Footsteps echoed along the vast, empty street. Zeke and Fredric walked with a confident stride, both masked, dressed in combat attire. Their hair burned gold and white against the dark city, a brief flare of light moving through a concrete sea.

Zeke's mask had changed. After his battle with the knights split it down the middle, he decided to shatter it completely. Using his magic, he forged the pieces back together, filling the cracks with black metal until the faceplate became a mosaic—fracture lines stitched like obsidian veins.

They entered the Golden Baron Casino and drifted through its hollowed halls. Scaffolding gripped the walls, a lattice of metal and plastic that crisscrossed the once-opulent interior. The air was thick with construction—dust, sweat, the faint acrid bite of welding fumes. Somewhere overhead, a riveter hammered in ruthless meter.

Zeke and Fredric moved cautiously, their footsteps returning to them in long, cavernous echoes. Grand chandeliers, once a thousand points of fire, hung dark and swaddled in sheeting. Dormant digital projectors sparked now and then, throwing up ghostly slices of the casino's past—laughter, light, winnings showers—before blinking back to the gutted present.

Debris lay in windrows along the corridors: shattered marble, twisted steel, carpet peeled back like old skin. Workmen in exoskeleton rigs stalked the site, augmented limbs lifting beams with effortless precision. The hum of power tools braided with the rhythmic clang of hammers—a rough symphony for resurrection.

Deeper in, the bones of former grandeur became unmistakable. Ornate columns rose toward the high ceiling, their gilding cracked and flaking. Gaming rooms stood silent, holographic displays dark as closed eyes; the old electric buzz of slots and the low murmur of high stakes had bled away, leaving only the thrum of generators and the whisper of dust.

They passed the restaurant: overturned tables, glass glittering like frost. The bar—once a gleaming artery of indulgence—yawned open and empty, shelves stripped, counters scored by combat and fire. Yet resilience flickered everywhere: repair drones zipped under the scaffold, projecting blueprints and floating schematics, a choreography of light that stitched plans over ruin.

"This place has seen better days," Fredric muttered, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of construction.

"Yeah," Zeke replied, gaze on a half-ruined statue of a golden dragon—the casino's emblematic guardian, now missing half a jaw. "We did a real number on it." The dragon's remaining eye caught a work light and held it like a grudge.

Deeper still, a small door waited—its frame washed in warm light. Several guards stood outside in tuxedos tailored over chrome and carbon, the subtle servo-whirr of cyborg musculature ticking beneath satin lapels.

"Welcome," one of the guards said. "Maki has been expecting you."

The door swung inward to a brightly lit corridor. Zeke and Fredric stepped through. As they passed, one of the armed men let a scoff slip, loud enough to travel the length of the hallway.

—and the sound hung there, thin and sour, like a note waiting for its answer.

Zeke paused.

"You seem to have animosity directed towards me," Zeke stated with a robotic tone. His voice sounded colder now, more staticky than before—damage spidered through the mask's vocoder since the knights—so each word arrived with a faint metallic rasp.

"You killed my comrades," the cyborg guard growled.

Zeke closed the distance until their visors were inches apart.

"You killed my subordinates," he growled back with a terrifying snarl. "And now you are one of them. How does that make you feel?"

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"I answer only to Maki Lin," the subordinate leaned in closer.

Zeke laughed—an eccentric, hitching sound that shook his shoulders—as he spread his arms wide in a demonstrative sweep, the shroud whispering at his boots.

"You answer to me," Zeke snapped, one gloved hand flashing up to clamp the man by the throat.

"Jake!" another security guard shouted.

Servo-whine rose like a hive. Ten armed cyborgs tightened the ring, weapons lifted in a bristling crown aimed at Zeke's heart. Safety LEDs pulsed; muzzles steadied.

Fredric turned and regarded the tableau with a tired sigh, shoulders loosening as if he'd seen this play before.

"Stay out of this," Zeke growled.

"Fine," Fredric smirked under his mask.

The air seemed to contract around Zeke's next breath.

"You have chosen to stand against me, so in turn I shall show you what happens to those who betray me," Zeke said, his face taking on the grimace of pain and uncertainty.

"You're bluffing," the guard smirked while looking into his eyes.

For a heartbeat, Zeke believed him. "He's right. All I am and all I've ever tried to be is someone who would not be hurt. Not matter what, I find it hard to hurt others. All I am is a weak worthless person," Zeke thought to himself. The thought dropped into him like a stone, and from the hollow it left—sharp, echoing, hungry—came a crack. Heat pressed through the fissure. Flames licked outward and spilled from his ribs to his fingers.

Suddenly, blue fire sprouted from his hand. It engulfed the guard; the man stiffened, then folded, hair bleaching to paper-white as he hit the carpet and went still.

"What was that?" one of the guards exclaimed.

Saliva pooled in Zeke's mouth; an urge—older than reason, stronger than restraint—climbed his throat like a second pulse.

"He's dead!" Zeke screamed aggressively.

Triggers snapped. The corridor thundered—until the bullets hit an invisible wall and froze, a crown of lead and copper hanging in the air, whining softly as they spun.

Zeke rushed forward. Blue fire rolled off him in sheets; each guard he touched went silent, color draining, souls turning to fuel that raced back into his veins. The mosaic mask reflected the carnage in fractured shards; the smell of scorched cloth and hot chrome pooled low and heavy.

When it ended, the hallway was a sudden stillness—a hush after an engine stalls. Ten bodies lay where they'd fallen. Zeke stood amid them, breathing hard, white hair glowing like a brand in the dim.

"Zeke!" Fredric called out. "We should go."

"You're right," Zeke walked forward, snapping out of his daze.

They moved on. The corridor narrowed, then opened to a second door set deeper in the Baron's gut. Beyond lay a large library reassembled out of ruin: high shelves scarred by shrapnel, ladders leaned like spears, dust drifting in light like slow snow. A table anchored the room; behind it sat Derek, Roy, and Maki, each haloed by the hard glow of work lamps.

"You killed my men," Maki gleamed at Zeke.

Zeke advanced and took the seat at the table's head. Fredric slid into the chair beside him, crossing one leg over the other with casual insolence.

"They were traitors," Zeke replied. "I have no tolerance for traitors," he stated, clasping his hands.

"And here I thought you were the more reasonable one out of the two of you," Maki sighed.

Fredric burst out laughing.

"She has a point," he retorted.

"So, 'leader', what's the plan?" Maki asked.

"The plan," Zeke muttered.

"What do you want to do with this little organization of ours?" Maki asked. "Since you're likely unaware, I'll explain it to you. With the three of us joining under a single leader we have effectively become the top criminal organization in all of Lower Babel." Maki stated. "The Dons excel at intel gathering and tracking, the Silver Moths are perfect smugglers and traders, while we the Golden Baron, have the best supply of cash, and lastly you two, likely posses enough firepower to bring down most other gangs in the city." Maki explained, placing her palms on the table. "So, dear leader, what will we do?" Maki asked.

"You said it already," Zeke replied.

"What?" Maki's eyes widened. Derek shook his head in disbelief while Roy sat confused.

"I will destroy all other gangs within Lower Babel, and you will take over what's left of them," Zeke explained.

"I didn't mean you could literally do it on your own!" Maki shouted.

"I can and I will," Zeke stated. "And I will start by going after the Sabre gang. They have been conspiring against non contractors. I will not allow this to go on any longer."

"I'm in!" Roy shouted. "I will do anything you ask of me."

"Me too," Derek bowed slightly.

"Fine!" Maki scoffed. "I will run everything as your second in command."

"Third," Fredric coughed.

Maki stumbled. "R-right," she stuttered. "I meant third."

"So," Derek wondered. "What will you call our little group?"

"Parabellum," Zeke clasped his hands together as his eyes peered out with great determination.

The lamps hummed. Outside, the casino's scaffold sighed as night settled its weight, and somewhere deep in the Baron's bones a generator turned over like a distant, patient heart.

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