dark and empty. Old shop signs creaked above the street, half-torn from their brackets. Mana lamps flickered weakly in the haze, turning the cobbles slick-blue one heartbeat and corpse-grey the next.

The armoured van rumbled ahead through the mist, its engine growling low and heavy.

Celeste, Pitch, and Bartleby followed at a cautious distance, hugging the walls and moving through the gaps between shattered carts and abandoned delivery crates.

The fog clung thick to the ground like damp wool, swallowing their footsteps and muffling the broken city’s distant groans.

Metal scraped stone.

Gears whined.

Then—

A shriek.

From the rubble, a tide of movement burst forth.

Quick.

Sharp.

Skittering low.

Sugar Rushers.

Mouse-sized zombies made of fused sugar cubes and spite, with jagged cube teeth, oversized bitten ears, black stick-thin limbs, and bright, malicious eyes ringed in sickly lime and yellow.

They poured over the street like spilled sweets from a nightmare.

Pitch moved before the scream faded.

“OH, absolutely not—nope, nope—NOPE!”

Lady Luck unfolded into his hands.

He snapped his wrist, and five cards flashed between his claws.

“Shadow Flush!”

The cards fired in a wide spread, cutting through the fog in five bright streaks of mana. Each one detonated on impact, blasting a line of Rushers apart in glittering bursts of sugar-dust and blackened claws.

Pitch stared at the damage for half a second.

Then grinned.

“Oh, I like that.”

More Rushers sprang from the walls, claws scraping brick.

Celeste spun beside him, twin katanas arcing with blue-white mana.

“Sorry! Sorry! Don’t bite us, please—oh stars, there are so many teeth for things that small!”

One Sugar Rusher launched itself straight at her face.

Celeste vanished.

For one breath she was there.

Then she was gone in a swirl of soft, luminous feathers.

The Rusher snapped at empty air.

Celeste reappeared behind it, both blades flashing in a cross-slash that split the creature cleanly through its sugar-cube body.

Blue mana burst outward.

Three more Rushers nearby shattered from the force of the strike.

Celeste blinked at her own swords.

“Oh.”

Pitch blasted another Rusher out of the air. “New trick?”

“Wings of Grace,” Celeste said, sounding slightly dazed. “It’s supposed to be a counter, but it’s never been that strong before.”

She ducked as another Rusher leapt past her ear.

“Training helped! Which is nice! Also terrifying!”

Bartleby, surprisingly steady, lifted his musket.

“Well—I suppose this is as good a time as any to demonstrate my… ah… competence. Hold still, you dreadful creatures!”

He fired a precise, humming shot that struck a Rusher mid-sprint.

The blast knocked it backwards, pinning it against a broken lamppost for three seconds.

Then the creature peeled itself free, shook its jagged little head, and came running again.

Bartleby’s face fell.

“Oh.”

Pitch’s cards tore through it a second later.

Bartleby fired again and again, his shots crisp and well-aimed. Each one slowed the Rushers, knocked them back, disrupted their movement, even cracked their sugar bodies in places.

But none of them stayed down.

Not permanently.

Celeste noticed his ears drooping as he reloaded.

“Bartleby?”

He swallowed, eyes fixed on the twitching remains as Pitch finished them off.

“My attacks only delay them.”

“That still helps,” Celeste said quickly. “Slowing them down is very useful. I personally enjoy not being eaten at high speed.”

Bartleby gave a strained little laugh, but disappointment pinched his face.

“I’ll look into better methods. Perhaps bracer modifications. Restraint fields. Lady Ivory may have theories on non-lethal suppression against candy-based necromantic anatomy.”

Pitch glanced at him.

“So your first thought is another Pureblood?”

Bartleby blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Arcade’s just as smart.”

Bartleby opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Shame flickered across his face.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Pitch looked faintly surprised by the apology, then shrugged awkwardly.

“Yeah, well. Good. Ask him too.”

“I will.”

The last Sugar Rusher twitched across the cobbles, dragging itself by one broken claw.

Celeste stepped forward, face tightening with pity despite herself.

Then its jaw split open far too wide and it lunged.

She vanished again in a burst of feathers.

Reappeared behind it.

Slash.

Blue-white light flashed.

The Rusher collapsed into harmless sugar ash.

For a few seconds, the street was still again.

Too still.

The armoured van’s engine noise had faded into the mist.

Pitch turned slowly, scanning the fog.

“They’re gone,” he muttered. “Like ghosts.”

Moving cautiously, they followed the tracks until they stumbled upon a grim sight.

Bodies.

Purebloods.

Scattered like discarded dolls beneath the broken streetlights. Some still clutched briefcases. Others held weapons that hadn’t even fired.

One had fallen halfway through a carriage door, one hand still reaching for the handle.

Another lay against a wall, eyes wide, mouth open as if still trying to shout a warning.

And one body hung from a twisted signal post above the street, coat torn, boots swaying gently in the fog.

Bartleby stopped.

All the colour left his face.

Celeste followed his gaze upward.

“Bartleby?”

He did not answer.

His musket lowered inch by inch.

The hanging man wore the remains of a Council assistant’s uniform. Dark formal coat. Silver-threaded collar. The little brass pin denoting office staff beneath the Royal Quarter seal.

Bartleby took one slow step forward.

“No.”

Pitch’s expression shifted.

The sarcasm fell away.

Bartleby’s voice came smaller.

“I know him.”

Celeste’s ears lowered.

“He worked at the Council?”

Bartleby nodded, staring upward.

“Assistant Marlow Venn. Records division. He was reported missing three days ago.”

His throat bobbed.

“He used to bring me tea when the audit sessions ran late. Terrible tea. Far too much bergamot. I complained every time.”

He gave a tiny, broken breath.

“He kept bringing it anyway.”

The fog moved around them.

The body swayed once.

Bartleby looked down sharply, as if ashamed to have been caught grieving in a street full of worse horrors.

Then he crouched beside another corpse and lifted a shattered shoulder guard.

“Oh dear… dear me…”

He swallowed hard, forcing himself back into duty because duty was easier than feeling.

“They didn’t just kill them. They took some alive.”

He traced the edge of an implant socket exposed near the collarbone, then recoiled.

“Good heavens. These are Council-grade augment ports. Discontinued models. Locked in vault storage.”

Pitch’s eyes widened.

Then narrowed.

“You’re telling me these psychos are doing a Council-sponsored DIY project?”

Bartleby sputtered.

“N-no. Not officially. But someone must be—must be leaking tech. We have a… a mole.”

Celeste’s breath caught.

“A traitor? On the Council?”

Bartleby nodded miserably.

“Yes. Someone with clearance to forbidden tech.”

Pitch snorted.

“Oh! Fantastic! Now he believes the Council’s got problems. What an extraordinary revelation.”

Bartleby opened his mouth.

Then gagged.

He turned aside and vomited into the gutter, whole body shaking as he wiped his mouth with trembling paws.

Celeste knelt beside him, pale and shaken.

Pitch looked at both of them, voice rougher than usual.

“Try to keep it together, you two. I know it’s hard.”

Bartleby stared at the bodies, horror swimming in his eyes.

“Why would they do this?” he whispered. “My people… they didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe it’s because they’re hybrids—maybe they’re a little feral—?”

Pitch snapped around so fast Bartleby flinched.

“Do not finish that sentence.”

Bartleby blinked rapidly, stunned.

“But… how else do you explain it? Purebloods don’t kill like this.”

Pitch stepped closer, eyes glowing like dying coals.

“Oh, they do,” he growled softly. “Just cleaner. Like I said earlier. Or are you backtracking already?”

Bartleby sagged, helpless.

“I don’t understand. It’s cruel.”

Pitch threw up his hands.

“Stars—are you that dense? After years of being second-class citizens, maybe this lot is thinking about payback.”

He gestured at the bodies.

“When you’re pushed, Bartleby—when you have nothing—you stop caring.”

Bartleby shook his head violently, stomach twisting again.

“I can’t support this. You don’t… do you?”

Pitch sighed, shoulders sinking.

“I understand it.”

His voice softened, weighed down with painful truth.

“But no. I don’t support it.”

He glanced at Celeste, who was still staring at the dead, shaking slightly.

Celeste drew a trembling breath.

“We need to stop them… before they make things worse.”

Pitch nodded slowly.

“Yeah. Agreed. Before Clawdiff tears itself apart.”

The fog split.

Revealing the raiders.

Four prisoners knelt beneath a flickering streetlight.

Two kitsune Mythics.

A blue heeler Pureblood.

And a young husky Hybrid.

Restraints hummed on their wrists.

A raider raised his rifle toward the heeler’s skull.

Pitch tensed.

“Oh, no. Nope. I’m going in. Doing it. Full send.”

Celeste grabbed his arm with both hands.

“Wait! Pitch, please—just a second! They could be baiting us, or distracting us, or… or being generally unpleasant! Let me think!”

Pitch groaned theatrically.

“Ohhh, this is gonna be a thinking fight.”

But he didn’t pull away.

Celeste forced a breath, panicked thoughts swirling like startled birds.

“Alright… okay… yes. Pitch, you shadow-step behind them. Hit very hard when I say so. Bartleby—um—be tall!”

Bartleby blinked. “Be… tall?”

“From up high! On the fire escape!”

“Oh! Yes, marvellous plan! Height advantage. Basic battlefield geometry. Yes, I can do that.”

He scrambled upward.

Celeste stepped into the open.

“Hello! Over here! Please don’t shoot me!”

Weapons swung toward her.

Pitch vanished in a twist of shadow.

Bartleby levelled his rifle from above.

“Now!” Celeste shouted.

Chaos detonated.

Pitch blasted through the flank with a whoop of battle-fuelled adrenaline, Lady Luck flashing in his hands.

Celeste dove and spun, blades singing, knocking guns from hands and feet from beneath bodies.

Bartleby’s shots were smooth, precise—surprisingly elegant for a man who tripped on cobblestones regularly.

Then—

A scream.

The younger kitsune dropped, blood pooling beneath her.

Celeste slid beside her, hands shaking.

“Oh goodness—don’t worry, don’t worry—I’m here, I’ve got you, please don’t faint or die or anything dramatic—”

Her Sparkshots stemmed the bleeding but couldn’t close the wound.

The elder kitsune pressed glowing hands over the injury.

“Let me. Please…”

Meanwhile, the fight raged.

Bartleby’s voice crackled from above, frantic but attempting dignity.

“Celeste! They are not holding back! You must—must respond in kind! Finish them!”

Pitch grunted as a bullet grazed him.

“Hate to say it, but he’s right. They’re here to kill us.”

Celeste froze.

Her gaze flicked between the raiders she’d disarmed, writhing or unconscious, and the spreading blood beneath the kitsune child.

“I… I can’t kill them…”

Her voice was tiny.

“Zombies and monsters, yes, because they’re already gone, but people—these are people…”

Pitch cursed, blocking another blow.

“Then do something else, kitten! Something fast!”

Celeste’s grip tightened on her swords.

Her reflection glowed faintly in their mirrored steel—a hybrid torn between mercy and survival.

And for the first time, she saw both sides staring back.