Ethan's laugh was a dry echo. "I don't know," he lied quick and loud, because lying is a reflex for men who built castles on sand. He scoffed, trying to wedge anger back into his voice. "You'll never touch Lucas unless he wants you to. The Blackwoods run Astraeus. They're the city. More pull than the government. You try anything and you burn your life down."

Xavier's face went cold—not because he believed the threat, but because the city had given him enough reasons to stop believing in sacred names. He said it like a fact, not a threat. "Then I'll burn the city down."

It was not a plan. Not a how. Not a threat. It was a statement. A verdict. The words didn't outline arson or strategy; they carried a weight—an idea that everything the Blackwoods stood on could be taken apart if someone was willing to set fire to their world and watch it consume itself. Ethan's mouth opened and closed around the word like a fish trying to breathe smoke.

For a moment Ethan tried to bargain—because that's what frightened men do when their hands are empty. "You don't mean that. You'll ruin everything. You'll be—"

Xavier didn't argue. He let the truth of it sit between them. "If Lucas hides behind the names that make him safe," he said, voice low, "then I'll make sure those names mean less. I'll make it a place nobody wants to own."

Ethan's bravado crumpled into pleading. "You're insane," he hissed. "You don't have the reach."

Xavier crouched so their faces were level. No mercy, only a calm that had teeth. "You gave me reach," he said. "You handed me your money, your mercenary, your deals. I used them. You helped me buy the match." He let that settle. "Tell me where Lucas is. And maybe I let you walk out with your head. Lie to me and I'll enjoy watching whatever towers you built get pulled apart—slow and very public."

Ethan's eyes flickered between greed, shame, and a man trying to find the lie that would save him. The elevator light hummed above them like a jury. Outside, the city breathed on, oblivious and loud. Inside the concrete shell, something small and irreversible had been set in motion.

He swallowed hard. Pride was a stubborn thing; it died ugly and last. His jaw worked. "Lucas—he's off-grid," he said finally, voice small. "Hidden. He just sent me a 'Stay Safe' text after you got us banned from all the virtual platforms. That's all I know."

Xavier let the lie sit for a second, testing its edges. Whether it was true or not mattered less than the sound of it in the room. "Good," he said.

Ethan watched him—fear, hatred, and a relief that tasted like rust. He tried to stand taller, but the bones of him were gone. He barely had time to process Xavier's silence before a fist slammed straight into his face.

His head snapped to the side, body crumpling to the floor like the air had been punched out of him. A small streak of blood marked the concrete, and that was that.

Viola stepped closer, her expression unreadable beneath the dim light. "What do you plan to do with him?" she asked, voice steady, tone almost casual.

Xavier looked down at Ethan's limp form and then at his own knuckles, still flexing from the impact. "Put on a great show," he said. "For the world. And especially for my enemies."

Her eyes flicked to the syringes still in her grip. "Why not use one on him too?"

Xavier shook his head, quiet but sure. "No. That was for Maximillian. He earned it. Ethan deserves something better." There was no grin this time, just the kind of calm that came after a storm. "Pack him up nicely," he added, turning away.

He took a slow glance toward his right, the shadows stretching across the unfinished hall. "And you," he said out loud, not looking back, voice carrying easily. "Whoever's been watching—come out. Unless you want to die where you stand."

For a second, nothing moved. Then the sound of quick footsteps echoed — getting smaller, faster, running away.

Xavier's expression didn't change. He broke into a sprint, Viola right behind him. They rushed down the stairwell, the sound of boots slamming concrete blending with their breathing. The figure ahead was fast, darting through the half-finished floors, always one turn ahead.

At one landing, the hum of an elevator came alive — the figure had jumped in. Viola swore under her breath and kept descending, but Xavier didn't stop to guess the floor. He leapt over the railing, dropping several flights in seconds, landing rough but balanced. Then, with barely a pause, he jumped onto the elevator shaft itself.

Metal groaned under his weight. He scaled and swung down the narrow space, boots scraping steel, until he spotted movement through the glass of a passing floor. The figure bolted down the hall, cloak fluttering behind.

Xavier didn't hesitate. He grabbed a cable, swung hard, and crashed through the maintenance hatch. Viola caught sight of him below, moving fast—too fast—and muttered something that might've been half disbelief, half admiration.

"He can't be the same kid I was first asked to assassinate. At this point… I am not even sure if I could win against him in a fight…"

By the time she reached the lower floors, Xavier had already caught the runner — one hand gripping the stranger's collar, dragging them to a stop. Dust and tension hung in the air.

The figure struggled, breath heavy, hood slipping back just enough to show a glimpse of their face. Xavier tightened his grip, eyes sharp. "Now," he said quietly, "let's see who's been watching."

It was a girl.

The girl was someone Xavier recognized, though not personally. Her eyes were red and wet, trembling with fear as she backed away from him. She was whimpering, voice shaking like she was holding back a scream, but when she realized Xavier wasn't moving toward her—wasn't doing anything at all—she froze, confused and scared all at once. Viola looked between them, her expression tightening.

"You know her?" she asked.

Xavier's gaze didn't leave the girl. "Yeah," he said quietly. "That's Victoria Sterling. Ethan's sister."

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